The night air was heavy with the scent of grapevines drifting from the west, punctuated by the rhythmic, indifferent pulsing of crickets. Nicolo Francesco, a sergeant of the village militia, stood alone outside his station. The crushing weight of his fear—the dread of being dragged down by the anchor of Captain Mattia's corruption—had left him in a state of visible grief.
He turned his gaze toward the red moon hanging low in the sky, his ears twitching at the distant, muffled pops of gunfire echoing from the direction of the 3rd District Main HQ.
"So, it has begun. Man, I'm screwed. That kid is not just an ordinary child; he's the most vicious existence I've ever encountered," Nicolo muttered. He sat down in the middle of the road and held his knees like a pitiful child who had lost his lollipop. "I wish I could turn back time. I shouldn't have saved that brat during that time. Damn, I was so wrong!"
From the beginning of his career as a militia member, Nicolo had already regretted joining forces with Captain Mattia's schemes and the rot of their corruption. He had planned to retire at an early age before everything went south, but the tide had turned far too quickly for him to escape.
"Why did the kid let me live? What was he planning for me to do?" he asked himself, worrying.
"Sergeant Francesco! Sergeant Francesco, is that you?" someone called out, sounding panicky.
He turned his gaze at the person approaching. "Yes, this is Sergeant Francesco. What do you want from me, Private?"
The private and his five comrades, who were rushing towards his location, offered a quick salute. "Sir, the 3rd District Main HQ has been reported to be under attack by unknown assailants. We were unable to move because our superiors were not there to command us. Thankfully, we all know that you are here all alone in this station. Wait—what happened to your door, sir?"
They pulled out their rifles and scattered around the area. "Did someone attack your station when you were alone?"
Nicolo sighed at the consecutive questions. He simply replied, "Forget about it. There's nothing to concern yourself with. I broke my own door because I was drunk. Lower your guns and go back to your stations. I'm not interested anymore."
"But, sir! The main headquarters is under attack. We need someone to lead us there," the private insisted. Everyone appeared to agree with the concern.
"Where the hell are your commanding officers then? I am all alone without any underlings under my watch. I am not authorized to command you all," Nicolo responded wearily as he tucked his head back onto his knees.
The private felt a surge of pity for the man. They kept their mouths shut for a minute to give the sergeant some space.
"Sergeant Francesco!" a feminine voice called.
He recognized the voice immediately and stood up as she approached. "Yes, Ms. Daliah!" sputtered Nicolo.
His attention was momentarily caught by her pink pajamas with the bear logo before he looked at her face. It was Daliah, the 3rd District representative. The private and his comrades flustered, seeing her in such a state of undress.
"Sergeant Francesco," she said, grabbing his hands. "I need your help. The Handdog gang has attacked our station and they are causing a lot of trouble in my district. I called every official nearby but no one was answering my call."
"F-Forgive me, Ms. Daliah." He gently released his hands from hers, trying to focus despite her appearance. "But I am under the jurisdiction of Lord Richarde. I won't make a move without his orders," said Nicolo.
"Oh, then do it. The Handdog gang has become the reason for our crime rate to rise. As the representative of my district, I'll give you the authorization to eradicate them all. You have my word."
Richarde appeared from the distance, surprising them all. Daliah followed, "How did you get in here? I thought—never mind. Me too. I, Daliah, the 3rd district representative, order you to eradicate the criminals who are causing chaos in our village."
"L-L-Lord Richarde," Nicolo and the others lowered their heads.
Richarde simpered, "Please raise your heads. I am not a God or some kind of important existence. The officers of every district have been reported being murdered inside the main headquarters. According to the last report, it is said that a total of twenty-four men were killed in action. I didn't exactly know why that fat bastard called a sudden meeting for his colleagues and didn't even invite you, Sergeant. So, you're the only active officer still alive at this moment."
Nicolo felt the pieces falling into place. Is this what he wanted me to do? "Ms. Daliah," Nicolo asked, "did anyone report any casualties on our side?"
