With the rescue mission accepted, Hermes moved with the clinical efficiency of a man who had already seen the endgame. To the Chief, he was a mysterious savior; to himself, he was an architect clearing the board.
He tasked Justin with scouting the surroundings while he personally investigated the north gate—the threshold where the kidnappers had vanished into the treeline. The scene was still raw. Dark, oxidized traces of blood stained the stone where the gate guards had fallen, and the deep, jagged gouges in the wood spoke of a frantic, high-level struggle.
New militia guards had already been stationed there. They were rigid and hostile, their halberds crossed to block any passage. They glared at the masked "merchant," making it clear that curiosity was a crime. Hermes didn't argue. He knew that to trace the specific footprints and horse tracks in the mud beyond the gate, he needed to bypass the "law" entirely.
Justin materialized from the shadows just as Hermes was scouting the high walls.
"The gate is a dead end, my Don," the butler whispered, appearing out of thin air. "The guards have orders to keep the scene isolated. But the wall to the west has a blind spot in the patrol rotation."
"And the height?" Hermes asked, glancing up at the imposing stone fortification.
"A simple jump," Justin replied casually, as if leaping over two-story battlements was no more difficult than stepping over a puddle.
They waited for the sun to sink below the horizon. As night dominated Neue Fiona, two shadows blurred against the gray stone. They cleared the wall in a single, silent vault, landing softly in the tall grass of the outskirts. Hermes adjusted his tophat and fixed his clothes, the Mask of Destruction shimmering faintly under the moonlight.
Suddenly, Justin tensed, stepping in front of Hermes. A figure was stumbling toward them from the west. As the moonlight illuminated the field, the hostility in Justin's stance shifted to a cold, watchful curiosity.
A black man, massive in stature but broken in spirit, collapsed a few yards away. He was dressed in a modern, tailored bodyguard's suit, though the fabric was now shredded and soaked in grime. The dried blood on his lips gave his mouth a ghastly, pale hue.
"Please... help... me," the man wheezed, his body finally giving out.
The man who lay unconscious before them had long since left his tribal origins behind. He had lived a hard life in the West, eventually becoming a professional protector. His journey had been one of tragedy; sold into labor in Unified Amerigo, he had been treated as less than an insect. He had prayed to a foreign God, hoping that if he embraced the Western faith, his life might change.
Hope had nearly died during a false trial when he was accused of theft. Beaten until his ribs showed, he had prayed for death. But instead of death, a platinum-haired maiden in a white dress had appeared in that courtroom. She claimed an oracle from the God of Fate had sent her to save him. She had cleared his name, provided him with an education, and given him a new life as her guardian. Now, the man who had pledged his life to protect her lay dying in the dirt of a foreign island.
The man's eyes slowly opened. He was lying on the ground, the cool night air stinging his wounds. Two figures stood over him. One was a tall, imposing butler with a face that seemed strangely calm; the other was a youth in a high-collared suit and a mask that looked ordinary but radiated a strange pressure.
"Greetings, mate. You're finally awake," the masked one said. "Hey, Justin, can you give him a glass of water?"
Justin knelt and offered a glass. The man hesitated, but the butler's steady hand gave him the courage to take it. He drained the water in a single, desperate gulp.
"Who are you pipol? Wot du yu wunt frum mi?" he growled, his voice thick with a heavy Western accent. (Who are you people? What do you want from me?)
His gaze stayed locked on the butler, sensing a warrior's kinship there, but it was the young Don who answered.
"Chill, boy. Chill. Look around. Look at us," Hermes said, his voice echoing with a slight, unnatural distortion. "Don't get scared of us."
He gestured to Justin. "The glass is empty. Pour it again."
The man stared at the water being poured, his mind clouded by the memory of the white horse and the kidnappers who had outmatched him. He was a guardian who had failed his only light.
Justin followed the command with mechanical precision. He reached into his dimensional storage, retrieved a pitcher, and refilled the glass. Once finished, the pitcher vanished back into the void of his spatial bag as if it had never existed.
The man, still adjusting to the sudden clarity of his mind and the absence of pain, gripped the glass. He glared at the masked youth, his pride bristling despite his exhaustion. "I am nut scarad," he growled, his accent thick and jagged. "I saed. Whut du yu wunt from me? Whu du yu fock yu are?"
