Chapter 8: Rain, Rumors, and the Accidental Body Count
It was raining again.
Lucas stepped off the stage with a satisfied sigh, his heart still thudding from the energy of the performance. The applause had faded. The lights had dimmed. But his mind was still swirling in the echo of drama, monologue, and that strange emotional high you get from pretending to be someone else.
He glanced around.
"Sebastian?" he called softly, expecting to see his usual ever-dramatic manager waiting in the wings with an umbrella and a monologue of his own.
Silence.
Not even a dramatic gust of wind to answer him.
Shrugging, Lucas tightened his scarf and stepped out into the cold night air, rain instantly peppering his hair like shy applause.
---
In the Shadows – Three Assassins and a Legend
Across the street, three cloaked figures lurked in the darkness beneath an old bus stop, watching the theater exit like hawks with indigestion.
"There. That's him," one hissed, lifting his binoculars. "Mr. Nobody. The Ghost King. The Whisper Executioner."
The second assassin flinched. "Don't say the name! He'll hear it!"
The third, older and clearly the most deranged of the trio, nodded solemnly. "You think he's weaker now, out of retirement? Ha. I heard—swear to the gods—that he once cleared an entire crime den... just for a sip of water."
The second gulped. "I heard he paralyzed a cartel leader by blinking at him."
"That's nothing," said the first. "He made a guy forget how to breathe just by asking him 'What time is it?'"
The three fell into a moment of horrified silence. The rain got louder. Or maybe their anxiety just made everything louder.
That's when it hit them.
That pressure.
That unseen force.
The feeling of their lungs clenching, their thoughts fraying, and their legs—trembling.
Lucas's Trait had taken effect.
Voluntary or not, the combination of heightened fear, reverence, and imagination triggered the subtle power of perception-bending.
To Lucas, he was just humming a line from his next play.
To them?
It was a declaration of divine judgment.
One assassin began foaming at the mouth. Another collapsed, convulsing.
The third, the oldest, the maddest—began laughing in hysterics. "He's gifting us an honorable death! I'll strike first, brothers! Watch meeee!"
With that, he launched himself from the shadows, dagger drawn, a manic war cry echoing through the rain…
Only to step on a wet flyer.
Slip.
And CRACK!
His skull connected with the curb like a dropped watermelon.
Dead.
Lucas blinked.
"Woah. That guy's drunk out of his mind," he muttered, stepping around the body. "This neighborhood's getting weirder."
The last conscious assassin watched in horror. Mr. Nobody hadn't even looked at the attacker. Hadn't dodged. Hadn't raised a finger.
He killed him… with sheer aura alone.
The surviving assassin backed away, soaked in rain, terror seeping into his bones.
Then Lucas muttered something, absently practicing for tomorrow's performance.
> "Even the lambs who try to escape… will find the forest holds sharper teeth."
The assassin fainted on the spot, eyes rolling back like a flipped coin.
Lucas stopped mid-step and looked down.
"Geez. Two drunk guys and a napper," he mumbled. "Is this some kind of protest?"
---
Meanwhile, in the Underworld – Director on the Verge
Inside the secure war room of the Underworld's Eastern Division, the Director was furiously throwing darts at a board labeled "Who Provoked Mr. Nobody?"
The phone call had just ended. The report had come in.
> Mr. Nobody eliminated three highly-trained assassins with no weapons, no magic, no contact.
> He simply… walked.
One of his aides timidly raised a hand. "Sir… what if it wasn't really Mr. Nobody? Maybe it was just—"
"Silence!" roared the Director, veins popping from his forehead like enraged noodles. "You think you can mistake the Whisper Executioner?!"
Another aide whispered, "He didn't even say a single command."
"No. He didn't need to. That's the worst part. He killed… by implication."
The Director turned toward the city map, dramatic spotlight above him, and muttered:
> "He's back. Even retirement couldn't contain the storm."
---
Back at the Dorm – Lucas, Mildly Confused
Lucas flopped onto his bed with a sigh, wiping his damp hair with a towel.
"I really should stop walking through sketchy areas at night," he muttered, tossing his wet coat to the floor.
His phone buzzed.
A text from Sebastian:
"I cleaned up the mess. We'll talk in the morning. DO NOT walk alone. No fans should see you right now."
Lucas blinked.
"…Fan meet-up?" he guessed, smiling. "Huh. Must be getting popular."
He didn't know the "fans" he passed tonight had swords.
Or that the underworld was now writing entire manuals on how not to anger him...
But our little actor of the century is just a clueless lamb in this den of wolves.
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