She answered, "Yes. Apparently, one of the people who witnessed the assault said that he found Captain Mattia's corpse in front of the headquarters."
Richarde and Daliah tilted their heads in feigned confusion. Nicolo, however, grinned. "Sir Richarde, Ms. Daliah, please rest assured. We will eradicate them all. Peace will be within our grasp. Justice shall prevail."
"Good," Richarde gave a thumbs up. "That's the spirit."
"Men, follow me. Forget about your superiors—they might be dead anyway. I am now your acting leader from this day onward." The sergeant went inside his station and armed himself with a rifle and a pistol. "We will avenge the death of Captain Mattia. Follow me!"
"Sir, where are we going then?" the private asked.
"To the warzone. Enemy—Handdog Gang," he answered.
Daliah looked surprised and asked, "Richarde, that organization is strong. Can they win?"
With a simper, Richarde replied, "Don't worry, milady. They will. Now, allow me to accompany you to the safehouse."
Daliah slapped Richarde's hand away with a doubtful gaze. "Safehouse or your own house?"
Richarde grinned, entirely unbothered. "It's for your own safety, of course."
"I doubt it." She turned around and began walking away with a brisk, determined pace.
"W-wait, where are you going?" Richarde called out.
"I'll go back to my district and lead my people to safety. Richarde, remember our position in this village," Daliah replied, leaving him standing in the middle of the road.
"No, my beloved princess. No!" Richarde dropped to his knees, his hand raised toward the moon as he shouted dramatically.
"Cut the crap already!" she yelled back, her face flustering even from a distance before she finally disappeared into the night.
Meanwhile, in the Chief's residence, Ilona rushed toward the master bedroom. She found Chief Zamor sprawled naked across his bed, deep in sleep. Still fixing her wet towel after her interrupted bath, she didn't hesitate; she summoned a spark of magic and jolted him awake.
"Gaaag! Ilona, what the hell?" Zamor barked, sitting up as the electric shock coursed through him.
"Chief, District 3 is under attack. Witnesses reported the main headquarters is being stormed," she reported urgently.
Zamor paused, his eyes traveling over her. "Ilona."
"Yes, sir?" she tilted her head.
"Wear some clothes." He grabbed a nearby blanket and tossed it to her.
She flustered, pulling the fabric tight. "Are you worried about me? You think I'll catch a cold, hmm?"
The chief sat on the edge of the bed with a serious gaze. "No. My kids will see you half-naked in the middle of the night. I don't want them to see you like this. You do realize that our relationship must be kept secret."
"Oh," her smile suddenly turned terrifying. "I think you are not fully awake yet. Allow me to help you."
"Wha—Aaaarggh!" The chief's scream echoed through the room as another spark hit him. "C'mon, stop it!"
"You shut your mouth. The kids might wake up from your screaming," Ilona chastised, moving to the wardrobe to grab her clothes. "Get your ass out of that bed. We have a job to do."
"Right," Zamor said, his voice regaining its professional calm. "Have you informed the representatives?"
Ilona sighed as she dressed. "Yes, sir. I think everyone is already on the move. Who would've thought a gang would dare attack one of our headquarters? It doesn't make any sense."
"Casualties?"
"An eyewitness who escaped the shootout found Mattia's body in front of his base. He stated the Captain was killed in action by the mobsters," Ilona replied, straightening her skirt.
"Alright, that's really bad. I feel pity for that fatty bastard," Zamor said, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Your face is showing the opposite," Ilona noted with a doubtful look.
The chief giggled. "Oh, forgive me. I just can't believe he's already dead. So... that kid has finally begun his operation."
"Hmm? Kid?" She tilted her head in confusion.
Zamor quickly cleared his throat. "Forget about it. Inform Rafel and Ylla to secure their bases; priority is the safety of our people. Also, contact Daliah and Richarde. They must initiate an immediate evacuation. Do we have any available officers on our side?"
"Apparently, we have one. Nicolo Francesco, a sergeant in the 4th district. It's reported that he is currently reorganizing the village militia to strike back at the hostile enemy."
