The King Trials 2: Beyond.

I draw out the rolled-up scroll from my carrier bag.

Even though I am alone. I still cast superstitious glances around me. I round the vanity and I settle on the backless seat before the mirror. Utterly baffled. Trepidation punctures my chest, filling the hole with angst, worry and fear. With a mere glimpse of my expression, all emotions are etched on my face.

Despite it, I silence my qualms and I unfurl the scroll, smoothing out the wrinkles and the flaps at the corners before I flatten it on the table. The ancient scroll, an aged ivory colour, withered with fissures, the features eroded by time but the quality preserved.

A timeless artefact that bears nothing.

I pick up the scroll and twirl it around, looking at it from different angles, upside down, right side up. Nothing. I wrest my agitation under control and I gingerly place it back. Leaning forward, I plant my hands over my eyes, thinking. Pensive. I think back to the Sagetai’s sanctuary, how we breached the threshold, what Zoar explained about the Sagetai Statim.

But I cannot reap a plausible answer on ‘decoding’ this blank parchment. I know somehow it must contain some concealed truth of the upmost significance, or else it wouldn’t be specially encased in glass.

We only reached the mythical library of prehistoric wisdom because of my blood. But that solution will probably not work here. Zoar explained that the basis of my power is light, to reach the might of a ten thousand suns I would have to master the Sagetai Statim. Baffling. The scroll was in the library that was within the Sanctuary for a reason, particularly a section which only the Sagetai can open. I have reason to believe that only the Sagetai can ‘unlock’ whatever enchantment has caused the truth of this scroll to be obscured.

Time drifts by agonisingly. My arms are folded on the edge of the table, my chin perched on top, staring down at the parchment vacantly. Curious, I roll my chin to rest my cheek on the back of my hand and I view the open balcony. More time has passed than I thought. The descending sun, a fascinating plethora of a waning flame; the ebbing of gold, crimson bleeding into the beams, enriching the light with a blazing orange. It floods into the entrance of the bedchamber, pooling the entryway with its auburn glow.

I whip upright.

The sun.

With sensitive haste, I unpeel the scroll from the surface and I scurry across the furnished floor to the open balcony. The light consumes my vision for a heartbeat, splitting away to reveal the bare parchment in my hand, awash with feeble sunlight. Nothing.

I hold it to the sun like a magnifying glass. And this time, the opposite happens. The sunlight, despite its dwindling strength, it intangibly pierces through the scroll and it ignites it at its centre. A small eruption of swirling golden essence bursts and ripples out to all four corners. Just like the tablet in the Sanctuary that responded to my blood, the parchment responds to sunlight. Inscriptions materialise in a translucent form and the golden light inundates them, emboldening them into prominent visibility.

I do not know the language, but I comprehend the words.

Darkness shall cover the face of the realms; the cause of its own destruction.

A world of one, torn asunder. Kings rise only to fall.

The cause of destruction as a consequence for all.

The Dark shall ascend, the corrupt and undead it shall send.

The cause of destruction had sealed the realm’s fate. But only by His grace the providence of sorrow and desolation, He would then recreate.

The seed of hope burgeons, the one that will herald in the new age.

The Light but a vessel, It only burns to guide others, It only lives to die for others.

A life given for the causes of destruction.

I drop the parchment to my stomach. Shoes thud on the floor in a cautious pace. I carefully roll the scroll back close and I stride into the bedchamber to see Juwela. She observes me with a suspecting eye before she fixes on a weak smile.

“I have been sent to bring you to the dining hall,” she informs. Her gaze finds the scroll, and it lingers before she forces it away. “The other Herems will meet you there.”

I nod.

“Pardon my prying,” she disclaims quickly, her eyes burns with interest. “But do you have any wounds that need tending? You have been wearing that linen wrap on your arms since your advent.”

I drop a glance at my swathed forearms. “Not wounded. Just… healing.”

When dawn broke, the yolk of the sun spilling into the horizon.

Torn from bed yet again because of a special summoning from a member of the Ecclesia. Malois. It seems I am the only one out unison; the Herems are all consistent in an identical uniform. A brown, peaked lapel jacket long-sleeved and fitted with baggy pants and flat, black shoes that expose the skin on the face of their feet.

