The moon, which had been a cold observer of the night's violence, was slowly swallowed by a dense layer of cumulus clouds. For a few heartbeats, a strange, heavy silence gripped the Fifth District. This was the forbidden place, a cursed zone where even the most daring criminals hesitated to tread, yet tonight, it had become a stage for divine-level destruction. A chilling breeze swept in from the east, whispering through the rusted skeletons of abandoned factories, momentarily cooling the scorched air with a deceptive sense of rapport.
Then, the world turned white.
The Tier 4 Artillery spell did not just explode; it erased. A pillar of brilliant, violet-white light bridged the gap between heaven and earth, turning the warehouse in the forbidden zone into a furnace of flashy and bloody ashes. The physical structures—the rotted floorboards where Rag had knelt, the crates that had served as Hermes's cover, the very walls that had echoed with negotiation—simply ceased to be. The smoke rising from the pyre merged with the clouds, their bellies turning a bruised, angry red as the wind whipped the incinerated remains of the building into the sky.
On a distant rooftop, the shadow of the sniper dissolved into the darkness, leaving no trace of the culprit behind.
Below, the devastation was absolute. The second floor had vanished, and the remaining support walls groaned before collapsing into a mountain of superheated rubble. The surface, now a graveyard of gray ash and unrecognizable corpses, began to split. The sheer force of the blast had cracked the foundation of the district, revealing the secret tunnel Hermes had used earlier. Scorched raw materials—melted iron, splintered wood, and fragments of the green crates—tumbled into the abyss like offerings to the underworld.
Amidst the carnage, a single object remained untouched by the heat. A newspaper floated down through the embers, landing softly near the scorched, skeletal remains of what was once a human torso. As the paper touched a protruding metal rod, a glowing magical crest pulsed across the newsprint.
[Mission Complete: Subjugating the enemies without taking lives. Success.]
[Virus Detection: The user is now dead. All body parts are scattered and scorched from the powerful tier spell.]
[Virus Detection: Due to the successful completion of the mission, the user will be given an exemption and will be rewarded.]
The ink on the paper swirled, rewriting itself in real-time. Beneath the surface of the scorched upper body, a tiny, viscous liquid began to bubble. It was darker than the shadows, a pitch-black gooey substance that defied the laws of physics. It gathered itself, forming a perfect black sphere about the size of a soccer ball.
[Evil God Slime: Scanning the whole field. Scan completed.]
The black sphere suddenly liquefied, spreading across the devastated site like an oil slick. It moved with sentient purpose, sliding over the ash and bone. It found a hand fifty feet away; it found a charred segment of a leg near the tunnel entrance; it located the scattered remains of a blackened heart. One by one, the slime swallowed the pieces, pulling them into its void-like mass.
Once every fragment of Hermes Archnemesis was gathered, the slime condensed. Within the black mass, a terrifying reconstruction began. Muscle fibers wove themselves together like lightning-fast looms; bone marrow crystallized; skin, pale and unblemished, knit itself over the new frame.
In a matter of seconds, the black mass retreated, sliding back into the skin of a healthy, naked young man with raven-black hair. Hermes lay amidst the ashes, his body reborn and perfected, though his consciousness remained adrift in the void.
The creature—the Evil Slime—detached itself, shrinking into the form of a tiny, shimmering black marble. It hovered in the air, its "eye" pulsing as it scanned the spiritual frequency of this forbidden graveyard.
[Evil God Slime: Spirits and souls scattered in this place confirmed: Sinners. The number of souls detected is approximately 50,000, including past and present loose spirits bound to this district. However, with the low-level capacity of the user, only 20 souls will be absorbed initially.]
A vacuum of spiritual energy erupted. The faint, wailing translucent wisps of the recently deceased—the Mafia men who had just been vaporized—were dragged into the marble.
[Virus Achievement: Resurrection.]
[Insanity Level: Sane.]
[Souls collected: 20/20.]
[Evil Slime: All souls will now be penalized and converted into mana.]