Zamor rubbed his chin. "Nicolo, huh? I never knew we had a man like him in our forces. Alright, this night shall be the end of their tyranny. Let justice prevail."
Ilona combed her hair and tucked it under her cap. She stepped toward him, leaning in close. "Roger that, chief. I'll go first. Let's meet in the office later."
They shared a brief, stolen kiss before she slipped out the door. Once she was gone, Zamor's gaze turned toward a wedding picture on the nightstand. "Forgive me, my wife," he muttered. He looked toward the window. "Now that she mentioned it... did that man save the Priestess? Well, who knows."
"Father," a tiny, cute voice called from the doorway.
"Oh, July. Why are you still awake?" Zamor knelt down as his young daughter rubbed her eyes.
"Father, where are you going?"
"Father has to go to work," he said, patting her head gently.
"Why are you going to work tonight?" she asked, leaning against him.
"Let me ask you something, dear. Why is my little July awake?"
She smiled sleepily. "I heard some boom-boom outside. Is there an event happening? July is... hungry. July wants to... eat... pie..."
Zamor kissed her head as she drifted off in his arms. He didn't need to answer; the exhaustion of the night had claimed her. He carried her back to her bed, where his son Troy was already snoring softly. After tucking her in under her pink blanket, he stepped out and straightened his posture.
"Time to go to work," he declared.
In the First District, a little girl stood in front of a small house, her pink gothic clothes and matching apparel draped over her shoulder. Ylla tapped her foot impatiently, her arms folded over her chest.
"Rafel! Don't make me knock twice! Get your ass out here, we have an emergency!" she commanded.
"Shut it, bitch!" a muffled voice roared from inside.
"Don't call me that! I told you already! People are dying out there. Lady Ilona called—we have to keep the people safe!" Ylla shouted, swatting her apparel against the door.
"Then go there first! Stop hitting my door! If I find a scratch or a hole, I will smack you!"
"How dare you?" Ylla growled. "I didn't want to come here! I was ordered to pick you up, dipshit!"
The door flew open. Rafel stepped out, looking sharp in a black tailored suit. Slung across his back was a formidable two-barrel shotgun. "Let's go. Those bastards dare to attack us first... they'll regret it."
"Hey, wait for me!" Ylla hiked up her skirt and hurried after him.
At 8:44:58 in the evening, the Handdog Gang bases were hit by a whirlwind of steel. Under the leadership of acting-Captain Nicolo, the village militia struck with a ferocity born of long-suppressed rage. With the tactical assistance of Richarde and Daliah, the gang was systematically dismantled. Some mobsters threw down their weapons and begged for mercy, but none was given. The order was clear: purge the rot.
Back at the conference room, Chief Zamor took command, directing Rafel and Ylla as they successfully moved the 3rd District civilians away from the heat of the battlefield.
The Final Stand
In the silent, isolated courtyard of the headquarters, the young Don and his butler stood over the broken remnants of the gang's leadership. Intenzo, still protecting the wounded Renzo, stared up at Hermes with wide, trembling eyes.
"W-W-What do you mean by that?" Intenzo asked, his hand shaking as he aimed his pistol at the young Don.
Justin blurred forward instantly, his body a living shield in front of his master. Hermes simply grinned behind his mask. "Oh, my. There's no need to ask that. It is a simple question that can be easily answered."
Intenzo didn't lower his gun, his other hand still pulsing with healing magic to keep Renzo's mangled legs from bleeding out. "What did you do to our people?"
Hermes sighed, his tone bored. "To tell you the truth, we didn't do anything at all."
"Then why are you so confident? You piece of shit, you're just a man telling lies!" Intenzo scoffed.
Justin snapped, his voice a low growl. "Shut your mouth, you insect."
The sheer weight of the butler's gaze made Intenzo flinch and bite his lip.
"Oh, come on, Justin. Let me handle this, okay?" Hermes said calmly. "There's no need to get mad at these pitiful NPCs. So, you really want to know, huh?"
Intenzo nodded slowly.
