Chapter 18: Myth and Mystery
The weather changed suddenly, it started raining, tho rain were if not time or season but of someone's doing..
The flickering light of the colossal projector bathed the Lower World district in pale gold, casting long, dancing shadows over the mosaic-stone courtyard. Amid the crowd gathered before the screen, the most dignified figures sat in an elevated arc — their presence impossible to overlook.
Clad in flowing white robes embedded with golden chestplates and shoulder armor, their heads bore radiant gold crowns embedded into their very skulls — not worn, but grown into them like living symbols. They were known among mortals as Demi-Gods, though none among them had ever seen a true god. Their blood sang with legend, and their name echoed the ancient thunder — Zeus.
Yet the true Zeus — the one beyond story, beyond fiction — remained unseen, unknowable. Even to them.
Still, they watched the screen.
The match displayed was painfully unremarkable. Two mortal combatants locked in a clumsy exchange of half-learned techniques. No rhythm. No power. No will. The supposed entertainment was an insult to their time.
One among them, a younger man with slick white hair and a freshly-bonded crown, leaned forward in irritation. His armor glinted each time the screen flashed.
"Is this truly the height of mortal performance?" he asked, scoffing. "A child's tantrum in a ring of stone would bring more thrill."
Another beside him, a woman whose eyes reflected polished obsidian, did not speak. She gently traced the hem of her robe with disinterest. Behind her, two more were already murmuring about other affairs entirely — temple designs, politics, inheritance law.
Further forward sat the most imposing of the group — Castor, whose presence bent the air around him into silence. The man was still, eyes locked on the screen, his breath slow and unreadable.
From the younger man came another jab, louder this time. "My lord Castor, surely even you must find this display beneath contempt. These mortals pretend at war and call it sport."
He gave a short chuckle. "It's pitiful."
Castor said nothing.
Instead, his fingers stilled. His head tilted slightly. Then, he breathed a single word:
"Silence."
The moment the word left his lips, the courtyard shifted.
The younger man blinked — and the world was gone.
Only void remained. A black vacuum of pure absence. No sound. No time. No sense.
He collapsed. Not from force, but from the terror within. The weight of judgment crushed the air from his lungs. His body convulsed. White wings — previously invisible — unfurled from his back, folding downward until they covered his head, which pressed against the ground.
It was the Gesture of Absolute Plea, a sacred posture in their lineage, reserved only for the deepest remorse and surrender.
A moment passed. Then another. Slowly, reality returned — light, sound, air.
Castor's voice, calm as wind and cold as a blade, followed.
"Rise, Lycus."
The young man lifted his head only partway, not daring to meet Castor's eyes.
"Do not insult effort you cannot surpass. Every hand raised in battle, no matter how pitiful, carries weight — a will, a pain, a past. If you cannot meet it, do not mock it."
A hush fell across the entire group.
"Is this how you aim to rise?" Castor asked, standing now, his robes settling like a whisper. "With pride unearned? With words sharper than your deeds? Do you think the First Division would tolerate such weakness of spirit? Do you seek the Supreme Commander's disappointment?"
His gaze swept over the seated figures — each one rigid, disciplined, quiet.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then, one voice. Unified:
"No, sir."
Castor nodded and returned to his seat. They faced the projector again — subdued, humbled. The match continued, uneventful as ever, but their silence now held a different weight.
From the corner of his vision, Castor noted a figure approaching from the crowd's edge. His gaze barely shifted — a habit of his station. But he had seen enough.
"It seems the Commander of the Supreme Order has arrived," came a soft voice from behind him — gentle, feminine, unseen.
Castor didn't turn.
"His son is participating," he replied flatly. "It is natural that he watches."
A faint chuckle followed. "Unlikely."
"Enough," Castor said. "Deliver your message."
There was no reply. Only a folded letter descending slowly through the air, sealed with a rose-shaped love crest.
Castor extended one hand, catching the letter as if it had always belonged there. The shimmer behind him — the presence of the voice — faded into nothing.
He stared at the seal. His fingers traced the edge once, and his eyes narrowed slightly — not with anger, nor concern, but something colder.
Memory. Calculation.
Something had shifted.
The crowd around them laughed at a fumbled move on the screen.
But Castor no longer watched the match.
---
In the heart of a rain-slicked street in modern Japan, neon signs shimmered like bleeding light through glass, their reflections painting the wet pavement in vibrant trails. Inside a quiet café tucked between the noise, the scent of freshly ground beans mingled with the low murmur of chatter and soft jazz. Girls in matching aprons floated from table to table, offering practiced smiles as they served.