The marble pulsed with a rhythmic, sickening thud. The energy was processed and shoved into the dormant pathways of Hermes's body.
[Insanity Level: Normal.]
[Souls collected: 0/50.]
The slime was not satisfied. It hungered for the weight of the sins saturating the forbidden Fifth District.
[Evil God Slime: Collecting all loose spirits around the vicinity. Capacity upgrade in progress. 50 souls will now be absorbed. Collection completed.]
[Insanity Level: Sane.]
[Souls collected: 50/50.]
The process repeated with terrifying efficiency. The marble grew darker, heavier, and more radiant with malevolent power. It pulled souls that had been trapped in the rubble for decades in this forbidden place.
[Evil God Slime: The user is now on a high-level mindset. Uncontrollable progress detected. The user is now authorized to fully use the armor according to its will. Collection completed.]
[Insanity Level: Psychopath.]
[Souls collected: 10,005 / 50,000 Sinner Souls.]
A new notification flared on the newspaper, which was now hovering in a localized gravitational field. The gooey marble rolled back onto Hermes's chest, sinking into his sternum and forming a complex, glowing violet magic circle that etched itself into his skin.
[Virus Achievement: 'Grim Reaper Level' achieved successfully.]
[Lore: Ten thousand years ago, a pathetic human being died from exhaustion and starvation after years of slavery. His soul met the Grim Reaper and refused to be taken. The soul fought back, stole the weapon, and struck the Reaper's heart, gaining the 'Scepter of Death'. The Armor of the Emperor has consumed the tomb of that previous owner and now possesses the weapon.]
[Stat Update: The user is now qualified to penalize sinners and can kill demons and other races at will. The user cannot be killed nor penalized by the Ten Gods.]
The air around the corpse of the young Don grew cold—colder than the night breeze. It was a chill that came from the end of all things.
[Virus Achievement: Weapon Mastery - Bronze 1. The user can freely use any weapons but is limited within his physical grasp. Restriction: Killing fellow humans is prohibited by the Ten Gods' commandment. Violation results in instant soul vaporization. Exception: Bad spirits without remorse are qualified for punishment.]
[Virus Achievement: Weapon Summoner. The user can freely customize and summon weapons stored within the Evil Slime Armor.]
[Weapon 1: 0/50 Sinner Souls needed. User's choice.] [Weapon 2: 0/100 Sinner Souls needed. User's choice.]
The Slime pulsated one last time, a surge of pure, dark mana flooding Hermes's nervous system like liquid fire.
[Evil Slime: One thousand souls sacrificed for the core. Objective complete. All collected souls confirmed vaporized. The master's body is confirmed ready for consciousness. Resurrecting the master now.]
[Insanity Level: Normal.]
[Souls collected: 5 / 50,000 Sinner Souls.]
Hermes's fingers twitched in the ash. His lungs, newly formed and pristine, expanded with a sharp, ragged gasp. His eyes snapped open—no longer just the eyes of a transmigrator, but the eyes of a man who had looked into the maw of the void and stolen its teeth.
The magic circle etched into the ash around Hermes's corpse began to pulsate with a violent, violet radiance. A massive surge of mana emitted from the ground, creating a localized gravity well that sent nearby rubble, scorched metal, and shattered crates flying outward from the sheer air pressure. The Evil God Slime, in its shimmering marble form, sank deep into the young man's chest. A second explosion, silent but visually blinding, burst forth, sending a pillar of dark energy toward the heavens.
In the distance, villagers who had remained awake despite the hour peered through their windows, terrified. Bandits patrolling the next block froze as the terrifying purple beam pierced the sky, vaporizing the thick cumulus clouds and leaving the moon standing alone in a clear, starless void.
A few hours later, the silence of the Fifth District was broken by the rhythmic thud of polished boots. A large contingent of men in black suits arrived, their flashlights cutting through the thick, settling dust of the forbidden zone.
"What's going on here?"
