The assassination attempt came three days after the royal ceremony.
Kars was in the stables when he felt it—the subtle wrongness in the air, the barely perceptible shift that marked predatory intent. His senses, honed through millennia of survival, catalogued everything in an instant: heartbeats too rapid for casual guards, breathing patterns calculated for ambush, the faint metallic scent of drawn weapons.
How boring.
The thought surprised him. Not the content—he'd been bored since arriving in this world—but the emotion behind it. For months, he'd been suppressing that part of himself. The arrogance. The certainty. The fundamental truth that nothing in this realm could truly threaten him.
He'd been pretending to be cautious.
Kars stroked the warhorse's muzzle, feeling its powerful heartbeat beneath velvet skin. Such magnificent creatures, horses. Perfect optimization of muscle and bone for speed and endurance. He could replicate their physiology in seconds, improve it, transcend it. But there was something aesthetically pleasing about observing perfection achieved through natural selection rather than conscious design.
The assassins were positioning themselves. Four approaching from behind, two flanking left, three cutting off the exit. Professional spacing, coordinated timing, weapons designed for quick killing rather than honorable combat.
Julius's men, he thought with amusement. How predictable.
He could kill them now. Should kill them now, logically. Eliminate the threat, send Julius a message written in his soldiers' corpses.
But where was the fun in that?
"I know you're there," Kars said without turning, his voice carrying perfectly through the stable's silence. "All nine of you. Should I applaud the coordination, or mock the transparency?"
The men froze—a tactical error born from surprise. Professional killers shouldn't freeze.
Kars turned slowly, deliberately, letting them see his face. No fear. No concern. Just... interest. The clinical detachment of recent months was cracking, and beneath it, something darker and far more honest was emerging.
"Let me guess," he continued, his tone almost conversational. "Julius sent you. Promised gold, perhaps? Or threatened your families? Either way, you're here to kill the 'foreign mercenary' who's disrupted the court's power balance."
The leader—marked by his slightly better armor and the way others unconsciously deferred to his position—raised his sword. "You talk too much, demon."
"Demon?" Kars smiled. Not the cold expression he'd been wearing for months, but something with genuine amusement behind it. "Demon. How quaint. Tell me, have you ever actually seen a demon? Because I have. Killed dozens of them. They're called Apostles here, I believe. Fascinating creatures—reality-warping abominations bound to predetermined fate."
He took a step forward. The assassins tensed.
"But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You're just soldiers. Following orders. Trying to survive in a world that's suddenly grown much stranger than you're comfortable with." Another step. "I almost pity you."
"Almost."
The leader lunged—a committed attack meant to end the conversation and the target simultaneously.
Kars didn't move until the blade was a finger's width from his throat.
Then he flickered.
Not teleportation. Not magic. Just speed—pure, perfect, overwhelming speed that made human perception look like frozen time. He stepped inside the leader's guard, seized his sword arm at the wrist, and with a casual twist that barely qualified as force, shattered every bone from elbow to fingertips.
The scream was immediate and gratifying.
The other assassins attacked as one—professional training overriding horror at their leader's instant incapacitation. Blades converged from multiple angles, a coordinated assault designed to overwhelm even supernatural reflexes through sheer volume of lethal trajectories.
Kars laughed.
The sound echoed through the stable, and something in it made the horses whinny in distress. It wasn't the cold calculation they'd heard from him before. It was delight. Pure, genuine enjoyment of the situation.
He caught one blade between his fingers—flesh somehow harder than steel—and used it to deflect two more. A spinning kick sent one assassin crashing through a stable wall. His elbow found another's solar plexus with enough force to audibly crack ribs. A palm strike to the forehead sent a third man reeling backward, blood streaming from his broken nose.
And through it all, Kars was smiling.
Not from cruelty, exactly. More from the simple pleasure of moving. Of using his perfect body as it was meant to be used. He'd been restraining himself for months—showing minimum force, hiding capabilities, pretending to be something less than ultimate.
It felt good to stop pretending.
One assassin managed a lucky strike—blade sliding past Kars's guard to catch his shoulder. The steel bit flesh, drew blood...
And then the wound simply closed. Skin knitting together in seconds, blood flow reversing, damage becoming unmade as though time itself had rejected the injury's existence.
The assassin stared. Dropped his weapon. Turned to run.
Kars caught him by the collar almost lazily, examining the man's terror-wide eyes with clinical fascination.