"Listen very carefully," Hermes stated, his voice clinical. "No one is coming to help you because you guys are assholes. Period. Your gang is just a collection of small-time criminals acting high and mighty despite being scumbags. Since you were stupid enough to fire the first shots tonight, the villagers—and the militia—won't tolerate it. There are witnesses to your 'brutal' attack on an official headquarters. Right now, a bunch of 'losers' are taking vengeance for their superiors. I expect there is quite a bit of bloodshed at your home base right now."
As if on cue, a massive explosion rocked the south. A pillar of fire painted the night sky orange. Renzo, who had been drifting in and out of consciousness, turned deathly pale. That was the location of the Handdog main office.
"I-I-It can't be," Renzo muttered. "You bastards... you'll pay for this! Intenzo, inject the drug! Now!"
Intenzo pulled out a syringe filled with a glowing green liquid and plunged it into his boss's arm.
"Hmm? What the hell is that thing? Oh, boy," Hermes muttered. He didn't wait to see the results. He signaled his butler to end it.
Two wet slashes echoed through the street. The few citizens watching from behind their curtains turned away in disgust. Hermes stood still, smirking as the life left the gang leaders' eyes. "I planned to have a tea party and ask you about the Priestess and your employer, but it's already too late. Well, whatever. It's done."
The heads of the criminals rolled across the cobblestones, blood pooling around the decapitated remains. Justin calmly removed his gloves, his task complete.
...
The sky remained a bruised red, lit by the burning Handdog offices. Sergeant Nicolo moved through the streets like a man possessed, his militia executing every gang member they found. "Shoot to kill!" he roared.
"How insightful," Hermes remarked, looking at the distant fires. "This is why I don't like to be on the front lines. Next time, I'll hire some goons and let them clean this mess for me."
"Should I dispose of their bodies, my Don?" Justin asked, bowing.
"Leave them. Let the citizens see their corpses like this. They need to see the end of the immorality that plagued their village." Hermes walked over to the discarded syringe, took a peek at it, and then crushed it under his boot. He had suspected it was a health potion, but it didn't matter now.
Hermes couldn't hide his satisfaction. His plan had worked perfectly. By sparing Nicolo, he had created a puppet hero to lead the charge. Since Justin had already eliminated the corrupt high-ranking officers, Nicolo was the only one left to rise. By baiting the Handdog gang into attacking the headquarters, Hermes had forced the law to recognize them as traitors.
"The law of this game is still the same. People of this age hate criminals," he mumbled. "Mission complete. We must escape before the authorities arrive."
Justin glared at the dark windows of nearby houses where eyes were watching. "Sir, should I kill the citizens who witnessed this?"
Hermes shook his head. "Let them live. They are innocent, and they won't speak against us. We just killed the parasites of their village. They should be thanking us."
"I see. Impressive, my Don," Justin simpered.
As they turned to melt back into the shadows, a small, unassuming box was tossed from a nearby alleyway, skidding to a halt in front of them. Hermes flinched. Justin, sensing a sudden, overwhelming surge of dark aura, lunged forward.
"Don Hermes!" Justin shouted, grabbing his master to drag him out of range.
But it was too late. The box detonated, and instead of fire, a thick, unnatural dark smoke erupted. It swirled like a living thing, expanding with impossible speed.
"Don Hermes!" was the last thing Justin could cry out before the young Don was completely swallowed by the encroaching shadow.
Hermes's upper body jolted upright. He found himself in the middle of a spatial dimension—an endless, sterile void where the concept of time and life seemed to wither. He stood up, calmly brushing the dust off his black suit and fixing his attire. His Mask of Destruction remained firmly on his face, though to any observer, it appeared as nothing more than a simple, ordinary mask.
Without a word, he pulled out his rifle, reloaded the chamber with a crisp clack, and aimed into the nothingness, searching for an enemy within the dark.
"Hermes Archnemesis," a woman's voice drifted through the void. It was honeyed, melodic, and draped in a confidence that bordered on predatory.
"Nope, it is not me," Hermes replied dryly, his voice echoing flatly.