The speaker was Jerald, a light-skinned male with short, spiky blonde hair and bangs brushed sharply to the left. His lime-green eyes scanned the destruction with a mixture of professional curiosity and boredom. He wore a crisp black blazer over a grey shirt, his black trousers tucked into heavy-duty boots. As the assistant to the Underboss, he carried an air of unearned authority.
"The… the place is completely wiped out," Jerald muttered, kicking a piece of fused glass. "Hey, did any of you witness what happened here?"
"No, sir," a henchman replied, shining his light into the deep crater where the warehouse once stood.
"Crap. We need to find who's responsible. Look for clues! Anything!"
"Sir Jerald!" a subordinate called out from the edge of the pit. "We found scattered body parts. And this..." The henchman held up a small, charred metallic emblem. "It's a low-ranking clan emblem. There's a name etched underneath: Rag."
"Rag? Who's that?" Jerald tilted his head, his spiky bangs shifting.
"Just a low-ranking soldier, sir. A nobody."
Upon hearing this, a slow, predatory smirk spread across Jerald's face. He stared into the darkness for a moment, his lime eyes glinting.
"S-sir? Sir Jerald? You're spacing out," the henchman whispered.
"Ah, sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to," Jerald said, snapping back to attention. "Anyway, Lieutenant, order your men to clean up the mess. As the Underboss's assistant, I'll report this issue personally. Alone. Just give me the details when you're done."
"Yes, sir."
"Hey," Jerald pulled the man back, leaning in close to whisper. "Whatever you saw and found here must not be leaked to the other high-ranking officials residing here. Remember, this is just a small issue and not a big deal. But no matter what happens, just doctor the documents to your leader. You know who I mean, right?"
"Sir, the Capo—"
"Sssh!" Jerald hissed, slamming a hand over the man's mouth. "I told you not to say those people. Listen, you'll get a profit from this if you cooperate with me."
"Sir, I'm already working with you," the henchman mumbled against Jerald's palm. "But I'm under 5th Caporegime Patioche Woale. It's against the oath—"
"I can guarantee that you'll get profit from this. You'll get a large sum of money and a brand-new car if you want to."
The henchman's face went blank as he calculated the risk. "I'm not very hooked with money, sir... but a car? That's too expensive. You can't afford that though."
"Of course," Jerald placed his face near him. "If you don't want to cooperate, say goodbye to 50,000 luzers."
"I'm in."
Jerald grabbed his hand and shook it. "Good decision. You'll never regret it. Now go, before the others suspect us."
The sun rose and illuminated the whole place of Neue Fiona Village. The villagers came out of their homes and started their daily activities and routines.
Inside a place that no one's willing to live, there's a young black-haired man laying down on his wrecked white sheet bed. His face was covered by a black mask and his whole body was covered by newspapers.
His eyes, half-opened, covered it quickly by his pillow after the sunlight hit his face. He felt dizzy at first, but he got used to it afterward. His upper body raised, chin up and down, and he cracked his neck from left to right. He stretched his arms and got up from the bed. He removed his mask and rubbed his eyes, his mind a total blank.
'Wait... what happened?' Hermes thought, his brow furrowed. 'The warehouse... Rag... the light. Did I pass out? How did I get away?' He had no memory of the explosion's impact, much less the gruesome reconstruction of his own body. He felt strangely refreshed, but the gaps in his memory were unsettling.
Not intending to, his face hit a hard and solid metal bar in front of him after he stepped forward. His eyes opened wide from the shock and his consciousness had finally awakened. He was surprised; he had no idea why he was here.
"Oh, you're finally awake, huh," said a man with a village guard suit. It had the same color as the Sheriff's, but unlike the Sheriff, it had no logo on the chest.
"Gah, my head," Hermes quickly placed his mask back on his face and turned his gaze at the guard. He asked, "Hey, why am I here?"
"Y' ain't going to say any kind of greetin', boy? Sounds like a filthy peasant-like y' need to learn more about society."
Hermes moved his face between two metal bars. "Enough of that, sir. Why am I here in prison? What did I do to deserve this kind of treatment?"
