The silence that followed Mambo's revelation was more suffocating than the smoke from the dying campfires. Hermes stood motionless, the Mask of Destruction casting a long, jagged shadow over the blood-stained grass. He wasn't having a childish outburst; instead, a cold, clinical fury radiated from him. He had calculated every move, only to find that the "Handdog Gang" were mere pawns—low-level actors in a much larger play.
"Justin," Hermes whispered, his voice vibrating with a dangerous, low frequency.
"Yes, my Don?"
"Release him for a moment. I need a closer look."
Justin stepped back. Hermes reached out and grabbed the subleader by the collar, hoisting him up with a strength that belied his youthful frame. He didn't scream. He simply looked into the man's eyes with a terrifying, fixed smile.
"Where is the Priestess?" Hermes asked, his tone deceptively soft. "Where did you take her, you goddamn bastard?"
The subleader, dizzy from the rough handling and the sheer pressure of Hermes's gaze, stammered, "W-we gave her to the militia's men. They met us at the clearing... she was transferred an hour ago! They were taking her back into the city!"
Hermes's hand tightened. He delivered two sharp, ringing slaps to the man's left cheek—not out of blind rage, but to snap the man back into focus. "Where exactly is she hidden? Answer me."
Mambo, standing a few feet away, gulped. He had seen warriors in the West, but the way this masked youth treated a hardened criminal like a disobedient pet was chilling. Justin, conversely, watched with a glint of genuine delight; he admired the way his master's "Archnemesis" persona was beginning to swallow his mercy.
"The District 3 headquarters!" the subleader shrieked. "There's a fortified guardhouse there... it's being used as a temporary holding cell before they move her again! Please, I told you everything!"
Hermes dropped the man like a piece of refuse and walked a short distance away, staring into the dark treeline. "Justin. We have what we need. Dispose of the trash."
Justin knelt on one knee, pressing a hand to his chest. "Yes, milord."
"W-wait! You promised mercy!" the subleader cried.
The plea was cut short. A silver flash caught the moonlight, and the man's head rolled away before a single drop of blood could stain the grass. It was a surgical, impossibly clean execution. Justin wiped his hands with a white cloth, his expression serene. "My master does not tolerate such men. Death is the only gift we can give to those who have finished their purpose."
"Mambo," Hermes called out.
The bodyguard jumped, snapping to attention. "Y-yes, sir?"
Hermes heaved a disappointing sigh, the weight of his ruined plan pressing on his shoulders. "Don't just stand there like a statue. You're coming with us. We're busting your mistress out tonight."
"Master," Justin approached, noticing the irritation in Hermes's eyes. "Shall we begin the assault tonight?"
Hermes turned, his irritation finally bubbling to the surface. "Goddamn it, Stump G. You're doing it again. You're ruining the flow. What kind of stupid question is that? Of course we are."
Justin bowed his head, though his face looked strangely happy to be scolded. "Forgive me, sir."
"Let's move," Hermes commanded.
The Gates of District 3
It was exactly 8:21:22 PM. The air at the North Gate of District 3 was thick with the smell of damp earth. Two militia guards leaned against their halberds, eyes half-closed in a sleepy stupor. Their boredom ended when three shadows materialized from the darkness.
"Who are you people?" one guard barked, stumbling into a defensive stance. "Show us your identification cards!"
The trio stepped into the torchlight. Hermes stood in the center, arms folded, his mask shimmering with an eerie scarlet light from his eyes. The guards aimed their rifles, but the person on the right was silenced instantly. Justin had closed the gap in a heartbeat, a palm strike sending the man into a forced slumber.
The second guard tried to pivot, but Mambo—driven by a desperate need to redeem himself—pinned him to the stone wall. He applied enough pressure to make the guard's ribs groan.
"Stay still, dude," Mambo growled. "Or else, you won't see the sun rise again."
Hermes stepped forward, lifting the guard's chin. "What a waste of time. Tell me, have you seen a group of guards passed by here?"
The guard spat at Hermes's boots. Hermes didn't flinch. He simply delivered a series of consecutive, stinging slaps until the guard's cheeks turned red like ripe tomatoes.