Hermes blinked behind the Mask of Destruction. The miscommunication was glaring. He didn't realize the man was asking "Who the fuck are you?" but rather interpreted the aggressive tone as a lingering defense mechanism.
"Likewise, don't fear us," Hermes replied, his voice smoothing over the tension with a practiced, aristocratic calm. "I advise you to lower your hostility. Or else, my servant behind me will behead you in an instant. It would be a waste of the resources we just spent on you. By the way, my name is Aljen. Everyone calls me that. And this... this man is my personal butler, Justin. And you are?"
The man hesitated, the sheer pressure emanating from Justin—who stood like a silent executioner—forcing him to realize he was outmatched. He lowered his head slightly, the fire in his eyes dimming to a smolder. "M-mambo, sir. Nice to meet you."
"Oh, Mambo," Hermes said, tilting his head. "You have a fascinating way of speaking, but I am surprised you know our mother tongue. You speak Italian quite fluently. How did a man of your background learn it?"
Mambo's expression darkened. He was sensitive to the mention of his race, but he caught the lack of malice in the boy's tone—it was the clinical curiosity of a scholar, not the vitriol of a slaver. He took a breath, his voice steadying. "I learned it from my master. The Priestess of the God of Fate. She taught me everything when she adopted me as her personal guard."
"Adopted? Fascinating," Hermes simpered. The piece of the puzzle clicked. This wasn't just a guard; this was a devotee. "You speak much more clearly now. I'm interested in your story. We used a high-grade elixir to knit your flesh back together and gave you those new clothes—we had to burn your old black suit; it was more blood than fabric. So, I hope you don't mind sharing how you earned those wounds."
Mambo checked his arms and chest. The deep lacerations from the rifles and blades were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished skin. The expensive, tailored suit he now wore felt heavy with the debt of his life.
"Why should I tell you?" Mambo asked, his instincts as a bodyguard resurfacing. "Sir, forgive me, but it is best you stay away. This problem... it is not for civilians. I don't want to put your lives in danger."
Hermes let out a sharp, mocking laugh, cutting through Mambo's warning. "C'mon, you were literally begging for help ten minutes ago. You were a corpse in a suit. Now you're worried about our safety? We used an elixir that costs more than a small house on you. Do you want to start a conflict over a story?"
Hermes leaned in, the mask's hollow eyes Boring into Mambo's soul. "To tell you the truth, I am the man hired by the Chief to rescue the Priestess. I am in charge of this case. If you want to save her, you have no choice but to cooperate. Whether you like it or not."
Mambo bristled. "I learned there is security in this place—a militia. My plan is to go to them. They are public servants who offer their lives for the many. I also need to report this to the Church in District 1. Why should I trust a masked boy and a butler? You have no proof of who you are. Don't get involved."
A cold shadow suddenly fell over Mambo. He looked up to see Justin's face, which had transformed from a calm butler into something monstrous. Veins throbbed in Justin's forehead, and a hazardous, suffocating aura began to leak from his body.
"Boy," Justin said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "You're getting on my master's nerves. He told you he is in charge. You won't get near the gate; it's heavily guarded, and they have orders to turn away anyone from the 'outside.' You'd be arrested or killed before you could say a word."
"But... I must try," Mambo stammered, cold sweat breaking out on his brow as Justin's hand hovered near his throat. "I will go to the guards. If they fail, I will find someone with higher authority. You are only two people. The bastards who took her are many. You'll be overwhelmed. This isn't a hero's fantasy."
"Oi, Mambo," Justin interrupted, his hand finally pressing against the man's neck. The pressure was slight, but Mambo felt like his windpipe was caught in a hydraulic press. "Stop wasting my master's time. Hypocrite. Do you want to see hell first, or do you want to save your mistress?"
"W-What are you doing?" Mambo gasped.
Hermes raised a hand, signaling Justin to stand down. He sat in a "duck sit" position—crouched low and casual—staring at Mambo with chillingly calm eyes. "The guards aren't going to save your girl, Mambo. One of them is likely working with the kidnappers. The militia here is a den of snakes. They won't help you; they'll bury you to hide their own corruption. We are your only shot. Troubles follow my ass whether I like it or not—I'm quite experienced in dealing with maniacs."