At a corner table, nearly swallowed by shadows, sat two figures. One wore a black cloak draped over his frame, hood up, face unseen. Beside him, a man in a sharp black suit and white gloves sat with impeccable posture. Though his face remained obscured, his very presence drew lingering stares from the waitresses and several curious onlookers. His aura—calm, enigmatic, effortlessly magnetic—radiated in a way that pulled attention like gravity.
The café owner, a thick-armed man with kind eyes named Kenji, approached with a rag over his shoulder, offering a smile laced with familiarity. "You're quite popular with the ladies again tonight, Mr. Kageyama."
A low chuckle, smooth and controlled, escaped the suited man. "You think too highly of me, Kenji. I'm merely a simple man."
Kenji laughed, wiping the table. "As long as you keep showing up, I'm not complaining. You're good for business—especially with the ladies."
Just then, a young voice called out from the back. A boy stepped out from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, his features clearly resembling the owner.
"You done back there?" Kenji asked, tossing him a towel.
"Yeah," the boy replied, then turned to Mr. Kageyama. "Don't let my dad bug you. He likes teasing people."
Mr. Kageyama's tone remained light. "He's an old friend. It's not a bother."
The boy's gaze shifted to the cloaked figure beside him. "Oh, you brought someone this time?"
"A business partner," Kageyama answered without hesitation. "Just giving him some guidance."
The boy nodded, and Kenji gave his son a playful pat. "Alright, back to the kitchen before you embarrass yourself. You're not charming anyone hanging around this guy."
Kageyama chuckled once more. "You're being too harsh."
"I know, I know," Kenji sighed. "He's just a little stubborn sometimes. So, what will you both be having?"
"Coffee milk. Extra sugar," Kageyama said.
Kenji raised a brow toward the silent cloak-wearer. "And for him?"
Kageyama answered for him. "He'll have the same."
"Alright. One moment," Kenji said, stepping away toward the counter.
A few minutes passed in silence, filled only by the muffled sounds of clinking mugs and laughter drifting in from outside. Then—
"Boss—" the cloaked man began, voice barely above a whisper.
But Kageyama interrupted, eyes fixed on the glowing city beyond the café window. "Look at them," he said softly, watching the passersby laugh beneath their umbrellas, bathed in the city's warm illusion. "They think this is paradise. A world of joy, smiles, and peace."
His voice dropped, not angry, but thoughtful. "But that's not the truth of this world. What they see is just a reflection—an echo of something far older, deeper. I want to reveal the truth… show them what this world really is. Where they come from. What they are."
He turned his head slightly. "Is that what you want as well?"
The cloaked man nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Are the others in position?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now… report."
The cloaked man straightened. "There's a tournament being held at the HCD now. High-ranking figures are present—some of the top divisions. It's drawing enough attention that we'll remain unnoticed."
He paused, hesitating.
"What else?" Kageyama asked, tone mild, but unmistakably firm.
"There's something strange… sir. For a brief moment, I sensed something. A disruption. A kind of… glitch, among the attendees. More than one."
Kageyama's eyes narrowed faintly. "Glitches?"
"Yes, sir. Like... something that doesn't belong. That wasn't supposed to be part of this layer."
A small smile played at the corner of Kageyama's lips. "Interesting."
Just then, a girl approached, cheeks flushed, holding two mugs.
"Here you go," she said, setting the drinks down with trembling hands. "The chef added extra sugar…"
"Thank you," Kageyama replied, his voice smooth as velvet.
She blushed crimson, bowing quickly before darting away, almost tripping over her own feet.
Kageyama took a sip, then leaned back. "Delicious. They've outdone themselves."
From nearby, Kenji called out, "You like it?"
"I do," Kageyama replied. "Truly excellent."
Kenji grinned. "Then it's on the house."
Before Kageyama could protest, Kenji was already gone. He sighed, letting it go.
"Drink," he said, nodding to his companion. "It's good."
The cloaked man raised the mug to his lips.
"So," Kageyama said suddenly, tone unchanged, eyes still on the street, "how would you like to be punished?"
The mug stopped midair.
Silence.
The cloaked man's hand trembled violently. The coffee sloshed against the rim. Blood began to drip from his nose, then his ears. His breathing turned ragged. The mug clinked against the saucer as he tried to steady it, eyes wide with pure terror.
Outside, in a narrow alley across the street, hidden beside a dumpster, another cloaked figure collapsed to his knees. Blood burst from his mouth and streamed down his face, ears gushing crimson. He clutched at his chest, convulsing, as the same voice echoed through the small earpiece buried deep in his hood.
The café remained quiet. Mr. Kageyama sat still, serene, sipping his coffee milk as if nothing had happened.
His eyes never left the glass.
---
To be continued
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