"Well, you ask. You're a freaking pervert who walked in the street like nothin' but a squeezed. Anyhow, I don't believe that you're a criminal maniac. Based on your physical appearance, you're a pathetic young brat. So, there's no reason for me to let you stay there any longer. Some folks of mine reported us about you so I quickly moved to your location and found y' lying down there like a filthy drunk no-good fuckin' brain drinkers. Anyways, that's all," replied the village guard.
"Oh, is that so?" sighed Hermes as he scratched his head before gently brushing his hair up. 'Naked? I was naked?' The realization hit him like a freight train. He looked down at the newspapers covering his waist. He had no memory of how he lost his clothes, or how he ended up in the middle of a street in that state.
"Be grateful that I'm the only one who found you first before Captain Mattia's men. If not, I don't know what would happen to you. Some of my folks are not as friendly as what you think they are. Anyways, we're the only people here. How about we introduce ourselves?"
"Oh, should I be grateful for that?" Hermes sassed, his voice muffled but sharp behind the mask. "Anyway, it's better if you release this young man from this smelly cell before you ask for gratitude. Right, officer?"
Nicolo Francesco, the village guard, sighed and shook his head, though a small smile played on his lips. "Is that how you're supposed to thank the man who saved your hide?" He stood up, the keys on his belt jingling as he moved toward the lodger. He unlocked the heavy iron door with a satisfying clack. "There you are. Now we can talk—or not yet."
"Sir, how about you offer me some clothes first?" Hermes asked, his voice trembling slightly. The morning draft in the Fifth District was unforgiving, and the newspapers offered little more than a crinkling shield against the cold.
Nicolo laughed. "Oh, right. Take this shirt, and have a seat next to my table."
As Hermes dressed, he took note of Nicolo's attire. The man was a Sergeant in the Village Militia, a localized defense force serving directly under Chief Zamor. In a forbidden place like this, the militia was the only semblance of order left.
Nicolo offered him a cup of coffee and bread after he dressed up. Hermes sat down and ate the bread before he took a sip from his cup. The village guard pressed his hands on the table before he sat down and started the conversation.
"Hey, do you want to know? The funny thing is, you just walked around the street that night. Naked. I just can't believe you have a strange hobby to stroll with a strange and rare mask. I mustered myself to use my old newspapers to become your alternative clothes for you. You're lucky, boy."
"Yeah, yeah," Hermes took a sip of his cup and placed it down before he talked. "Anyway, I won't tell you my name if you don't introduce yourself to me first, sir."
"Right, right, my name is Nicolo Francesco. A Village Militia Sergeant of the District 4 Eastern Protection Office. Now, you are?"
He raised his hand, waiting to be shaken by the young Don. However, Hermes folded his arms and crossed his legs instead.
"Aljen, an ordinary mob merchant from the Southern Cimeria Desert."
"Ah," Nicolo laughed with a disappointing tune. "I see. Nice to meet you, Aljen. Anyway, kid, how did you end up like that? Where exactly have you been before you went naked?"
The young Don placed his palm on his forehead and tried to recall everything. However, some fuzzy memories made his view blurred and his head spun. Thanks to the glass of water offered by Nicolo, the young Don prevented himself from collapsing.
"Hey, are you alright? Do you need some water again? I can get you more," Nicolo offered and stood up from his seat. However, Hermes raised his hand telling him not to be bothered. "Please, no need to worry. My apologies, I don't remember anything that happened last night. Even if I want to, I still can't."
"Sucks, I thought I could hook some information from you," Nicolo muttered aside. "So, you didn't even see that purple light, did you?"
The young Don shook his head.
"Sucks, another failure," Nicolo clicked his tongue.
Hermes fixed his dress before he faced him. "My apologies, I have no idea what happened that night. It's kind of rude to ask, but now that you mention it, can you share some information related to it?"