"Don't call me boy," Mambo muttered, though the sight of Justin cracking his fingers one by one made him gulp. "Looking at your physique, you're thirty years younger than me. You have no basis for these accusations. Speaking ill of the guards could get you detained."
Justin's gaze turned razor-sharp. "Hey. Do you want to see your girl again or not? Don't speak ill in the presence of my Don. I won't tolerate anything that taints his name."
The sheer killing intent coming from the butler was enough to make Mambo realize the "mercenaries" who had kidnapped the Priestess were amateurs compared to the man standing before him.
Mambo's shoulders finally slumped. "A'right. A'right. I won't go to the guards. And..."
"And?" Hermes stood up, folding his arms.
"I will tell you everything," Mambo whispered, his head bowed. "Everything I know. Please... have mercy."
Hermes smiled, a genuine, vicious expression hidden by his mask. "Good. Justin, put away your weapons. And Mambo..."
"Y-Yes?"
"Lead us to where the trail went cold," Hermes said, his tone shifting back to that of a professional. "This field is too open. We need to move while the night still hides us. Tell me about the white horse and the men with the rifles."
The minutes ticked by in the oppressive silence of the forest outskirts. Mambo, despite his massive frame and years of experience as a professional bodyguard, couldn't shake the chill running down his spine. He looked at Hermes—a youth who spoke with the chilling detachment of a veteran commander—and felt a primal fear he hadn't experienced since his days in Unified Amerigo.
Mambo was genuinely surprised by the boy's insight. In a comedic twist of misunderstanding, Mambo assumed Hermes was a high-ranking member of some ancient, shadowy syndicate, perhaps a "Young Master" groomed in the arts of war since birth. He watched the boy's ordinary mask and high-collared suit, convinced that his calm demeanor was the mark of a true monster.
After stretching his recovered limbs, Mambo focused on the facts. He detailed the ambush at the gate, the white horse, and the exact coordinates where he had last seen his mistress. He described the twelve assailants and their tactical formation. Hermes listened with a level head, absorbing only the data. To the young Don, the Priestess was a "minor character"—a strategic asset whose rescue was simply a necessary step to preventing the "Bad Omen" of this volume.
"Your cooperation is noted, Mambo. Take this," Hermes said, sliding a heavy metal box across the grass.
Mambo opened it and his eyes widened. Inside lay a high-caliber .45 pistol, three sleek magazines, and a razor-sharp tactical short blade. "Thank you, sir," Mambo bowed deeply. "I don't have money to pay for this, but once we save my master, I will treat you to our finest dishes. My cooking is the only thing I pride myself on."
"I'm looking forward to it," Hermes replied, his voice a smooth, low simper.
In the forest…
The trek into the forest was harrowing. The kidnappers had hunkered down in the deep woods, confident in their numbers and their two mages.
"Explain that again," Hermes said, his voice quiet but laced with irritation as they neared the camp.
"Sir, the enemies are wearing the same outfit," Mambo whispered, wiping his new blade. "White masks, identical tactical gear. They look like a synchronized unit."
Hermes clicked his tongue in annoyance. Identical uniforms meant his original plan—a surgical, silent assassination—was now a liability. He couldn't distinguish high-value targets from grunts in the dark. He adjusted his Mask of Destruction, his mind already recalculating. "Justin, as my adviser, your assessment?"
Justin offered a thin, sharp smile. "If they wear the same uniform, confronting them is the best solution. Let them show their individual skills; that is how we will identify their ranks."
"In short, we have to compromise our position and use full strength. Sucks," Hermes sighed, sitting on a jagged rock. He wasn't throwing a tantrum; he was simply exhausted by the inefficiency. "My plan is ruined again. How bothersome."
"My apologies, sir. I didn't mean to make you feel bad," Mambo whispered, lowering his head.
Hermes took a steadying breath, exhaling the irritation. "Never mind. Let's move out."
They reached the perimeter. The campsite was eerily quiet. Two night watchers leaned on their rifles, while others were tucked into sleeping bags. A small white tent stood at the center.
"It would be unfortunate if she were harmed at such a young age," Hermes murmured, his tone as cold and analytical as if he were discussing damaged cargo. "A mission is a mission, but a compromised asset makes the extraction messy. Not the time for such thoughts."
"Sir, what is the plan?" Mambo asked in a low voice, crouching to Hermes's left.
