CHAPTER 12
It was the night of the Blood Moon.
A night where chaos did not arrive in turns, but all at once.
The ritual unfolding at the abandoned home deep within the woods.
The quiet, devastating end of the twelve at the foster home.
And a confrontation in a city park—between two figures bound by a familiarity neither could deny.
It felt as though the night itself was conspiring against them, casting each into their own private ordeal.
The night was still young, yet the Blood Moon had already vanished from sight, swallowed whole by thick, murky clouds that stretched endlessly across the sky. Thunder rolled with a violence strong enough to rattle windows and make the earth shudder beneath one's feet. Lightning split the heavens in blinding flashes, illuminating the city in brief, jagged glimpses before plunging it back into darkness.
A storm is brewing, those still caught outside thought, quickening their pace as they hurried toward the safety of their homes—unaware that the storm above was only a fraction of what had already begun.
[AT THE PARK — WHERE REAGAN STOOD]
As tragedy claimed its victims elsewhere, and forbidden forces stirred within the woods, another thread of fate tightened its grip—quietly, deliberately.
An encounter long overdue.
The scene shifted.
They stood several meters apart, facing one another beneath the writhing silhouettes of trees. For a brief moment, neither spoke. Thunder raged overhead, lightning flashed in violent succession, and the wind surged through the park as though the night itself were alive—commanding the branches to sway and bow in erratic motion.
Reagan's polished coat fluttered sharply against his legs, snapping in the wind. He stood unmoved.
His eyes were cold. Steady. Unwavering.
Locked onto the figure before him.
A dark mask carved into the image of a horned demon concealed her face. Twin horns curved upward in an unsettling silhouette. Strands of hair danced wildly around the mask, framing a lithe, feminine physique that moved with unnatural stillness. In her grasp rested a decorated katana, held with a familiarity that spoke of long use. An eerie presence clung to her—heavy, suffocating.
Every detail whispered familiarity.
Reagan had always known this moment would come.
He simply hadn't expected it to arrive so soon.
"So," he said at last, his voice calm and measured, "why the mask?"
The wind answered before she did.
"You're a woman of exceptional beauty," he continued, tone almost conversational, "and yet you choose to hide behind something so… repulsive. Why is that?"
Silence.
The figure did not move. Did not respond.
Reagan exhaled softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in faint amusement.
"I knew you'd come eventually. It was only a matter of time." His gaze sharpened slightly. "It's nice to meet you again… Ms. Octavia Hall."
A pause.
"That is," he added, "if that's even your real name."
Something shifted within him.
The composed, charming gentleman—the one who spoke with careful words and polite restraint—fell away like a discarded mask of his own. In its place emerged something darker. Twisted. Unhinged.
Reagan lifted his left hand and slowly ran it back through his hair. When he smiled, it was sharp and predatory—a grin that carried no warmth, only the satisfaction of a hunter finally standing before his prey.
It was the smile of a man who had found what he had been searching for all these years.
Reagan and the masked woman stood locked in opposition, both fully aware that this encounter was long overdue. Each carried secrets buried deep beneath layers of deception—yet neither was ignorant of the other's true nature. That mutual knowledge was what made this confrontation inevitable.
A slow, unsettling laugh escaped Reagan as he lifted a hand and ran it back through his hair, the sound echoing strangely beneath the storm.
"We searched every nook and cranny of this godforsaken city," he said, voice laced with dark amusement. "Every alley, every shadow… just to kill you."
His laughter grew more erratic, bordering on madness.
"And yet," he continued, "you slipped through our fingers every single time."
He took a step forward, boots crunching softly against the gravel path.
"But to think you'd been hiding all along," he said, his voice dropping, shedding its theatrical edge, "quietly tucked away inside an unregistered foster care… somewhere in this city."
The wind howled between them.
"That," he added coldly, "just proves how deeply infested this government really is."
His eyes narrowed.
"So many of your kind hiding behind titles and paperwork… all of you needing to be weeded out."
A brief pause.
"Starting with the leader of the Foundation Alliance."
He waited.
Thunder rolled overhead.
Still, she did not respond.
The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, making it feel as though Reagan were speaking into the void. His amusement faltered, irritation creeping into his expression.
"What's wrong?" he asked, voice sharpening. "Cat got your tongue?"
His tone darkened further.
"Do you honestly think you still have any reason to keep up this farce?" He scoffed.
"Did you really believe you could hide from us forever?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming.
"Or do you think that mask is enough to protect whatever remains of your shattered identity?"
A pause.
"No," he said flatly. "I don't think so."
A mocking smile tugged at his lips.
"Just look at you," he added. "You can barely restrain your presence anymore."
At last, she moved.
With a calm, deliberate motion, the masked woman reached up and removed the horned visage from her face.
The wind itself seemed to still.
Her hair settled around her shoulders as the storm momentarily eased, revealing her fully beneath the flickering light of distant lightning.