"I asked a question," Hermes said, his voice dropping to a crawl. "Have you seen them?"
"Y-yes! If you mean the ones with the girl... they are heading to the main headquarters! We all work under the same command!"
"Good," Hermes said, turning his back. "Justin, Mambo. You heard him."
Two distinct cracks of distorted necks followed. Within seconds, the three of them were moving through the shadows of the district.
The Sergeant's Office
In the quiet office of District 4, Sergeant Nicolo Francesco was attempting to rest when his door was kicked off its hinges. He dove behind his desk, pulling his service pistol.
"Y-you!" Nicolo's eyes widened as he recognized the masked merchant.
"Short time no see, Nicolo," Hermes said, sitting cross-legged in the Sergeant's own chair as Justin pinned the man to the floor. "I'm the one who should be asking questions, not you."
Mambo stepped outside to act as a lookout, leaving the interrogation to the "Archnemesis" duo.
"Tell me about the headquarters in District 3," Hermes commanded. "The truth, Nicolo. I can smell a lie better than you can smell gin."
Nicolo averted his gaze, his silence confirming his fear. Justin stepped closer, his aura of killing intent making the Sergeant's teeth chatter. "Lies," Justin whispered.
"Please! Don't put that gun to my head, Sir Aljen! I'm begging you!"
Hermes pulled away his gun and grabbed Nicolo's collar. "Give me the full details of your comrades residing at that goddamn mickey-mouse headquarters. All of it."
For the next half-hour, Nicolo handed over every document he had—backgrounds, troop numbers, and connections to several illegal activities committed over the last five years.
"Master, you're smiling so viciously," Justin noted, watching Hermes flip through the files. "I can see the darkness radiating from you."
"So, this is where they've taken our little lady," Hermes muttered. He looked at Justin. "What do you think we should do about this grand meetup?"
Justin offered a grave, knowing smile. "My Don, I can see in your eyes that you already know the answer. I suggest sending these documents to Zamor tonight. Just say the word and I will wake the man."
"No," Hermes replied, stuffing the documents into a large bag and hiding it under the desk.
"May I ask why, my Don?"
"This is a mission," Hermes said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "We solve it ourselves. If someone working for the higher-ups is a spy, the information will leak. We don't want a warning signal going out at all costs."
The air in the sergeant's office felt like it was ionizing—a byproduct of the sheer pressure Hermes was exerting on the atmosphere. He had recovered his composure, his irritation replaced by a cold, clinical focus. He didn't care for the moral implications of the girl's situation; as long as she drew breath, the quest remained active. However, he knew that to truly dismantle the "Bad Omen" of this volume, the Priestess had to be rescued before she was broken.
"Oi, Nicolo," Hermes said, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous velvet. The sergeant stood as stiff as a board, his knees knocking together.
"Y-y-yes, Sir Aljen?" Nicolo squeaked.
Hermes heaved a sigh, looking at the man with a pity that felt sharper than a blade. "Do you want to live?"
Nicolo nodded frantically. "Yes! More than anything!"
A shadow crossed Hermes's masked face, and then, a slow, predatory smile formed. He reached out and patted Nicolo's shoulder with a familiarity that made the man's skin crawl. "Rejoice, my pal. You're about to be a hero. By tomorrow morning, you'll be promoted to Captain in an instant. Justin, we move."
Nicolo watched them vanish into the hallway, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. Promoted? he thought, his stomach churning. I'm going to be executed for treason before the sun rises!
The Gilded Cage of District 3
While Hermes was setting his endgame into motion, a grim scene was unfolding at the District 3 Headquarters. A heavy, iron-bound door groaned open as four men cloaked in black entered the main hall. One of them carried a long, dark bodybag draped over his shoulder. He placed it with a dull thud onto an ornate sofa.
A small hole had been cut into the side of the bag, allowing the rhythmic, shallow breathing of the occupant to persist.
"Wonderful," a voice boomed from the stairs. Captain Mattia, his belly straining against the brass buttons of his official uniform, descended with a slow, rhythmic clap. "Is this our beloved Priestess lying on my favorite sofa?"