"That's better," Kars murmured. "That fear. That understanding that you're facing something beyond your comprehension. That's honest, at least." He released the man, who stumbled backward. "Go. Tell Julius what you've seen. Tell him his schemes are boring me, and I don't appreciate being bored."
The assassin fled. His companions—those still conscious—followed.
Kars let them go, watching their retreating forms with an expression that was equal parts amusement and contempt. Then he turned his attention to the leader, still writhing on the ground, clutching his ruined arm.
"You," Kars said, crouching beside him. "Your name."
"F-Frederich," the man gasped through pain.
"Frederich. How much did Julius pay you?"
"Fifty... fifty gold pieces..."
"Fifty gold to attempt killing me. Interesting valuation." Kars tilted his head. "Tell me, Frederich—did you really think it would work? Did some part of you believe nine men with swords could kill something that annihilates Apostles in seconds?"
"We... we were told you could be killed like any man. If we... struck fast enough..."
"And you believed that?" Kars's tone was almost gentle. "After Doldrey? After watching me slaughter supernatural horrors? You thought ordinary steel would suffice?"
Frederich didn't answer. Couldn't answer, really—shock and pain were shutting down higher cognition.
Kars placed a hand on the man's shattered arm. Frederich screamed, expecting more pain, but instead felt something impossible. Warmth. Healing. Bones shifting back into position, knitting together, flesh regenerating from the inside out.
When Kars removed his hand, the arm was perfect. No breaks, no swelling, not even bruising.
Frederich stared at his healed limb in absolute incomprehension.
"I could have killed you," Kars said matter-of-factly. "Could have made your death last hours. Days, if I was particularly interested. But you're not worth that investment." He stood. "Instead, I'm giving you a gift—the knowledge of exactly how outmatched you were. How futile this attempt was. How your employer sent you to die against something that could heal you just to prove a point."
He started walking toward the stable exit, then paused.
"Oh, and Frederich? If Julius sends more assassins, I won't be this merciful. The next ones won't get to run. They'll die screaming, and I'll make sure Julius hears every detail. Tell him that."
Kars left the stable, stepping out into afternoon sunlight that would have vaporized lesser beings.
He found Guts in the training yard, hammering at a practice post with mechanical precision. Each strike was controlled fury translated into perfect technique. The man trained like other people breathed—constantly, unconsciously, essentially.
"You're back," Guts said without stopping his strikes. "Heard screaming from the stables."
"Julius sent assassins. I sent them back with a message."
"You kill any?"
"No." Kars leaned against the yard's fence, watching Guts work. "Where's the satisfaction in killing insects? Better to let them live with the knowledge of their inadequacy."
Guts paused mid-swing, finally turning to look at him. "You sound different."
"Do I?"
"Yeah. Less..." Guts searched for words. "Less like you're pretending to give a shit."
Kars smiled—and this time, it reached his eyes. "Perceptive. I've been suppressing certain aspects of my personality. Trying to understand this world through observation rather than domination. But I'm beginning to think that was a mistake."
"Why?"
"Because pretending to be less than I am hasn't made me understand humanity better. It's just made me bored." Kars pushed off the fence. "I achieved perfection by sacrificing my species. Murdered countless thousands to become ultimate. Spent millennia pursuing a singular goal with absolute ruthlessness."
He looked at Guts directly.
"And then I succeeded. Became everything I wanted to be. Immune to death, immune to weakness, immune to limitation. Perfect in every measurable way." His voice dropped. "And I discovered that perfection is the most boring state imaginable."
Guts resumed his practice, considering this. "So what changed?"
"I met a boy who wanted to be useful despite being completely outmatched. Watched soldiers follow a leader who views them as currency. Observed a human willing to sacrifice everything he values for a dream." Kars's expression was unreadable. "And I realized I've been asking the wrong question."
"What question?"
"Whether I can disrupt this world's predetermined fate. Whether perfection can exceed causality." Kars shook his head. "But those are abstract problems. Intellectual exercises. They don't address what's actually bothering me."
"Which is?"
"Whether I made a mistake." The words came out quiet, almost reluctant. "Whether becoming perfect was worth what I sacrificed to achieve it."
Guts stopped training entirely now, giving Kars his full attention.
"I killed my entire species," Kars continued. "Everyone who knew me before I became this. My parents, my tribe, everyone except the three I chose to keep. And I told myself it was necessary. That they were obstacles to evolution. That perfection justified any cost."