Ms. Evelyn.
—or rather, the woman once known to him as Octavia Hall.
She was breathtaking—beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal. A goddess sculpted from elegance and ruin. But there was nothing warm in her gaze. Her eyes were sharp, cold, piercing—capable of killing without a single blade drawn.
Her presence was suffocating.
Death, given form.
Reagan's lips parted in something close to delight.
"Yes…" he breathed. "Yes, those eyes."
He laughed—loud, unrestrained, unhinged.
"Those cold, dead eyes," he continued, voice trembling with excitement. "That's the look of someone who truly wants me dead."
His laughter cut off abruptly.
His tone dropped.
"And believe me when I say this," he said quietly, "I share that sentiment."
He straightened slightly, posture shifting—less theatrical now, more deliberate.
"You see, your existence has disrupted the balance of power in this country," he explained. "And we are simply doing everything in our power to correct that flaw."
A faint, unsettling smile returned to his face.
"Really," he added, "it isn't anything personal."
The Reagan who once carried himself with charm and restraint was gone. In his place stood a man unraveling—talkative, rambling, seemingly speaking to himself beneath the storm.
But it was an act.
Every word, every laugh, every pause was calculated.
He had anticipated this confrontation long before tonight. And when he realized who would come for him, he wasted no time. Signals had already been sent. Orders already issued.
His allies—the most elite fighters—were mobilizing as they spoke.
At last, Ms. Evelyn spoke.
Her voice cut through the storm with quiet authority—calm, precise, unmistakably lethal.
"Reagan Armai," she said. "Also known as the Kraken of Zall."
The name seemed to settle heavily in the air between them.
"A mole embedded within the Investigations Department," she continued, her gaze unwavering. "A loyal, high-ranking member of the Mercenaries of the Iron Altar."
Reagan's lips curved upward, not in surprise—but in satisfaction.
"I'm quite honored," he replied smoothly, a hand resting over his chest in mock humility. "You know so much about me. Perhaps even more than I know about myself."
A soft chuckle escaped him.
He lifted his head slightly, eyes gleaming.
"A loyal member?" he echoed. "Yes—though not one of the core pillars. I'm sure you're well aware of who they are."
His tone shifted, admiration laced with something darker.
"The fact that they acknowledge you as a genuine threat speaks volumes about your power. Enough that they've given you a title."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
The Second Disaster.
"The Beast of Iron."
A grin spread across his face.
"The strongest individual within your Order," he went on, "The Order of Exodus."
Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the intensity in his eyes.
"When we spoke in your office," Reagan continued, voice smooth and deliberate, "I mentioned that a disaster doesn't always have to be an earthquake."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Sometimes… a disaster is a person."
A low chuckle followed.
"And there's a reason you're called the second disaster—not the first."
His grin widened.
"That's because he exists."
He leaned in just a fraction.
"I'm sure you already know exactly who I'm referring to."
The wind surged again, rattling the trees.
"The Mercenaries of the Iron Altar," Reagan added casually, "are always one step ahead."
He straightened, his tone turning almost conversational—too casual, given what he was about to confess.
"Let me tell you a little secret."
His eyes locked onto hers.
"The one who killed Dr. Richard Hemsworth…"
A brief pause.
"…was me."
The silence that followed felt deliberate.
"Ironic, isn't it?" Reagan continued, amusement flickering across his face.
"Working as an investigator on a murder case—when I was the one assigned to carry out the execution."
He exhaled slowly.
"The Mercenaries had been tracking him for a long time. Once we discovered his ties to the Order, his fate was sealed."
His voice hardened.
"There's a doctrine every member of the Iron Altar must obey."
He spoke it without hesitation. Without remorse.
"The complete annihilation of the Order."
"There's a colleague of mine at the Investigations Department," Reagan continued, his voice dripping with amusement. "Goes by the name Silvers. Quite famous in the detective world."
He scoffed softly.
"The case of Dr. Richard nearly broke him. Watching him exhaust himself—chasing shadows—was hilarious."
A crooked smile spread across his face.
"The culprit he'd been searching for all along was standing right beside him, and he couldn't even see it."
A sharp, mocking laugh escaped him.
"The explosion," Ms. Evelyn said suddenly, her voice cutting through his laughter.
Her eyes hardened, something dangerous stirring beneath their surface.
"The explosion at Dr. Richard's residence… that was you. Wasn't it?"
Reagan's grin widened.
"Oh…" he said, impressed. "How perceptive."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You're much sharper than I gave you credit for."
He exhaled slowly.
"I didn't want Detective Silvers interfering with our plans, so I decided to remove him from the equation. That explosion was meant to kill him."
A pause.
"But for some reason… he survived."
Reagan clicked his tongue, annoyed but amused.
"I let him live after that—especially when he told me he didn't believe the Mafia was behind Dr. Richard's death."
His eyes darkened.
"Which brings me to you."