"Kid, sorry. It's confidential," simpered Nicolo as he hid his notepad back to his drawer that was hidden under the table. "I just can't fully trust you yet. No hard feelings. Oh, by the way, these are yours, right? I found them behind your back covered by an outdated newspaper."
Nicolo placed a plastic bag on the table. The young Don opened it and found one tourist card from the village hall and the emblem of the Carmella family.
"Yes, these are my properties," confirmed Hermes as he returned them back inside the bag. "Thank you for returning this to me without taking charges. I mean, thank you for returning my properties for free."
"Oh, it's nothin'. You're welcome, kid. Be grateful that you have that emblem or else I won't even dare to free you off-charges, lend you some clothes, and offer you food and drink. Even for a Militia man, there's a limit to charity."
"Oh, is that so? Well, I'll tell Chief Zamor that you saved me as my repayment for your duty. How 'bout it?" said the young Don as he gulped the cup 'till the last drop.
"Ho ho, it's been an honor to hear that part. Y' know what? We're going to be good friends."
'I hope not. I don't wish to be friends with someone like you,' Hermes thought as he turned his gaze at the people outside through the window.
"So, what's the history behind that mask?" Nicolo changed the subject and pointed his index to his mask. Hermes sighed and turned his attention back to the guard. "It's for my protection. Nothin' more, nothin' else."
"You're very secretive. How can we become friends if you don't even share somethin' about it?" Nicolo took a sip and leaned his chin on his hands.
"Hey, officer. Does your law have some sense here?" Hermes nagged. "Like, respect the right of the citizen to be quiet?"
"A'ight, you win. I won't ask anything anymore. But to be frank, I still want to learn about that mask. That night, I tried to remove it from your face but for some unknown reason, I couldn't."
Hermes remained quiet while listening. To his surprise, he learned that the mask remained intact to his face even when Nicolo tried to pull it. It was a strange phenomenon, but listening to the Sergeant's story, Hermes was happy to learn that his true identity hadn't been discovered.
"There, I saw you at that time at the right block in the middle of the street in District 4. Now, that's the story."
"I see. Thanks for sharing it," Hermes stood up and stretched his arms onward.
"Hey, do you want me to pour your cup with coffee?" Nicolo offered.
"No need, officer. I'm good," replied Hermes.
"Oh, by the way, officer," Hermes leaned his back against the wall, folding his arms. Nicolo turned his gaze at the young Don and smiled. "Yes?"
"Have you seen a black-haired butler with lime eyes and light skin? He might be in his 20s and stands around 180 centimeters tall or higher."
"Unfortunately, I have not seen anyone like that. Does that mean he's your friend?"
"My personal butler," the young Don scratched his head. "Nothin' more but a loyal servant of mine."
"A butler? Simple enough. Anyways, I won't help you find your servant even if you have that emblem. There's a limitation for that item. Sorry, if you want me to help, you need to give me a valuable reason," explained Nicolo as he cleaned up the table.
Behind his mask, the young Don was frustrated. This man was part of the Village Militia, sworn to serve, but he sarcastically declined to assist even with the Chief's emblem.
"Good morning," a familiar voice made Hermes turn his gaze at the door. "Good morning, is somebody there?"
"Come in!" Nicolo called.
As the door opened slowly, a young man with black hair and lime eyes appeared. He wore a pristine butler suit and black trousers, with white gloves on his hands and a short blade hanging on his left waist.
"Oh, good morning," he lowered his head. "It's been a pleasure to meet you. My name is Justin. And, am I not mistaken that there's someone I know who has been here?"
"Ah, that's great. Hey kid, he's here. That one you're looking for!"
The young Don stepped forward, his arms still folded across the grey shirt.
"My Don!" simpered Justin with glistening eyes.
"Hey, Justin," the young Don smiled.
"My Don!" Justin slowly stepped forward and readied himself to hug him.
"Justin~" the young Don spread his arms. "Come."
"My beloved Don~~~"
"Jus— tin!"
Before he could embrace his master, the young Don closed his fist and smiled terrifyingly.
"Where the fuck have you been, you fuckin' moron?"