The Herems and I are taken to an interior courtyard but to be more specific, a training yard, the size and shape of a miniature coliseum, divided into sections with different training equipment and contraptions. A grey-stone pavilion surrounds the round border with an exclusive audience of Malois himself on the opposite side, flanked by guards and two servants that carry delicacies. The one unfortunate soul feeds him with it from hand to mouth.

To our left Primus Kelan and his entourage of soldiers, all casually dressed, situated in standing formation, watching the beings in the yard. Trainees of some sort, all uniformed the same; robed in shiny black suits, long-sleeved tunics that are fastened from the one side in knot buttons, they travel up, crossing the chest to reach the high collar. Where the bindings are, it is embroidered with a graphic, gold print of a dragon that snakes its way from the front of the tunic to the back. The entire ensemble is a fluid fabric, the pants are shapeless, but it tightens at the shins, laced with black ribbons over the material.

The trainees, whoever they are, they are incredible. A group of them in the one section are synchronised in a rhythmic motion, rehearsing a drill. The tempo is versatile but patterned, rapid at certain intervals where the matched movements are quick bursts before they plummet their speed into slow, controlled actions with the span of the exhale and an inhale of a breath. The elasticity of their bodies almost enviable.

My eyes coast to a segment of wooden pillars. Towering, narrow planks of wood planted at spaced gaps. A few of them effortlessly jump from one to the other, leaping off one, on their toes, to reach the next like acrobats. The one ahead of all of them springs into the air to perform a flawless, forward flip before he lands on one of the planks, the head the same size on his hand. He remains unbelievably still, with all to support his upside-down body is only his one hand on the plank.

Amongst the vacant field interspaced between the earthen sections is a being that observes them. Skin as black as ebony, garbed in a layered robe, the crimson garment front with a curved hem is flapped over the skirt, the sleeves voluminous and his waist is belted with a black sash.

I deduce that he is the trainer, their master.

Duce Merian emerges out of thin air and beckons our attention with snapping fingers.

“Firstly, I am pleased to see that you all look. Recuperated,” he says with a contemptuous smile. “Much more bright-eyed today, which is good. You are going to need that verve, the same kind you contrived at Sorcia.”

“You want us to fight them?” Markiveus blurts.

Merian raises a calm hand to him. “No, not a fight exactly, but a challenge. I would guess. On Malois’s personal request, he wants you to play a game against those trainees over there.”

Treyton shakes his head furiously. “I will not demean myself to entertain that prissrat. He would dare deface our forebearers, claiming merit over what was the collective effort of the Pantheon and the Emikrol Empire that banished the Ulris from our plain. Not a myth.”

Markiveus nods sharply. “We never even believed that they existed, now they want to claim credit for saving the entire natural world? They have no evidence to affirm anything that they assert.”

Duce Merian cuts them off with dramatic gesticulations. “It does not matter, true or not. We need Velheim, Urium is too weak and fractured to stand on its own. We need the foreign dominions to unite against a greater threat. Unless any of you want to be the future Ruler of dust and blood?”

Brennon heaves out a tortured groan. “A game, really? With all that has happened and what was unearthed to him. He wishes to play a game?”

Duce Merian wags his finger at him reproachfully. “Even you cannot be that short-sighted. Whatever game he has chosen, he is testing you, likely he wants to prove something to the Ecclesia by disparaging you all.”

Vince scoffs wryly. “And how does he plan to do that, with a combat challenge? We have fought gladiators, Spartans and damned, desert demons and not only survived but triumphed. I would not call those jumping twigs competition, let alone a challenge.”

The other Herems chuckle lowly.

Duce Merian nods several times. “If the purpose was to measure your martial abilities, then yes, you have potential to impress. But not likely, in all of those instances. You were forced to unify or die, you all against a foe, but what if it were in reverse?”

Vince’s smirk drops.

An enigmatic smile takes its place on Merian’s face. “They know that you are contenders for one throne. Rivals. But what if you were pitted against each other or forced to work together to reach an objective. A vital skill that a king must be fluent in, compromising. Despite reservations or even hate, but to work with others, lesser evils, for a common goal of conceptual peace.”

Vince sniffs and crosses his arms. “So you want us to fight them together?” he says flatly. “I do not know if you were paying any attention, Duce. But we have done so before, many times and excellently, if I may add.”

He saunters ahead and brushes past him.

