The air was still thick with the acrid scent of sulfur and pulverized earth. Richarde leaned against the charred remains of a supply wagon, his lungs burning. As he wiped a streak of soot from his forehead, his mind drifted back to the quiet morning that had started this nightmare.
"Why do you call me this morning, Chief?" Richarde had asked, adjusting his cuffs as he entered the wood-paneled office.
As the fourth district representative of the Neue Fiona Village, Richarde was a bit of an anomaly among his peers. While the others boasted arcane lineages or martial prowess, he appeared to be a perfectly ordinary man with no special abilities. He looked the part of a successful urbanite, wearing a sharp green noble suit and a golden dove necklace that caught the morning light. A white cotton cap—the hallmark of a Victorian-educated gentleman—sat neatly on his head.
"I want you to go to the Seerside of the Dark Scily forest," Chief Zamor directed, his voice like grinding stone. He didn't look up from his desk, his finger tapping a specific point on an unrolled parchment. "I want you to chase after the group of Aljen the merchant. He's with the priestess and my children. Here's the map. Bring your men to this location. ASAP."
Richarde's heart skipped a beat, though his face remained a mask of mild annoyance. "Wait, for real? I... I'm sure there's someone better than me for this job," he hesitated, letting out a long, dramatic sigh. "Chief, come on. I don't remember signing up for babysitting duty. Since when did I become your chaperone or a school bus service?"
"Yes, and that's exactly why I'm sending you right now," Chief Zamor confirmed, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face.
"Hey, should we call Lady Ylla for this?" Richarde suggested, grasping at straws.
"Nope. She's very busy in the church," Zamor shook his head.
"How about Lady Dahlia?" Richarde asked, a slight tremor in his voice and a hint of cold sweat on his neck. "She and the children aren't strangers to each other. She's much more compatible for the job."
"She's busy in the restaurant. Since her district experienced that bad omen over the past few days, her presence is vital there. We can't risk pulling her away for this," Zamor explained briefly.
"Eeh? I don't understand. Why me?" Richarde inquired, pointing an index finger at his own chest.
"Because you're the only one among them who is actually available and isn't running an essential errand in this village," the Chief declared.
"C-Chief, I know you love to make me toil, but isn't this a bit outside my jurisdiction as a district representative?" Richarde fretted, trying one last time to pivot.
"What are you complaining about? This is exactly part of your duty! To serve and protect the people of this village. You will obey the task your Chief bestows upon you," Zamor simpered.
Richarde swallowed hard. "C-Chief... don't look at me like that. You're making me frightened." He took a half-step back. "Come on, I have a mountain of paperwork in my office."
"Like what?" Zamor's voice dropped to a terrifying octave. "Walking around for fun? Paying 'visits' to Dahlia's restaurant every morning? Flirting with her in her office all afternoon? Then going to the factories just to check the production numbers, while completely ignoring the people's condition? Tell me, Richarde, what have you actually done for the past five years? You've dodged every important task I've given you. This is the only time I've called you here personally. You have no reason to decline. Accept this job. That is final."
Richarde opened his mouth to protest, but the Chief's gaze turned sharper than a guillotine blade. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating.
"No 'buts'. Shut your mouth or I will clip it shut with this stapler," Zamor growled. "Now, take these files and go devise a strategy. No more questions. You may take your leave."
Richarde let out a shaky breath, saluted, and hurried out. The memory of that expression still made his skin crawl.
….
BOOM!
The sudden silence following the explosion was jarring.
"Sir, the enemy is no longer shooting at us!" one of the village militia reported, lowering his shield.
"Good... that's good news," Richarde muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. "Man, I really need to visit my Dahlia after this mission. I need to recharge."
He watched the merchant's butler, Justin, who had just performed a staggering leap high into the air. Richarde whistled in genuine awe.
