Deep within a hidden bunker in the Fifth District, the air was thick with the smell of expensive tobacco and old stone. The heavy oak doors to the Underboss's office creaked open, and four armored men marched in, dragging a limp, bloodied figure across the rug. They dropped the captive at the feet of their leader with a heavy thud.
The man behind the desk stood up. Mattheus Dante, the Underboss of the Verdugo family, was a man of lethal elegance. His sparse, lime-colored hair was combed back perfectly, framing a handsome face marked only by a small, singular mole beneath his left eye. He smoothed out his white suit, the small red silk rose on his lapel vivid against the fabric—a symbol of his rank as the clan's second-in-command.
"Well now," Mattheus purred, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. "What a magnificent gift you've brought me."
"We found him collapsing near the perimeter of the entrance gate, Sire," one of the guards reported, bowing low. "We brought him here for confirmation."
Mattheus stepped closer, using the toe of his polished shoe to lift the captive's chin. "It's him. The Archnemesis shadow. There isn't another mage with this kind of presence in their entire pathetic family. The lone servant guarding a dying flame." He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Good work. Whoever put the bounty on his head will be pleased, but I'm even more grateful to have him in my reach."
The guards saluted, their eyes gleaming with the pride of catching a legend.
"How the mighty have fallen," Mattheus mocked, suddenly driving a sharp kick into the butler's ribs. Justin's body remained limp, offering no groan of pain. "The Great Consigliere, isolated and covered in his own filth. Captured by common sentries. If the shepherd is in my cage, then the little lamb in the manor has no one left to protect him. Fate has finally tired of the Archnemesis name."
Mattheus peered closer, puzzled by the butler's lack of resistance. What kind of spell did the mercenaries hit him with? He's like a hollow shell. No matter—luck is on our side.
"Take him to the oubliette," Mattheus commanded, pointing his thumb toward the floor. "The lowest, darkest cell we have. I want him to wake up in a place where even God can't hear him."
As the guards dragged Justin away, Mattheus poured himself a glass of dark wine. "I wonder who's pulling the strings for us from the shadows," he caught himself whispering.
A soft flutter of paper interrupted his thoughts. A tiny, dark letter drifted through the open window, pulsing with a familiar, oppressive aura. Mattheus didn't flinch; he recognized the "Godly" mana attached to it.
Another prophecy from the Grand Lord.
He broke the seal, and as he read, his pupils dilated with a manic heat. He let out a booming laugh, shielding his eyes with one hand. "Wonderful! A masterpiece of a prophecy! Whoever is writing this script, I'll play my part to the bloody end. Glory to the Verdugo!" He drained his glass in a single, triumphant gulp.
Mattheus Dante believed Justin was broken by a spell, but the truth was far more calculated. Justin, the high-tier mage and master of barriers, hadn't been defeated—he had simulated a Mana-Shock.
Knowing that the Verdugo family was closing in, Justin had intentionally over-extended his own mana circuitry, forcing his body into a "Stasis Sleep." To a mid-tier mage like Mattheus, it looked like a successful mental suppression spell. In reality, Justin's subconscious was acting as a Living Battery. The "blood" covering him wasn't his own; it was a medium used to store a massive amount of kinetic energy during his "capture." The moment Justin is brought to the lowest level of the base—the area with the highest concentration of underground mana—his body will automatically trigger a Mana Inversion. He didn't escape the spell; he became the spell, turning himself into a Trojan Horse that would allow him to bypass the Verdugo's external fortifications from the inside.
He isn't a prisoner; he's an assassin who just hitched a free ride into the heart of the enemy's base.
Four minutes later.Fourth District, Neue Fiona Village.
In the hushed, incense-heavy air of the Temple's headmaster office, the three Elders of the Second Root sat in a tight circle. Elder Wamo placed a heavy black briefcase on the desk, while Elder Kilo shifted a box filled with ancient, yellowed documents.
"Brother Damaso," Kilo said, sliding a pile of old newspapers across the mahogany. "I've finished the archives. These are the historical records of the Archnemesis family's 'sins'."