"Yes, sir," the lead henchman replied. "The target is secured. The Handdog switch-off is scheduled for later."
Mattia simpered. "Very well done. Boys, stand by. Our 'guests' will be here at 10:00 PM. Bring some liquors; we must be hospitable to our fellow businessmen."
He turned his gaze back to the bag. "And the girl?"
"Still under the sedative, sir."
Mattia stepped closer, unzipping the bag. When the material parted, he let out a sharp intake of breath. The maiden within was hauntingly beautiful. Her hair was a river of liquid platinum, her skin as pale and unblemished as fine porcelain. Even in her unconscious state, she radiated a purity that seemed to offend the very air of the corrupt guardhouse.
"B-b-bring her to my room," Mattia ordered, his voice thick with greed. "It's drafty down here. I want her somewhere isolated... somewhere quiet, so she isn't startled when she wakes up."
The henchmen saluted and hoisted the bag. "Affirmative, sir. To the master suite."
Later…
For the Priestess, the world had been a haze of darkness. In her dreams, she saw a flicker of gold and scarlet—a prophecy she had received only a day before. The God of Fate had whispered of a Hero, a knight who would bring balance to the living and serve as her shield.
When her eyes finally fluttered open, she found herself in a plush bedroom. She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt like lead. As she rubbed her eyes, a chill hit her skin. She realized her ceremonial robes had been replaced by a thin linen shirt. Panicked, she pulled a heavy blanket over herself, her mind racing through the memory of the ambush.
"Good evening, Ms. Priestess. It's a pleasure to meet you," a voice rasped from the corner.
She jumped, her eyes darting toward the source. A fatty old man in pajamas was watching her. She blinked, squinting. "Oh... My apologies, sir. I took a moment to see you. I do not have my eyeglasses with me."
Mattia's face reddened, but he composed himself. "Are you blind? It took you thirty seconds to realize I was sitting right here."
"I... I am nearsighted, sir. Please forgive my lack of respect," she whispered, lowering her head with innate grace.
"A reasonable answer. I am Captain Mattia of Neue Fiona. You are safe now," the man said, waddling toward the bed.
The maiden's heart soared. A smile broke across her face as she bowed her head. "Thank you, Captain! Thank you for saving me. I was so afraid." She felt a wave of relief, believing the prophecy was already coming true—that the law had intervened to protect her.
"Now, we have no time," Mattia said, his voice dropping as he reached the edge of the bed. "We should start before the others arrive."
The Priestess's smile faltered. "Start? W-what do you mean? Captain, what are you doing?"
Before she could move, the sheer weight of the man pinned her down. Mattia's hands grabbed her wrists. With a violent tug, he threw the blanket to the floor.
"No! Please! Stop!" her mouth was muffled as he stuffed a white silk cloth into her jaw, tying it tightly.
"Mmmph! Mhm!" Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks as she thrashed beneath him.
"Shut up!" Mattia barked, delivering a stinging slap to her face. The shock of the blow caused her to freeze. "Good. Stop resisting. It will be over quickly. I'll be gentle, my little lamb."
The Priestess closed her eyes, her mind screaming a silent prayer. God, please! Help me!
"Nice body you have," Mattia chuckled, his fingers tracing a path from her thigh upward. "Don't worry. I'll savor every bit of you. You should be honored to carry the legacy of a Captain."
He reached for a pair of shears on the nightstand, beginning to cut away the thin fabric of her shirt.
"P-p-please," she managed to moan through the gag, her voice a desperate vibration. "This is a great sin... you will be held accountable. The God of Fate sees all!"
Mattia laughed. "I don't care. I'm an atheist. I don't believe in God. Your God isn't real, little girl. If He were, would He have left you here with me?"
The maiden's eyes snapped open, burning with a flickering, holy defiance. "You are mistaken... God is real. He is everywhere... and justice will find its way to this room."
The air in the master suite was thick with the suffocating scent of cheap lavender oil and the Captain's frantic, greasy lust. Captain Mattia loomed over the Priestess, his weight making the bedsprings groan in protest. His eyes were wide, bloodshot with a mix of greed and a desperate need to dominate the divine.