"Give me a moment," Hermes replied, his eyes scanning the camp like a predator. He pulled out his submachine gun and checked the chamber. "Darn it, this is needlessly difficult."
"So, it's going to be a long night, huh?" Mambo muttered.
"By the way, where is Justin?" Hermes asked, noticing the empty space to his right. Mambo gave a helpless shrug.
Hermes's gaze sharpened. "You two were speaking earlier. What exactly did he say before you separated?"
"He said he would do what you suggested—confrontation is necessary. He said he would do it personally."
Hermes's face went pale—not out of fear, but out of the realization that his butler was about to escalate the situation beyond control. "Don't tell me he—"
NEIGH!
The sudden, frantic screams of seven horses shattered the night. The ropes holding them had been sliced clean. The animals stampeded through the camp in a panicked amok, trampling sleeping bags and scattering gear. The kidnappers scrambled out of their slumbers in a blind, uncoordinated panic.
The two night watchers raised their rifles toward a blur in the shadows, but before they could pull their triggers, their heads were neatly removed. Justin emerged from the dark like a wraith, then vanished again before the leader could call for light.
"Light the fires! Get the mages up!" the leader roared.
As one man began to chant, Hermes stood up from the bushes. He didn't fire in a rage; he fired with clinical precision. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! The bullets streaked toward the first mage, but a shimmering blue wall of energy flickered into existence. The second mage had cast a barrier.
"The mages are identified. Ignore the other three. Shoot to kill. Mambo, do what I say!" Hermes reloaded his rifle, his movements calm and fluid despite the chaos.
"Sir, yes, sir!" Mambo roared. He leapt from the brush, charging the mages with his blade drawn. "Hello, motherfuckers!"
"The enemies are attacking! Permission to engage!" a mercenary shouted.
"Permission granted! Protect the tent at all costs!" the leader yelled, his voice cracking.
But the leader didn't see the shadow that had coalesced behind him.
"So, you're the leader, huh?" Justin's voice was a calm, chilling whisper.
"Who the hell—Shoot him!"
The leader's two bodyguards raised their weapons, but in a flash of silver, their bodies were divided into pieces like butchered meat. The leader stood frozen, the warmth of urine spreading down his pants as he stared into the cold eyes of the butler.
The forest was no longer a sanctuary of shadows; it was a theater of screams and silver. While Mambo was occupied on the far side of the clearing, wrestling with the mages, Justin stood over the shivering man who had been barking orders—the man in charge of this violent encampment.
Justin leaned in close, his voice a melodic baritone that drifted through the cold air, too low for anyone but the victim to hear. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am the servant of the Supreme Being named Hermes Archnemesis. The Consigliere of the mighty family that will rise above all. You filthy insects have the right to remain silent before you meet your end. Allow me to put your mind at ease before you reach hell by my hand."
"I-I-insect?" the man stammered. He was a hardened fighter, used to the brutal streets of the districts, yet he felt like a worm under a boot.
On the other side of the camp, the two mages were desperately trying to stabilize their mana. Mambo—transformed by adrenaline and the weight of his new .45 caliber pistol—didn't give them the chance. He moved with a grace that defied his massive frame, ducking a bolt of flickering blue flame that shattered a supply crate above his head.
With a roar, Mambo vaulted over the debris. Mindful of the young Don's presence, he didn't aim for a subtle capture. He slammed the hilt of his short blade into the first mage's temple. Crack. The mage's eyes rolled back. The second mage panicked, but Mambo delivered a massive headbutt that sent the caster spiraling into unconsciousness. Both mages collapsed, neutralized and breathing.
Hermes watched from the perimeter, his finger twitching on the trigger of his submachine gun. He was level-headed, but a vein throbbed at his temple. The Newspaper Quest constraints, he reminded himself. No casualties by my hand. He remained calm, but the irritation of holding back was a bitter taste. He looked at the chaos and felt a sudden, strange urge to break the tension.
"Justin! Wait!" Hermes called out, trotting into the light.
Justin froze, his blade an inch from the leader's throat. "Yes, my Don?"
Hermes reached into a small pouch at his belt and pulled out a handful of roasted almonds. He tossed one into the air, caught it in his mouth, and chewed slowly while staring at the trembling man on the ground. He then held the pouch out toward his terrifying butler.