He turned to face Guts fully.
"But standing here now, in a world where humans die for each other's dreams, where boys try to be useful despite knowing they'll never be great, where soldiers follow leaders into certain death..." Kars paused. "I'm starting to wonder if I traded something valuable for something worthless."
"Perfection is worthless?"
"Perfection is lonely." Kars's voice held something that might have been regret. "There's no challenge. No growth. No purpose beyond existing as the ultimate expression of what I set out to become. And existence without purpose is just... waiting."
Guts set down his sword. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you asked why I sound different." Kars smiled without humor. "I'm tired of pretending to be thoughtful and measured. My nature is arrogant. Ruthless. I achieve victory by any means necessary and laugh at my enemies while doing it. That's who I was before perfection, and suppressing it hasn't made me more human—it's just made me dishonest."
"So you're going back to being an arrogant bastard?"
"I prefer 'authentically superior.'" The smile became genuine. "But yes. If I'm going to be the most powerful being in this world, I might as well enjoy it. Otherwise, what's the point?"
Guts picked up his sword again. "Casca thinks you're going to abandon us."
"Eventually." Kars didn't lie about it. "When Griffith makes his choice—and he will make it—this Band fractures. I'll have to decide whether interfering serves my purposes."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then I'll watch what happens and learn from the results." Kars's tone was matter-of-fact. "I didn't come to this world to save anyone. I came to answer a question about causality and predestination."
"Cold."
"Honest." Kars corrected. "I could lie, tell you I'll protect everyone, promise to prevent whatever tragedy is coming. But we both know I'm not here for altruism. I'm here because the God Hand represents the first genuine intellectual challenge I've faced since achieving perfection."
Guts tested his sword's balance, then looked at Kars. "You think Griffith's really going to betray us?"
"I think Griffith will do whatever his dream requires. If that means betrayal, he'll justify it as necessary and move forward without hesitation." Kars started walking toward the castle. "The only question is whether any of you will see it coming in time to survive."
"And you're not going to warn us?"
Kars stopped, glanced back. "I just did."
That evening, the court gathered for dinner—a formal affair celebrating the Band's continued service to the crown. Nobles in expensive fabrics, military officers in dress uniforms, the Band of the Hawk in their cleanest whites.
Kars sat beside Griffith at the high table, watching the pageantry with renewed appreciation. All these humans, scheming and posturing, playing games of politics they thought mattered.
"You seem more relaxed," Griffith observed quietly. "Almost entertained."
"Julius sent assassins this afternoon," Kars replied conversationally. "Nine men with delusions of adequacy. I sent them back alive with a message about how boring his schemes are."
"Alive? How merciful."
"Not mercy. Theater." Kars smiled. "Killing them would have been efficient but forgettable. Healing one of them after shattering his arm? That will haunt Julius far more effectively than corpses."
Griffith's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or appreciation.
"You're showing more of your true nature," Griffith said.
"I was trying to understand humanity through restraint. It wasn't working." Kars gestured to the gathered court. "So I'm experimenting with authenticity instead. We'll see if being honestly arrogant yields better results than pretending to be thoughtfully detached."
"And what have you learned so far?"
"That pretending to be something less than perfect doesn't make me more relatable—it just makes me boring." Kars turned to look at Griffith directly. "We're similar in that regard. You pretend to be a loyal soldier, but we both know you're already planning your kingdom. Already calculating what you'll sacrifice to achieve it."
"Careful," Griffith said quietly. "Accusations like that could be considered treason."
"Observations, not accusations. And we both know you don't care about treason when it serves your purpose." Kars's smile widened. "That's what makes you interesting, Griffith. You're willing to be utterly ruthless while maintaining the appearance of honor. It's fascinating to watch."
Across the table, Casca was watching them with undisguised suspicion.
"She doesn't trust me," Kars observed. "Smart woman."
"She doesn't trust anyone who might threaten the Band."
"Then she definitely shouldn't trust you." Kars said it loud enough that Casca could hear.
The table went silent.
Griffith's expression remained perfectly neutral, but the temperature of the conversation had dropped several degrees.
"Explaining your observation?" Griffith's tone was light, but with steel underneath.
"Simply noting that the most dangerous threats to any organization come from within, not without." Kars leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed. "External enemies are predictable. Internal ones—those pursuing personal dreams at the expense of collective good—those are the truly fascinating variables."