"You can't hide the truth from me, Hermes Archnemesis. Third son of the House of Archnemesis. The sole survivor of the family when the Archnemesis-Corleon war was initiated," the woman stated. Her silhouette emerged from the gloom, draped in a heavy black cloak.
"Oh, I see." Hermes's gaze narrowed. "Are you working with that unfortunate gang? Or are you acting alone, milady?"
"I am not working with those people. To tell you the truth, I am working with someone else entirely."
"Let me guess," Hermes said, glaring through the mask. "The Verdugo family?"
The woman let out a soft, mocking laugh. "I wouldn't let myself work with a middle-class, arrogant family. However, I do have a companion who is working as our spy."
"So, what are you exactly?" he quizzed her, keeping his gun aimed steady.
She simpered, appearing pleased with his confidence. "I don't want to reveal our true identity and I don't plan to betray our oath. But I will give you exactly what we are in the eyes of the public. We are the lost race of the world who were distrusted, put into discretion, and oppressed by society. We are the descendants of the people who were perished and eradicated by humankind."
Hermes recalled the newspaper content he had read recently. It stated that there was a secret organization in this world—one he would eventually need to eradicate.
"A secret organization is the right answer, I think," he said.
"Your answer is closer to it, but I cannot say that you're wrong," she replied.
"Let me ask you something, milady." Hermes stepped forward, maintaining a tactical distance. "Do you know who is responsible for the 'bad omen' appearing in this district?"
"No," she answered quickly.
"Alright then, that was fast. But you do have a piece of knowledge about who is pulling the strings behind the scenes in this village, right?"
She simply shook her head. Hermes heaved a disappointing sigh.
"How disappointing. So," his sight turned cold as he raised his rifle toward her head. "Why did you bring me here? Stop bullshitting me, lady."
Her neon sight made him flinch as her aura exerted a massive pressure on his chest. She pulled out her knives with a terrifying gaze.
"Hermes Archnemesis, I have come here to —" she giggled, and a sound of two objects collided in a second.
"— assassinate me," Hermes finished her sentence after he dodged her knives. "Take this!"
He commenced his attack by firing his submachine gun. Thanks to his character's innate skill of sensing danger, he escaped death from that first assault. She used her barrier and chirped, "Futile, your attack is meaningless."
"Let's see about that, lady." He reloaded his gun and continued the assault. Bullets fell onto the dimensional ground and disappeared like melted ice cream.
"Futile, futile, futile, futile," she blocked his attack, speaking redundantly.
Hermes clicked his tongue when his attack didn't inflict any damage. "Son of a bitch. Just take damage already!"
The girl, feeling bored by the exchange, dashed to his side to begin her counterattack. Hermes used his rifle to block her knives, ducked his body from her kick, and bent his body to avoid her elbow.
"You're good. Are you exercising every day? You don't look like a man who'd do it anyway. Rumors are wrong," she praised. "I guess I failed to study you closely. You cannot see the truth if you don't fight a person in the flesh."
"I'm flattered. But the rumors are true eventually. GAWGH!"
His body was hit by her fist, the impact sending him flying two meters. He coughed blood, trying to stand up, but the damage was imminent. He stayed in position for a few seconds to recover.
"Damn it, you're strong," he argued, pressing his hand to cover his stomach.
"Oh, my. You're still alive." she grinned. "I haven't been serious this time. You're lucky we are in this dimension. If not, you're already dead."
He picked his rifle off the ground and aimed it at her face. "I won't let myself be killed in this place. Underestimating me will be your wrong move. Fate will disapprove."
"Nonsense." She gave him a heavy slash from above, but he blocked it. He maintained his position and waited for her to step back before he gave her a hard kick through her stomach. He fell to the ground when he lost his balance.
"Ouch, I think I need to learn how to kick properly." He gradually stood up. "Lady, you're three years early to defeat me. I won't die. Not in this shit world, and not in your hands."
"Then, farewell."
She dashed to his side before he could react. A swish of her knife stuck directly to his heart. She simpered for a second, but her expression perplexed when she noticed his terrifying, unphased gaze.