"Then, where is your God now?" Mattia whispered, his voice a wet rasp that made the Priestess's skin crawl. "If he is here with you, then he will be here to save you. See, you're also surprised to hear it from my mouth. Now, allow me to taste your holy water. Don't worry, you'll enjoy it to the point you'll be in heaven's peaks."
The Priestess squeezed her eyes shut, the silk gag cutting into the corners of her mouth. She didn't have the strength to fight his physical mass, so she retreated into the only sanctuary she had left: her mind.
'No, somebody. Somebody help me! Mambo, God of Fate, oh Hero of Fate, please save me!' the young maiden prayed.
As if the heavens had been waiting for that specific frequency of desperation, the world outside the bedroom exploded.
The reinforced glass of the master suite didn't just break; it shattered into a million diamond-like shards as two silhouettes hurtled through the frame. The sheer velocity of the entrance sent a gust of cold night air into the room, snuffing out the flickering candles.
Mattia scrambled to turn his gaze, his mouth hanging open in a confused "O" shape. He didn't even have time to scream. Justin, moving with the terrifying efficiency of a mechanical predator, landed on the carpeted floor and, in the same motion, pivoted. His fist, wrapped in a black leather glove, connected with the side of Mattia's jaw with the sound of a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef.
The fatty old man didn't just fall; his body was sent flying across the room, slamming into the mahogany wardrobe with a sickening crunch before sliding to the floor like a discarded sack of flour.
Hermes, wearing the Mask of Destruction—which appeared to the world as an ordinary, featureless porcelain mask—landed gracefully behind Justin. He didn't spare a glance for the unconscious Captain. His eyes, glowing with a faint, dangerous scarlet through the slits, immediately found the trembling maiden on the bed. He strode forward, his long, high-collared coat billowing like a shadow.
"Hey, are you alright?" Hermes asked. His voice was level and clinical, yet firm. He grabbed a heavy velvet blanket from the floor and draped it over her, covering the thin, torn linen shirt. "Please, rest assured. We are here to save you. Thank goodness we arrived on time."
The Priestess looked up, her vision blurry from tears and the absence of her eyeglasses. She saw the fancy, high-collared clothes and the mysterious mask. The fear that had paralyzed her moments ago began to melt, replaced by a profound, dazed wonder.
"Who... who are you?" she stammered, her voice small and trembling.
Hermes heaved a long, disappointing sigh. He had expected a "thank you," not a questionnaire. "C'mon. Don't just sit there and ask who we are. I am here to save you. Isn't that enough?"
'Is he the one God? The hero of the world? Oh, my God. He's real!' she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Please, forgive me for doing this, milady." Hermes reached down and scooped her up into a bridal carry.
The Priestess let out a tiny gasp, her face flushing a deep, radiant crimson. It was her first time being held like this. As Hermes turned toward the window, she felt a strange, ancient sense of déjà vu. She recalled a story her grandmother had told her when she was twelve—a story of how her grandmother met her grandfather during a bandit raid. He had been wearing a weird mask and fancy clothes, and he had carried her like a princess through the smoke.
'Don't tell me, God. He's the one I've been waiting for? He's my soulmate!' She embraced his body, her arms winding around his neck as she flustered with a blissful smile.
Hermes, however, was having a significantly less romantic experience. As he adjusted his grip, he felt a sharp, burning twinge in his biceps.
What the hell? he thought, his brow furrowing behind the mask. I thought she'd be light as a feather, but she's like carrying a sack of lead pipes. What do they feed these Priestesses? Is she made of marble? My lats are screaming.
He glanced down and saw her blushing and smiling. 'She must be frightened,' he rationalized. 'Is this Stockholm syndrome? Nah, impossible. She must just be keeping her face like this to prevent me from worrying. Damn it, she's heavy. What the fuck did those morons give you to eat to have this weight? Screw you, Stump G.'
But as he navigated toward the shattered window, another realization hit him—one far more potent than her weight.
And there is something I am really concerned about, his thoughts shrieked. 'Damn it, she's smelling... smells so bad! It's like a mix of old incense, damp basement, and... is that fermented cabbage? This mask doesn't have a carbon filter! I'm going to pass out before we hit the ground!'