Casca stood abruptly. "If you have something to say, say it clearly."
"I just did." Kars met her gaze. "But since clarity seems required: everyone at this table is expendable except the person with the dream. That's not judgment, just observation. The Band exists to serve Griffith's ambition. When that ambition requires sacrifice, the Band will be sacrificed."
"You're trying to divide us," Casca said.
"I'm trying to prepare you." Kars's voice lost its mocking edge. "Because when the moment comes—and it will come—the only people who survive are those who see the truth before it kills them."
Griffith stood smoothly. "Casca, walk with me."
She hesitated, glanced at Kars one more time, then followed Griffith out of the hall.
The remaining Band members were silent, looking at Kars with expressions ranging from anger to confusion to reluctant consideration.
"He's right, you know," Judeau said quietly. "We all know it. We just don't talk about it."
"Griffith wouldn't—" Pippin started.
"Griffith would do whatever his dream requires," Judeau interrupted. "Same as any of us would for our dreams. The difference is, his dream is bigger than all of ours combined."
Kars watched the Band members process this, saw the seeds of doubt taking root. Not enough to fracture them yet—loyalty was still stronger than suspicion—but enough to make them think.
Good.
If they were going to survive what was coming, they needed to think clearly. Needed to see Griffith as he actually was, not as they wished him to be.
And if his honesty made them hate him? That was acceptable. Kars hadn't come here to be liked.
Later that night, he found Rickert in the armory, working on some mechanism Kars didn't immediately recognize.
"What are you building?" Kars asked.
Rickert jumped, then relaxed when he saw who it was. "A crossbow modification. Trying to increase draw weight without sacrificing reload speed."
"Clever." Kars moved closer, examining the mechanism. "You're using a compound lever system. Efficient."
"It's not working right. The leverage increases load but the string tension—"
"Is creating too much friction against the rail." Kars picked up the crossbow, his perfect perception analyzing every component. "The problem isn't your mechanism. It's the string material. You need something with less coefficient of friction."
"Like what?"
Kars thought for a moment, then held out his hand. A thin strand of material extruded from his palm—biological silk, stronger than steel cable, smoother than oiled leather.
Rickert stared. "What... what is that?"
"Silk. My body can produce virtually any organic material." Kars cut the strand at the appropriate length. "Try this for your string."
Rickert took the silk hesitantly, testing its strength. "This is incredible. It's stronger than any bowstring I've ever—"
"Used spider silk as the base template, enhanced the molecular structure, optimized for tensile strength versus flexibility." Kars waved dismissively. "Basic biological manipulation."
"Basic? I've never seen anyone—"
"You've never seen anyone because I'm unique." Kars's tone wasn't boastful, just factual. "I'm the ultimate life form. I can replicate and improve any biological function I understand."
Rickert was quiet for a moment, attaching the new string. When he tested the crossbow, the mechanism functioned perfectly—smooth draw, powerful release, no friction loss.
"It works," Rickert said quietly. "It actually works."
"Of course it works. I don't do things inadequately." Kars watched the boy's face. "You're afraid of me again."
"A little. You're... different tonight. More like how I imagine you really are."
"Perceptive." Kars pulled up a stool, sitting across from Rickert. "I've been suppressing my true personality. Trying to understand humans through observation rather than domination. But I'm starting to think that was dishonest."
"You were nicer before."
"I was lying before. Not about facts, but about my nature." Kars gestured to the crossbow. "I gave you that silk because you were working on an interesting problem. Not because I care about you personally, but because I'm curious to see what you'll do with superior materials."
"That's... honest, I guess."
"It is. And honesty seems more valuable than false kindness." Kars stood. "I'm arrogant, Rickert. I view humans as inferior because objectively, you are. I'm stronger, faster, smarter, and immortal. But inferiority doesn't mean worthless. Even insects have their uses."
"Comforting," Rickert said dryly.
Kars smiled—genuinely amused by the boy's sarcasm. "You're developing a spine. Good. You'll need it for what's coming."
"What is coming?"
"A choice. Griffith's choice specifically." Kars moved toward the door. "When it happens, remember this conversation. Remember that I warned you, even if I won't necessarily save you."
"Why warn us if you won't help?"
Kars paused in the doorway. "Because watching you face impossible odds knowing the truth is more interesting than watching you die in ignorant surprise. At least this way, if you survive, it will be because you earned it."
He left Rickert sitting there, holding a crossbow strung with impossible silk.