'A butler who can fly like that? He's no ordinary servant,' Richarde thought. 'And that assassin... he's ignoring us entirely to focus on him. To think I'd get mixed up in something this deep. I'm so damn unfortunate. Bandits, priestesses, and the Chief's kids...'
He reached into his pocket. 'I wasn't prepared for surprise attacks. I need more supplies next time.'
With a subtle flick of his wrist, he deactivated his shimmering mana barrier—a Tier 8 feat he made look like a lucky coincidence. He pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a glowing blue liquid. It bore the logo of the Camelia clan. He popped the cork and drained it in one go.
'Just who the hell is Aljen?' he mused.
"Phew, that tastes better than it looks." He chuckled darkly, causing the nearby militia to tilt their heads in confusion. "Chief and the others are acting strange... and even Big Sis Ilona is being hostile to that kid. Something big is brewing."
"Sir, where should we head? Gate 1 or Gate 2?" the coachman asked, gripping the reins of the wagon.
"Gate 2," Richarde answered firmly. "I want to pay a visit to my lady. She's the only one I can ask for assistance right now."
….
While the militia moved out, a pair of eyes watched from a distance.
Behind the massive trunk of an ancient tree, a man lay flat in the tall grass. His gray nylon suit was covered in bits of brush and dirt, camouflaging him perfectly. His ash-blonde bedhead hair didn't diminish the decisiveness in his masculine face—he looked like a high-fashion model who had been dropped into a war zone.
He held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, tracking the movement of the wagons and the battle in the sky.
"Damn, I really want a smoke," he murmured, his voice calm and melodic. "People killing each other right on our borders. The guild needs to hear about this immediately."
He crawled backward with practiced, silent movements until he reached a safe depression in the earth. Standing up, he broke into a low-profile run. He reached into his suit and pulled out a green communicator—a small, rugged phone embossed with a butcher's cleaver symbol.
"HQ, come in. This is patrol over. HQ, does anyone hear me?"
"This is HQ. What's your status?" a voice crackled through the speaker.
"We've got visitors from the village. Two powerful mages are currently tearing up the sky, the wagons are hauling back to their nest, and a masked man just bolted for the deep forest. Requesting immediate support," he said gravely.
There was a pause on the line. "Negative. The boss denied it. He said to just report what you saw. No intervention."
The man's jaw tightened. "Fine. I'm heading back to the second base then. Ciao."
He snapped the phone shut and disappeared into the shadows of the trees, moving with the grace of a predator.
While the forest burned and Richarde retreated toward the village gates, a different kind of darkness was gathering in the Fourth District of Neue Fiona. This district, often overlooked by the bustling merchant guilds, housed the Neue Fiona Temple—a medium-sized structure that stood as a testament to the village's complex history and hidden cultist roots.
The architecture was a jarring blend of eras: walls of cold, modern concrete reinforced with mystical northern stones that acted like polished mirrors, reflecting the surrounding block with an eerie clarity. Inside, the floors were laid with ancient Roman tiles, preserved perfectly to maintain both the functionality of a place of worship and the unsettling uniqueness of a sanctuary for the forgotten.
The Council of Three
An old man clad in a flowing longpao hurried through the hallowed hallways, his silk shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone. In his hand, he clutched a small, crumpled piece of parchment as if it were a holy relic.
He slammed the heavy oak doors open, bursting into the inner sanctum of the Temple Grand Master.
Elder Damaso, the superior of their group, looked up. He was a man of imposing stillness, his eyes wrinkled and perpetually half-closed beneath sharp, authoritative eyebrows. His long, snow-white beard was meticulously tied with a gemstone clip. He wore a brilliant longpao decorated with golden leaves at the collar and a red leather hat that signaled his rank—showing his status as the superior Master among them.
"Brother Damaso, the Grandlord's new order is here!" panted Elder Wamo, the second elder. "The time has finally come. The Lord is with us, and he sends a new prophecy for the cult!"