Damaso, the eldest, stroked his snow-white beard as he scanned the headlines. "Interesting. A history of blood and debt. This is more than enough evidence to paint Hermes as a monster in the eyes of the law."
"And these, Brother," Wamo interjected, opening the briefcase. Inside, a strange orange orb pulsed with a soft, mechanical hum.
"The [Sony II]?" Damaso gasped, his eyes widening. "An ancient scrying relic from the Ratican Empire. I thought the last one was destroyed a century ago."
"I secured it at a private auction in Romue last September," Wamo said proudly, rubbing his nose. "With this, we can project the 'evidence' of Hermes's cruelty to the entire village."
"But is it enough?" Kilo asked, his voice wavering. "He's still the Don. The villagers are terrified of him."
"That is exactly why it will work," Damaso assured him, his teeth baring in a cold grin. "The people loath him. They've suffered under the lack of order for a decade. Humans are irrational, Kilo. They don't need 'truth'; they need a target for their hatred. We give them these images of torture chambers and illegal potions from his Third District office, and their emotions will do the rest. False evidence looks very real when people want to believe the worst."
The younger elders clapped, awed by the simplicity of the slaughter.
"However," Wamo noted, tapping his chin. "Three things still bother me. Why is the Head of the Family personally in this village? Why is he playing 'friend' to the Chief? And what is his true purpose here? It's too... deliberate. I suspect there's a reason he's staying close to his people."
Damaso leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening. "I agree. There are gaps in our knowledge that need filling. But the Grand Lord's letter was explicit. We move now, or we miss the window. For now, we put the investigation on hiatus and prepare for the trial of the 'Evil Don'.
"But, Brother," Elder Wamo persisted, his voice tight with an anxiety he couldn't quite shake. "Do you think he actually knows? About us? About what's really happening in the shadows of this district?"
Elder Damaso let out a dry, condescending chuckle, the sound like dead leaves skittering across stone. "Wamo, your caution borders on paranoia. I know you like to look under every rock, but don't let a child's shadow disturb your sleep. There is no way a boy like Hermes Archnemesis—a magicless, pampered brat—could even begin to comprehend the complexity of our work."
"Even a rat can kill a lion if it's cunning enough, Brother," Wamo countered, leaning over the desk. "He has the Archnemesis name. He has resources. What if he's dismantling us from behind while we laugh at him?"
Damaso sighed, sliding a thin, official-looking document across the table. "A lion is a mountain; a rat is just a pest. Look at the psychological profile the Grand Lord provided. Hermes is apathetic. He cares for his own skin and his bank account, nothing more. He won't risk his neck for these peasants. The prophecy is clear: he is a man of inaction. You are worrying over a void."
Elders Wamo and Kilo leaned in, scanning the document. After a moment, they exchanged glances and nodded, the tension in their shoulders finally dissipating.
"I suppose you're right," Wamo admitted. "If the Grand Lord says he is indifferent, then he is no threat."
Elder Kilo started to rub his white beard, but suddenly his hand froze. His eyes turned blank, his pupils dilating as he stared toward the eastern horizon. A visible shudder racked his thin frame.
"Kilo? What is it?" Wamo asked, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his concealed dagger.
"I... I hope I'm wrong," Kilo whispered, his voice trembling. "Call it a senile delusion if you must, but I just felt it. The resonance of the Great Spirits. A power so ancient it makes the air itself feel heavy."
The room went deathly silent. Damaso and Wamo both gasped, the color draining from their faces.
"The Great Spirits?" Damaso hissed, his lip curling in a mix of fear and disbelief. "Are you losing your mind? They haven't walked this plane in centuries!"
"I am telling you what I felt, Brother," Kilo insisted, though he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "But... wait. It's gone. Two massive auras, appearing for a heartbeat and then vanishing into nothingness. I don't think they are coming for us. They felt... preoccupied."