Treyton follows and claps a hand on his shoulder as he passes along with the others. Hesitantly, I pursue. Vince strolls a few steps before he stops, surveying the yard.

“So when are we to begin here?” he exclaims, his voice resonating. “Is it close quarters, are we going to have to fight all of you? I swear to you that your defeat will be swift, I have a routine to keep, I quite enjoy my morning baths.”

The trainer twists his shoulders to spare him a disinterested glance.

“Vince, what are you doing? You know those airheads cannot understand you.”

He snorts and shoots an amused look at Markiveus. “Just as you thought Gaius was just another servant?”

Markiveus dismisses him off with a bitter scoff. “Because only you, all-knowing Vince, could recognise his true status.”

Vince shakes his head. “I would advise you to utilize simple logic. But alas, you cannot use something you lack. It was obvious he was more distinguished than he was conveying, the way he spoke, walked, what he knew. It all screamed nobility. I never questioned it because I did not care to.”

Markiveus frees a snappish laugh. “Has the master charmer grown weary of arse licking?”

His only reply is silence. It seems his jeering question did not merit a response.

“Kusonkhana mozungulira ndi mzere!” the trainer orders and makes sharp hand signals.

Instantly, all the trainees break formation, abandoning their training regimen to rally around their trainer. He speaks them to furtively, inaudible from our distance. Then, most of them scatter, but only a few remain with the trainer as they all glide towards us.

Vince remains put, waiting for them to come to us.

The trainer stacks his hand on top of the other, connecting the base of his palms. With all fingers curled except for the index and the middle, he bows to us respectfully.

“Purebloods, it is an honour to have such eminent guests before me.” He slides his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “I will be overseeing today’s challenge, the ringed dance. An old game. It will be you against my novices, Guardians in training.”

Guardians… the ones that allegedly helped the Tigress seal the breach, thus saving… well. Everyone. I sneak a peek at Solaris and he’s already sending me an uneasy look.

“My guardians have been training since they were children,” he says with a distinct note of pride. “It feels cheap to waste their skills on a game, but I must obey the will of my betters.”

Vince chaffs at his words. “Children? Emikrollian infants learnt how to hold a dagger before they could walk. And children could defeat opponents twice their age. If anyone’s time is wasted, it is not theirs.”

I survey the group of tall and slender novices. They all size us up, scanning us with undaunted looks, most of them smirking smugly. The one jostles his fellow trainee and speaks with his head inclined, slanting to one side.

“Woyinazko ndi wolondola, sizikhala zovutana.”

The rest of them implode in a fit of snickers, poorly restrained.

“What was what?” Markiveus demands. He lurches forward, but Vince jabs a hand to his chest to halt him. “Why don’t you repeat that in a way that I understand so that I have cause to rip that tongue from your mouth.”

The novices persist in their heckling, grinning maddeningly.

Vince flicks him a smile. “No, we will respond in a universal manner that they will understand. Pain.”

Clearly, the novices understood because their laughs cut short, giving them both withering looks.

“Brave words,” the one in front remarks. “For beings that emit a stench of failure.”

“Heshena!” the trainer rebukes. His admonish commands silence.

Shortly, other novices haul in a long, wooden rack with golden rings dangling from the hooks. They place it down in the centre of the vacant area before they move off and seat themselves on the stands of the pavilion.

“The game is simple,” the trainer begins. “You purebloods must retrieve the golden rings in a set record by getting past my novices. Once each of you collect them, bring your ring over the finish line. You can obtain victory if all of you cross with all of your rings, each team member must have their own. Once you cross the line, there is no returning to save another.”

Brennon coughs. “Penalties?”

“No member left behind; you must finish together. If one loses, you all lose. Zuriel—” he makes a quick gesture to the novice in front, “—he and the others will be your obstacle. If they manage to pin one of you for longer than a set time. You all lose.”

Markiveus makes an irritated sound. “How long is a set time, how long is the record?”

“You will know,” he says vaguely. “If you do, you have lost.”

The trainer rotates, and the novices split apart in unison as he walks forward. Then he stops and fishes something out of his deep robe pocket. He bends down and with a black chalk; he runs a horizontal line across ground to mark a finishing line.

He rises and faces us. His eyes fall on me. “You must be the Hera.” He points to the stands with a flat hand. “You may take your seat at the stands and I will send for you attendant to bring you some refreshments.”