"Huh?" Her eyes opened wide when no blood came out.
"Lady, your attack is futile. I'm wearing an armored vest," he whispered.
He sacrificed his rifle, grabbed her shoulders, and pivoted. He forcibly did what all the men would do in a wrestling match—a German Suplex.
The girl, caught completely off guard, had her head slammed into the spatial ground. The impact echoed through the void, and she let out a sharp gasp of pain. Hermes acted with the cold efficiency of a seasoned predator; he used his weight to pin her down, snatched one of her fallen knives, and pressed the cold edge of the blade firmly against her throat.
"Oh, my. I didn't expect this to happen. You surprised me, Hermes," she whispered, her voice strained but curiously calm. "So, this is the end for me. It's been an honor to be killed by someone like you. Kill me."
"Why should I?" Hermes countered, his eyes narrowed behind his mask.
"Kill me, please!" she begged, her breathing quickening. "This is a one-time opportunity for me. Kill me now!"
Hermes felt a wave of revulsion. Something was deeply wrong with this woman. She was clearly stronger than him, yet she had deliberately let him gain the upper hand. Her strange, submissive behavior in the face of death made his skin crawl.
"Hey, lady. What the hell is wrong with you?" Hermes barked. "You smell like flowers and I can see through your lips that you're a beautiful woman, but I didn't know you were this kind of indecent person. I have no plan to kill someone like you. You're actually frightening me."
The girl flustered, her face heating up beneath her hood. "Kill me, oh, Hermes!"
As their bodies collided in the struggle, her breathing became heavy and erratic.
"Oi, stop it already. You're getting on my nerves," Hermes snapped. "My brain is telling me to get away from you, but my body tells me not to do it because the second I let go, you're going to kill me."
"I am your enemy!" she insisted. "According to the laws of the underworld, an assassin who fails her mission must die by the hands of her target. It is the only honor left to redeem myself. Now, kill me!"
Annoyed beyond reason, Hermes slapped her across the face. "Shut up, lady! Human lives are the most sophisticated gift of God!"
"God doesn't exist!" she spat back.
"Stupid atheist. He exists. There are scientific explanations and theological reasons for His existence," Hermes retorted, slapping her again to keep her quiet. "But let's change the subject. God damn it, stop resisting!"
"Ouch! Stop hurting me!" she caterwauled. "That's against women's rights! Just kill me already!"
"Shut the fuck up! I don't care about women's rights or mafia rights. We both know those laws are usually in your favor anyway." He pinned her arms down. "Now, let's find out what's hidden behind that hood."
As his hand reached for the fabric, the girl's thoughts raced wildly. 'You filthy man... first you steal my kiss and now this? Is it true you've really changed? Ooh, my... even his sweat tastes good.' She was about to use her trump card when a booming voice intervened, casting a high-level spell: "[Monstrous Activus!]"
Shadows coalesced in front of the young Don, forming a massive, grotesque creature. It was a towering, muscular beast with a disproportionately large head, wild hair, and skin the color of a bruise.
"A-An ogre? That's impossible," Hermes shivered, his survival instincts screaming. "They shouldn't exist in this world!"
The ogre reached down, snatched up Hermes's discarded rifle, and channeled a surge of dark mana through it, transmuted the firearm into a gleaming, lethal broadsword.
The girl clicked her tongue in frustration. "Don't kill this man! He's mine!"
The ogre ignored her. It stepped forward and swung the sword in a blinding arc. In the blink of an eye, the blade passed through the young Don's neck.
A man in a black cloak—Seraph—appeared from the shadows, having watched the entire ordeal. He glanced at his watch as Hermes's body slumped to the ground.
"What a wonderful scene. The objective is complete," he grinned.
On January 4, 1811, A.D., at exactly 9:58 PM, the last heir of the Archnemesis crime family was slaughtered by a mystical beast. The assassins looked upon his corpse with a twisted sense of satisfaction.
Or so it seemed.
For at that very moment, the "villain" was rising from the depths of the endless dimension, ready to turn the world under his palm—quite by accident.