Reagan straightened, his tone turning accusatory.
"You publicly insinuated that the Mafia was responsible for the political assassinations plaguing this country."
A cold smile followed.
"But you and I both know that was a lie."
"We would never harm our own comrades."
His voice dropped.
"The one truly responsible for those assassinations… was you."
The wind surged violently between them, kicking dust and debris into the air.
"As you're painfully aware," Reagan continued, unwavering, "Dr. Richard Hemsworth—a member of your Order—is dead."
He pointed at her.
"And you're next."
The wind died down.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Earlier," Ms. Evelyn said calmly, her composure unshaken, "you claimed that the Mercenaries of the Iron Altar are always one step ahead."
She met his gaze.
"But that's where you're wrong."
Reagan frowned.
"What are you blabbering on about?" he snapped, confusion seeping into his voice.
Ms. Evelyn took a slow breath.
"Have you ever stopped to think," she asked evenly, "about who the anonymous caller was?"
Reagan stiffened.
"What are you saying?" he demanded, his confidence beginning to fracture.
She continued, unhurried.
"…Or the anonymous individual who sent you that still image of the six suspects."
A faint pause.
"I'm sure it must have bothered you."
She began walking toward him.
One step.
Then another.
Each step slow. Deliberate. Menacing.
For the first time since the confrontation began, Reagan Armai looked rattled.
Then she began to unsheathe her katana—slowly.
Steel whispered against the scabbard.
The wind answered, rising as though summoned by the blade itself.
"…But you couldn't care less about their identities," she said calmly,
"as long as you had six convenient suspects to serve as scapegoats for your scheming."
Reagan took an involuntary step back.
Then another.
It was too soon.
Too soon.
He had planned to stretch the conversation longer—just enough time.
She kept walking.
"I was the one who made the anonymous call to the police," she continued, her voice eerily even, "long before the murder ever took place."
With every step, the air grew heavier.
"You— you're lying," Reagan said, his voice betraying him.
She smiled faintly.
"You still don't understand, Mr. Reagan Armai," she said.
"Everything has been by design."
The blade slid free at last.
Strange sigils ran along its length, glowing faintly gold, alive—as if breathing. A golden tassel swayed gently from the hilt, untouched by the wind.
"You are merely a cog," she went on, "in a system we built."
She stopped.
Then, without looking at him—
"Look up at the sky."
Reagan hesitated… then did as she said.
Above them, dark clouds twisted violently, thunder tearing through the heavens as lightning fractured the night again and again—too frequent, too deliberate.
"It's already happening," she said, eyes still fixed upward.
"What— what do you mean it's already happening?" Reagan asked, panic seeping into his voice.
"This country will fall," she replied.
"And so will every other nation."
Her gaze lowered to him.
"A catalyst was needed. Dr. Richard chose to sacrifice himself to further that cause."
A pause.
"Leave it to a member of the Iron Altar to carry out such a task flawlessly."
Reagan's hands trembled.
"You… you used us," he spat.
"That realization came rather late," she said coolly.
"Don't you think?"
She resumed her approach—right arm extended outward, blade angled low, her other hand holding the horned mask loosely at her side.
Then—
She released it.
Her bloodlust exploded outward like a pressure wave.
Glass windows shattered in rapid succession—pop, crack, cascade—as if the city itself were recoiling. Vehicles shook violently, windshields bursting apart as alarms screamed into the night.
Reagan staggered.
Breathing became difficult.
"I pity you," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly through the chaos.
"You'll die here without a single soul ever knowing what you've learned."
She kept closing the distance.
"I know you were stalling," she added.
"Hoping your reinforcements would arrive while you distracted me with words."
A pause.
"But since I'm feeling generous…"
She lifted the mask.
"…I'll spare them the trouble of coming all this way."
"To meet a corpse."
The mask slid back into place.
And she moved.
She charged—
In that instant, time fractured through Reagan's perception—stretching, slowing, bending entirely to his awareness.
He recognized the technique before her form fully blurred.
The Double Step.
The first step had already been executed.
The second—the final step—was being initiated.
Once her foot touched the ground, the strike would be unavoidable.
Reagan reacted immediately.
He took a decisive step backward the moment he realized what she was doing, but he knew it wouldn't be enough. The distance he needed required more time than the technique allowed.
She had moved first.
She had the advantage.
His focus snapped to her blade.
His neck.
The angle was perfect.
A single clean motion.
Decapitation.
There was no opportunity to evade fully—only to distort the outcome.
So Reagan made a split-second decision.
As he stepped back, he forced his head sharply backward, synchronizing the motion with his retreat, creating a sliver of distance where none should have existed. It was reckless. A gamble driven by instinct rather than calculation.
Time surged forward.
Her second step landed.
For a brief, fatal moment, she believed the kill was assured.
The blade swept through—
Missing his throat by the width of a hair.
The gamble paid off.
But not without consequence.