This time. It is the Herems that burst in an ear-piercing guffaws, straight from their bellies.

“You—” he releases a sharp laugh, “—you want to excuse the Hera, her from participating in the game?” Markiveus clamps down a hand on Brennon’s shoulder like he needs the extra support.

The trainer stares back at them confusedly. “Certainly, this challenge is not suited for a delicate, noble woman.”

Another round of laughs sounds.

“Delicate!” Markiveus roars a laugh, wiping an invisible tear from his eye. “She is the most lethal amongst us. This noble woman can kill you with nothing but those delicate hands.”

I remain silent, my gaze sinks to the ground.

“The Hera is unlike any woman you know,” Vince says firmly. I lift my gaze. “She is not helpless; she is as capable as she is beautiful, and she can hold her own.” He jerks his head in Brennon’s direction. “Better than these bastards.”

I concede a small smile.

The trainer eyes me dubiously. “Very well. But how will she… get by in her garb?”

“I can manage,” I state. My garb is a two-piece outfit, an ankle-length skirt, dual leg slits with a cropped sleeveless top, matching in colour. The light material is like it’s been in dipped in fire, a vivacious yellow burning into a flaming orange, painting the hem with scarlet.

The trainer directs us to array ourselves in a row behind the line. We follow.

Without instruction, the novices, the same amount as we, line themselves in the middle between us and the rack of golden rings. They lengthen themselves, spreading their legs apart. Together, they imitate the trainer’s initial hand stance, bowing to us, but I am convinced that they intended it as an offense.

“So just to summarise,” Solaris says, tipping into a running stance. “We need to get the rings and return to line in a set time?”

“And Vince accuses me of lacking simple logic,” Markiveus says in a with a clipped tone.

“I was referring to the novices,” he says harshly. “They are meant to be our obstacle, but how are we supposed to get passed them? It was not exactly specified about the rules of engagement of either side.”

“It’s simple,” Vince says. Brusque. “Use brute force.”

“Of course the barbarian would say that,” Solaris mutters.

“Do not fear,” Zuriel announces, his wobbly accent exceedingly infuriating. “We will go easy on you, purebloods. We would hate to bring shame on the future ruler before he would even have the chance to disappoint his people for himself.”

“Well,” Solaris says thoughtfully. “I find myself aligning with the barbarian. Let us teach these novices a bit of humility.”

Ready. The trainer looks at his trainees and glances back at us. He lifts his arm to the sky; the sleeve hanging. Wordlessly, he drops his hand, slicing the air. Taking it as the signal, we all take off in a sprint. Vince targets Zuriel with a hellfire look in his eyes.

The novices calmly remain where they are. Soon. We collide.

A novice slams a fist to my chest—I knock it aside with my bandaged forearm, I turn my arm to seize his wrist, twisting it in my grip—he frees a pained yelp. Distracted by his pain, I heave him towards me and I launch my knee into his gut. He snaps bent and I strike a punch at his temple and he crashes to the floor.

I dart past him, rushing to the rack.

My breath snags—rough hands capture me from behind, arms coiling around my stomach as I’m ripped away from my intended trajectory, a novice hoists my thrashing self off my feet.

“Mtsikana wosamvera,” he whispers acidly into my ear. Naughty girl? Even my insides cringe.

Belligerently, he hurls me at the floor and the side of my body smacks against the pavement. I look back at him and I contort my face into a look of pain, even pushing out a whimper.

He looms over me. “What a waste of a woman,” he says clear for me to hear.

He moves close enough and in one fluid move; I sweep his legs from under him and his back hits the ground. I blast to my feet and I make it to the rack. I unhook a large golden ring—profuse and quite heavy. I swivel around.

I skim over the Herems battling the novices. I look at Zuriel who rams his fist square on Vince’s jaw, but he doesn’t even flinch. He counters swiftly, his foot strikes his stomach, causing him to stagger back.

His eyes whisk to mine. “Go!”

I bolt forward, and he races past me to the rack.

Halfway, I stop abruptly. A novice dominates over a wounded-looking Markiveus, wrestling, trying to pin him flat on the ground. I dash to him. I grimace at the tactical decision before I kick the novice off of him, the impact flips over onto his back.

Markiveus shoots upright, letting out a howl of pain, cradling arm to his chest. I vault over him to reach the novice who rises to his feet. He brandishes a quick fanfare of fighting techniques.