Damaso flinched, his composure momentarily breaking. He reached out with a trembling hand, and Wamo presented the paper with the reverence one would show a crown. As Damaso smoothed out the parchment and read, his body shivered in a release of five years of anticipation.
"W... wonderful! Good grief, finally," Damaso whispered, covering his mouth in joy. "The Grandlord answers our prayers. To think the opportunity is this close... I can't believe it's actually happening."
The Youngest Elder
Before he could finish, the door slammed open again. Elder Kilo, the youngest of the three and a man known for his directness, rushed in. His short white hair and neatly trimmed beard contrasted with the more traditional appearance of his seniors, but his green longpao marked him as a Master of the Temple.
"Is it true? Has the Grandlord bestowed a new mission?" Kilo asked, breathless. "Phew... five years. Five years since the last prophecy."
"Brother Kilo, stand down!" Damaso croaked, his gaze suddenly terrifying and cold.
Kilo immediately checked himself, placing a hand over his heart and bowing his head. "Yes, brother. Forgive my lack of restraint."
Damaso's expression softened slightly as he patted Kilo's shoulder. "Mind your manners. You are a Master of this Temple. Keep your emotions in check. Passion is for the followers; clarity is for the Masters."
"Thank you, brother," Kilo replied, rising.
Elder Wamo carefully checked the hallway before sealing the door shut with a heavy click. The room became a pocket of silence. "Brother, what is the message?"
"It is a report of failure," Damaso said, his voice turning grave. "Lord Seraph and our little brother, Arak, have failed to subdue their target."
Wamo's eyes widened. "Arak did what? Why is he mentioned in the letter?"
"I don't know," Damaso sighed, rubbing his forehead. "But to think our little brother would lie to me—the eldest among us. What a disgrace to our family."
"Arak has always been straying," Wamo whinged, his voice filled with long-standing resentment. "That man has had a mental disorder for a thousand years. It isn't surprising he's been working behind the scenes without our knowledge."
Kilo, however, shook his head. "If the Grandlord gave him a mission, it was meant to be. Perhaps his failure is part of a larger plan. We shouldn't insult him. He's been isolated in the forest for so long."
"My point is," Kilo appealed, "we should be proud that Arak received a prophecy at all. Despite being the youngest, he is still our blood. We should support him, not cast him aside. He finally received a new prophecy from our leader."
Damaso and Wamo exchanged a long glance, eventually nodding in silent agreement. "He's right," Damaso quoted. "Sometimes we fall into a hole, but that failure only makes us wiser for the climb."
The Target Revealed
"So," Wamo asked, "who is the target that caused such a mess?"
"The lord of this western island, Hermes Archnemesis," Damaso said, flipping a photograph onto the table.
Wamo and Kilo leaned in. Their eyes nearly popped out of their heads. Wamo's shoulders twitched, and Kilo's lips pursed in surprise.
"'Aljen the merchant?'" they blurted out in unison.
"Surprise? Me too," Damaso huffed, his voice dripping with mockery. "To think this man has been lurking in our streets freely, taking advantage of the instability here. What a stupid, arrogant man."
"That man, huh..." Kilo rubbed his beard, staring at the photo.
"This revelation changes everything," Wamo added. "To think we've been working near him all this time."
Damaso stood tall, the golden leaves on his collar shimmering. "Calm yourselves. This is an interesting feast, but the plan is not a simple task. We act according to our Lord's wishes. Gather every piece of evidence of his crimes. Bring them all to me ASAP. We shall not fail like the others, brothers."
He raised his hand in a ritualistic gesture. "May the Grandlord of the Ratican Empire guide us with grace."
"May the Grandlord of the Ratican Empire guide us," Wamo and Kilo echoed. "May the spirit of the root of the Evil God be with us."
While the Wise Masters plotted within the Temple, the mundane facade of the village continued to crumble from within.
In the district housing the village hall—the administrative heart of Neue Fiona—the heavy back door creaked open. Ilona, the head receptionist and one of Chief Zamor's most trusted confidantes, stepped out into the damp alleyway. She leaned her back against the cold stone wall, exhaling a breath that chilled in the air.