The Priestess, oblivious to the fact that her "Hero of Fate" was currently struggling not to drop her or gag, gazed up at the porcelain mask. She was dying to know what kind of face was hiding behind it.
"Hey," Hermes said, snapping her out of her trance. "My name is Aljen. Can I ask for your cooperation this time, milady?"
The Priestess nodded vigorously, her smile widening. "O-of course, I will."
"Good." Hermes moved to the very edge of the jagged window frame. She started to fidget, her gaze darting between the dark drop below and Hermes's face.
"W-w-what are you planning to do?" she asked, her voice trembling as she clung tighter to his neck.
"Don't worry," Hermes answered, his voice dropping into that cool, composed tone. "You'll see."
And then, he released the young maiden.
"Kyaaaa! Uh, eh, uh?"
The Priestess plummeted, her stomach leaping into her throat. But she didn't hit the cold cobblestones. Instead, her fall was broken by a plush, hand-stitched leather surface. She bounced once, twice, and then settled into the soft, luxurious embrace of a backseat.
She opened her eyes, raised her body up, and turned around, completely bewildered. "A car? A fancy car?"
The vehicle was a masterpiece of luxury—sleek, dark, and smelling of expensive mahogany. Her eyes glistered as a mechanical whirring sound filled the air, and the retractable roof began to slide forward, covering her in a safe, velvet-lined cocoon. She simpered when a familiar face caught her glance in the front mirror.
"Mambo, Mambo, Mambo, you're alive!" She crouched toward the front and hugged the black man.
"Milady, please stop it! You're going to break my neck!" Mambo cried out, holding the steering wheel tight while the car remained parked in the shadows below.
She released him, her face beaming. "How rude, I'm glad that you're alive Mambo. Anyways, how did you survive? I saw you got slice by those kidnappers."
Mambo fixed his collar and replied, "It's a long story, milady. Please sit tight."
While the Priestess and Mambo prepared their exit below, the master suite upstairs became a death trap. The sounds of heavy boots thundering down the hallway reached Hermes's ears.
"Justin," Hermes commanded, standing by the broken window. He watched as the carriage below began to move, ensuring Mambo was successfully pulling the Priestess away from the immediate danger zone. "The 'Good Omen' doesn't kill unless necessary. We need these men alive to spread the word of their Captain's 'retirement.' Use the flat of your blades or your fists."
"Yes, my Don," Justin replied, his voice dropping to that melodic, terrifying baritone he reserved for when they were alone.
Six guards rushed in, bayonets fixed, their faces twisted in confusion and rage. Justin didn't wait. He moved like a blur of silver and shadow. He stepped inside the first guard's reach, grabbing the rifle barrel and twisting it so hard the man's wrists snapped. With a fluid rotation, Justin used the rifle as a pole, swinging his body around to deliver a double-kick to the chests of two more guards, sending them flying back into the hallway.
Hermes didn't stay idle. A guard leveled a pistol at him from the doorway. Hermes didn't flinch. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, weighted metal baton. With a flick of his wrist, he disarmed the guard, the pistol spinning across the floor.
"Your form is terrible," Hermes remarked, dodging a clumsy punch and counter-striking with a jab to the guard's ribs. "You're leaning too far into your strikes. It's no wonder Mattia managed to keep you all under his thumb; you're all muscle and zero brains."
Two more guards rushed him. Hermes stepped between them, grabbed their collars, and used their own momentum to slam their heads together. Clack. They collapsed in a heap.
"Justin, the stairs are becoming crowded," Hermes noted, checking his watch. The hallway was now a bottleneck of shouting men and clattering armor.
Hermes moved back to the window ledge, casting one final glance toward the darkness where the carriage had vanished. He confirmed that Mambo and the Priestess had successfully cleared the courtyard. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the wave of guards pouring into the room.
"Let's go, Justin," Hermes said, his eyes glowing scarlet behind the mask as he prepared to engage the reinforcements. "We have a 'soulmate' to deliver and a gang to find, but it seems these insects want to play a little longer."