He runs up to me and leaps to deliver a two kicks mid-air; both I block deftly. The novice launches into a series of attacks and I counter with defensive moves. Seeing an opening, I thrust a fist to his chest—he explodes from me, flying backwards and landing on the ground with a roll.

Wide-eyed, I glance at my bandaged hands before I transfer my attention to Markiveus. He managed to drag himself onto one knee, his one hand clutching on a ring.

I extend a hand to him. He stares back at him distrustfully; a scowl mars his face.

Wordlessly, I flutter my hand at him in urgency.

“A killer with a conscious. Thank you, but no.” His words grated by his grinding teeth.

“Do not let your pride blind you, we need to work together,” I say imploringly. “Let me help you.”

“Yes, help me now so you can kill me later. Get that thing—” He musters his strength to slap my hand away, “—out of my face. No, when it comes, I want to see it coming. We both know who you are, and it is not a team player.” His lips pull into a snarl.

He looks past me, then his eyes widen. “Solaris!”

Promptly, Solaris whizzes past me with his own ring in hand. He trades a look between us both and comprehension reveals itself on his face. He hurries to Markiveus side and cranes him up to standing as he grips his arm, baring his teeth.

Together they briskly hobble to the finish line. I stay behind them to cover their rearguard.

Two novices surge towards us from either side of me. I wait until they are close until, my grip cemented to my ring—I seize the novice’s neck with both arms, latching onto him. I propel my lower half to lift my legs up to catch my feet round the other’s neck.

With great force, I whip to one side and we all collapse to the ground. I relinquish my hold and, scrambling to my feet, twinges aching throughout my body in countless pulsations. Before I can straighten, one of them hurls an attack and I redirect his power, using it against him, sending him reeling past me.

I duck as an assault swoops overhead. I rise, only to be ploughed into, a knockout that has me sprawling. Groaning, mounting agony immobilises me—I flop down onto my back with a grunt.

Treyton flashes before me and tackles the one novice to the ground.

“This is what happens when don’t listen to me,” Vince says in a teasing tone. He offers his hand and I grab it. He hauls me to my feet in one yank. “Remember, Vince always knows best. Now go.”

I shake my head at him and complete the midway to safety beyond the finishing line. I watch the flurry of panic that ensues; the Herems trying to reach the rings, then break through the barrier of warrior trainees. Next, Solaris and Markiveus cross the line.

Solaris nods back at me, bruises beginning on his face.

Vince fights of most the novices, taking the hits to try and clear a path for Brennon.

Treyton aids him by optimising their chances of mutual success. A novice takes him by surprise from the rear by jabbing his foot at the back of his leg—Treyton drops to one knee with a seething groan but recovers swiftly.

Vince bulldozes through two of novices in one collision, another he grabs and flings him over his head. An ambitious one attacks him with an onslaught of expert moves, ones that even he narrowly evades. Vince grips his arm, lengthening it only to bend it at an unnatural angle—a bone-jarring crunch sounds, tearing a cry from him.

Vince chucks the novice away from him and sprints to the crossline with a shambling Treyton in tow.

Seconds from victory, a blockade of novices obstruct their path. Vince hurls his ring into the air and dives into a somersault in a gap between two oblivious novices and launches himself back to his feet. Vince catches the ring mid-flight and crosses the line.

We share a smile and Solaris claps a congratulatory hand on his back.

Treyton soon follows doggedly, panting heavily. I reach out and pull him over the line as we all bellow cheers of victory. A sweaty Treyton slings his arm over my shoulder and I loop mine over his.

“It is like I said,” Zuriel declares over our jubilee and it quickly fades into a mortified silence.

Brennon is trapped on his back, crossways from us, inches from the where the line would travel. Zuriel lifts his foot off his throat only to stomp it on his chest, holding him in place with a galling smirk.

“You all radiate failure,” he says with unabated smugness, waving Brennon’s ring in his hand.

A single applause resounds from afar, I look straight ahead at the pavilion to where Malois reclines in his seat, echoing his utter approval of the novices and spurning us with sheer spite of our defeat.

The trainer reappears with a solemn expression. “My condolences, purebloods. Though you played commendably and demonstrated exemplary skill.” His tone slick with aversion. “It was not enough because you all lack one thing. Harmony.”