A shadow shifted. A man dressed in seamless black garments emerged, his presence so thin it was almost nonexistent. A mask obscured his face, leaving only a pair of sharp, predatory eyes visible. He leaned against the same wall, keeping his gaze fixed on the opposite alley.
"What is the password?" the man asked, his voice a low vibration.
"Viva el Verdugo," Ilona croaked, her usual professional warmth replaced by a rasping coldness.
The man did not speak again. Instead, his form shimmered and collapsed, his very essence folding into a piece of parchment that floated gracefully toward her. As her fingers brushed the paper, a shimmering, soundproof barrier erupted around her, isolating the two of them in a bubble of absolute silence.
The Order of the Underboss
"Ilona, you've got a mission," the letter spoke, the voice echoing within her mind with a strange, ethereal resonance.
"What is it?" Ilona asked, her eyes narrowing.
"The long-term plan is gradually approaching commencement. Soon, this entire place will burn, only to be renewed under new management," the voice declared. "However, there is one obstacle we must wipe out. The boss wants you to eliminate the threat—a small fry, yet too dangerous to leave alive. His name is Hermes Archnemesis."
Ilona's grip on the paper tightened.
"Failure is not an option. You must succeed in removing him at all costs. Dead or alive. P.S.: This message will self-destruct in ten seconds."
'I knew it,' Ilona thought, her mind flashing to the failed ambushes. 'To think that man escaped my men. Rag and the others are disappointing rascals.'
"To think my cover ends this month," Ilona stated aloud to the letter. "I'm not surprised. This village is getting too much attention, and the people are actually starting to like him. We must strike before it's too late."
Her face, usually the picture of administrative efficiency, twisted into a terrifying, dark smile.
"By the way, before you disappear, informant... will the plan truly succeed this time?"
"Yes," the letter answered, its paper surface glowing with a faint, otherworldly light. "The boss's plan is guaranteed."
"Five years," Ilona simpered. "Five years of playing the humble receptionist. Finally, it stops."
"Remember, Ilona," the voice reminded her, sounding less like a person and more like a lingering presence. "Everything is planned ahead of time. All you must do is remove the parasite."
Ilona closed her eyes, tossing the parchment into the air. "Hermes Archnemesis himself isn't the true threat. It's his shadow. The Consigliere is with him. If we want to move the tree, we must cut the root."
"I see. I shall return to my master now. Do not disappoint the Underboss. You are authorized to use any method. Farewell," the letter assured as it began to melt away like a piece of ice under a hot sun, vanishing into the ether.
The Watcher and the Target
High above the riverbank, perched upon a jagged limestone outcropping, stood the Lady in the Blue Cloak. She watched the scene below with an unnerving, clinical detachment.
She looked toward the village hall, then back to the river where Hermes was running for his life. A small, enigmatic smile played on her hidden lips. She knew the nature of the "Informant" that had just visited Ilona—a high spirit bound to a powerful master—but she kept her silence, her azure cloak snapping in the wind.
"Perge fingere, Parve Domine," she whispered into the gale.
Continue to mold, Little Don.
The Riverside Duel
Below the cliff, the silence was shattered by a roar of magical fire.
Hermes Archnemesis—still masked as Aljen—sprinted toward the banks of the Scily River. He had been running nonstop since crossing paths with Arak the Great Tamer. Following his earlier defeat, the youngest of the Wise Masters had descended into a jagged, hyper-focused mania.
"Stay where you are, Hermes! [Fiere!]" Arak ranted, his voice breaking with rage. He lunged forward, tracing a burning sigil in the air.
A streak of white-hot violet flame tore through the air, vaporizing the ground just inches from Hermes' feet.
"No fuckin' way!" Hermes argued, skidding on the mud. He clutched the Demon Box to his chest. Below him was the churning torrent of the river—his only hope for escape.