"Want some? They're lightly salted," Hermes said nonchalantly.
Justin didn't break his professional facade, though he looked at the nuts with genuine confusion. "I... I shall decline for now, sir. I am currently in the middle of a monologue."
"Right. Carry on. It was a good monologue, very intimidating," Hermes whispered, feeling a bit awkward as he stood in the middle of a blood-stained camp snacking on nuts. He turned just as Mambo finished tying up the mages and approached. Hermes didn't treat him with the cold authority he showed Justin; instead, he looked at him with the same casual air he'd had when they first met.
"Oh, Mambo, good job. You look like you need a boost. Have some nuts."
Mambo, covered in sweat and grime, looked at the handful of almonds in Hermes's hand. He was still intimidated by the kid, but Hermes's casual attitude was disorienting. "S-sir? Now?"
"It's good protein. Helps with the recovery," Hermes insisted with a friendly thumbs up.
Mambo took a few with trembling fingers and crunched them quickly. "Thank you, sir. They are... quite good."
Hermes turned back to the enemy, his tone shifting instantly back to icy professionalism. "Whatever. Tie them all. Find some ropes and place these bastards in one place. Mambo, go check on your master. Search the white tent."
"Y-y-yes, sir! Right on it!" Mambo hurried away toward the tent, completely unaware of the "Archnemesis" introduction Justin had made just moments before.
As Justin began to bind the survivors, one of the mages regained consciousness and glared at Hermes. "Who... who are you? You're just a kid!"
Hermes didn't even look at him. He was irritated by the delay and the fact that he was nearly out of snacks. He pointed a gloved index finger toward the man's throat and looked at Justin. "Justin, silence him. He's ruining the vibe."
"Yes, sir."
In a blur of motion, Justin's hand moved. A sickening thwack echoed, and the man's head was separated from his shoulders. The man on the ground shrieked, watching his support turn into a corpse. The last surviving henchman began to sob. "W-wait! Why are you killin' us? Don't you guys have a plan of asking for information?"
Hermes tilted his head. "Well, yeah. He has a point there, Justin."
The survivors heaved a collective sigh of relief. But the atmosphere didn't lighten.
"Sir," Justin whispered, leaning toward Hermes. "I advise you to remove the witnesses. We only need the leader to find the route. We're lucky you didn't point at the leader just now—that would have been troublesome."
Hermes chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. "Oops. My mistake. This one doesn't look intimidating either," he said, gesturing to the sobbing henchman. "A'right. Kill the last henchman."
"Yes, sir."
The mage was silenced forever.
"Kyoowa! What have you done?!" the survivor screamed. "You monsters! Do you even know who you're messing with? I am a subleader of the Handdog Gang! Our boss will have your heads!"
Hermes walked toward the self-proclaimed subleader, his footsteps silent. He leaned down, his mask inches from the man's face. Behind the eye slits, Hermes's neon scarlet eyes shimmered.
"Handdog Gang? Never heard of 'em," Hermes said with a calm, terrifying smile. "And hey, look at me, dude. Do you really think we're going to allow you to rest your eyes? Do you expect something good out of being a prisoner? Hmm?"
The subleader peed himself. "N-n-no... I don't expect anything. You guys... you're more vicious than any criminal I've ever encountered."
"Oh, that's a good remark, dude." Hermes patted the man's trembling shoulder. "I expect nothing too, filthy criminal."
Hermes stood up, exhaling slowly. He hadn't pulled a single trigger. He had maintained his restrictive constraints. Inside his mind, he was already celebrating the completion of his task.
"Sir Aljen! We've got a problem!"
Mambo's voice shattered the triumph. He came running out of the white tent, his face pale and his breathing ragged.
Hermes turned, his irritation returning. He reached out and patted Mambo's shoulder, trying to steady the big man just as he had done after the meeting with the Chief. "Hey, calm down. What's wrong, Mambo?"
Mambo looked up, his eyes filled with hollow grief. "The... the... Hah... hah... The Priestess... she's not there! My master is not here!"
Hermes froze. A dark, jagged shadow seemed to grow behind him even as his face remained locked in that same, calm smile. His body began to tremble—not with fear, but with a cold fury at the wasted time.
"Goddamn it," Hermes whispered, his voice cracking like thin ice. "What?"