The novices do not even cheer. They behave as if the result was inevitable from the start. They merely cast us with a gradation of self-satisfied looks.

“You—before I wipe that smirk off your face.” Vince stabs a finger at him. “If you value the ability to walk, I suggest you take your foot off the Herem.”

Zuriel doesn’t budge. He merely stares him down challengingly, goading him.

“You won a game against him.” He nods his head at Brennon. “The weak link of the group. But you will not stand a chance in a fight against me. Remove yourself or I will.”

Zuriel remains statuesque.

Vince marches over to him with anger scorching his trail, Treyton breaks away and pursues hastily. Vince throws a fist and Zuriel blocks it with one hand, but his arrogance is Vince’s opportunity as he catches him in the gut and he stumbles a mere step from Brennon, freeing him.

Vince and Zuriel lock eyes before they strike in a clash of fists and kicks. Two other novices run in, Treyton and Brennon grab at Vince to wrench him away, but to no avail. Vince only sees red, fuming bestially.

The trainer intervenes, withdrawing Zuriel himself by the collar, snatching him away and he shoves him in the other direction before unleashing a short tirade about wisdom in victory and control of emotions.

I rotate around, but both Primus Kelan and the rest of the squadron are gone.

We all shuffle over to Duce Merian’s face suffused with embarrassment.

He clears his throat and sets his eyes on Markiveus, still clutching on to his arm. “Why don’t you go through and have a physician examine you.”

Markiveus blinks and continues onwards with nothing to say.

Duce Merian views us with a stern look of from a disappointed father. “You all did well.”

Oh.

Vince glares at him, the singe of his look sears unseeable holes in him. “Well? We lost.”

“The victory was not in the game, it was how you operate in the game,” he says evenly. “I have monitored the relational dynamic between you all since you arrived in the Pantheon. All prim and proper with each other at first, smiling through facades of tolerance.”

We all avoid each other’s gaze.

“But the initial stages of phase one unravelled all of that and expected animosity brewed between you all, some more than others.” His gaze falls on me remorse sparks in his gaze. “But despite the rivalry of your contention and personal grievances amongst you, you all united when it mattered most. In Sorcia, you fought like warriors, in the Night Desert, like survivors. And today, you fought like true leaders. Game or not, it exposed something today.”

“That we are all failures?” Treyton chuckles good-naturedly. “At least we could do that together, with honour.”

Merian chides him with a look. “No, no. Everyone should not bear the guilt of only one person’s shortcomings,” he says and his eyes drift to Brennon.”

He gapes back at him. “I will not even feign remorse. I consented to taking part in the King Trials of Urium, not being the court jester of foreign dominions to fight or play for their demented amusements.”

“You survived Spartans, bloody demons,” Vince expresses with sheer frustration and shock. “Just to be outdone by flailing gymnasts?”

Treyton barks out a laugh only to clutch his ribs. “Too painful.” He reins in a wince. “Say what you want about them, they can fight.”

Malois and his company of guards and servants approach us.

“Quite the show you put on,” He says with a frivolous tone, his smile only growing. “A comedic performance. I adore the part when you all celebrate like fools, believing that you had won. Unaware of your certain defeat.”

He claps twice, excitedly. “How, profound. It mirrors reality, your reality of your impending catastrophe. One that Gaius will soon see that to even entertain the notion of an alliance is nothing short of madness, signing an accord with death.”

A veil of cruel amusement lifts from his face. “You can learn much from how a being fights, and how they communicate. With the little I have seen, none of you are fit to rule a village, let alone an entire realm. You speak with no regard; your minds are riddled with ignorance. You are all careless and as self-seeking as your forbearers, blinded by your own perceptions and motivations. But I understand, it is in your nature.”

“I must contest,” Duce Merian snaps. “You will not belittle them with your insolence. Do not forget to whom you speak. They do not require your approval but only Gaius’s support—and do not think to mislead us with a lie that we need to curry favour with you to gain his ear, because it is clear that you do not have it.”

Malois shrinks, appearing as if he had been throttled.

“You have no right to brand them as self-seeking—”

“No?” he interjects. “Their performance was as stellar as their deception. Do you think they were helping each other out of the goodwill of their hearts? No, they did it to complete the objective, to win. Their own negligence caused their failure, if they had been genuine then they would have triumphed. That is how one wins the game.”