Damaso placed a trembling hand over his heart, taking a deep, shaky breath. "Right. Of course. We are on holy ground. Perhaps the Grand Lord sent his own familiars to act as spectators for the coming glory. We are the architects of the Emperor's return; we have nothing to fear from the spirits of the old world."
"Yes," the other two echoed, though their voices lacked conviction.
"For now, focus," Damaso commanded, his voice returning to its usual authoritative rasp. "The plan remains the same. First, we incite a mutiny within the village. Use the unrest as a smokescreen to sneak our elite troops into the key checkpoints. Second, we present the 'evidence' to the Village Chief. We show him these documents—the kidnapping records, the torture logs. We convince him that Hermes Archnemesis has been the predator in their midst for the last five years. When the Chief sends his own guards to arrest their master... that is when the Archnemesis legacy ends. Easy as crushing a dry leaf."
"And the rival clan?" Wamo reminded him, gesturing toward the eastern border. "The Verdugo family won't sit idly by while we take the Fourth District."
"The Verdugo?" Damaso laughed openly now. "They are pawns. Useful idiots. Both the villagers and that crime family are merely the 'ingredients' for the ritual. Let them fight; their blood all flows the same way."
"Humans are such beautifully stupid creatures," Kilo added with a thin, cruel smile. "Weak-minded, undisciplined, and so easily led by their own shadows. I cannot wait to see our Supreme Being rise and burn away these heretics."
"They pray to a God they claim made them in His image," Wamo jeered, clutching his stomach. "What a pathetic, biased delusion. They are fragile, mortal, and utterly blind."
Damaso's expression suddenly soured. "Speaking of subordinates... I've lost contact with Arak. I tried to reach him through the scrying orb, but the connection is dead. Our 'little brother' hasn't sent a single report since he entered the forest."
What has that troublesome boy done now? Kilo thought, though he kept his face neutral.
"Do you want me to check the cave?" Kilo offered. "I'm worried he's gotten himself into another 'incident'."
"Yes," Damaso said, standing up and walking to the window. "Wamo, give Kilo fifteen of your best men. I don't want him going alone if something has compromised Arak. Go, see what's happened, and return immediately. We are too close to the end to lose an Elder."
"Thank you, Brother," Kilo bowed deeply, his hand pressed to his chest.
Damaso turned his back to them, staring out at the village square below. He watched a group of children playing tag in the dirt, their laughter drifting up to his office. A cold, dark light flickered in his eyes.
'Hermes Archnemesis,' Damaso thought, his shadow stretching long across the floor. 'You won't live to see the sunrise. The Grand Lord has named you an obstacle, and for that, you will be torn apart by the very people you were born to lead. I wonder how you will look when your own race turns on you... when they realize their 'Don' was the monster in their nightmares all along.'
He closed his eyes and let out a long, haunting laugh that filled the empty room.
Meanwhile, at the Border of the Fifth District.
A piercing, high-pitched siren tore through the night, shattering the silence of the Verdugo territory. Residents scrambled, but the movement was most disciplined at the central barracks.
Hundreds of men poured into the courtyard, all wearing identical black tactical suits. On their shoulders was the crimson emblem of the Verdugo: a blood-red skull mask set against two crossed black axes. They formed into perfect platoons, twenty-four men to a unit, standing in absolute silence.
The heavy atmosphere shifted as a man stepped onto the raised platform. His hair was cropped short and golden, and his eyes were those of a hawk—sharp, predatory, and devoid of mercy. His navy blue suit, pinned with the gold Verdugo insignia, marked him as a man of absolute authority.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said Patioche Woale, the Fifth Caporegime.
As he checked his silver watch, every man in the courtyard stood perfectly still, their chests out, waiting for the word that would start the war.
He stood on the makeshift stage, his hawk-like eyes scanning the sea of black-suited soldiers. The silence in the courtyard was so heavy it felt like the air before a lightning strike.
"At ease, men," Patioche began, his voice amplified by a small mana-stone at his throat. "I'm not here to punish the fools among you who tried to skirt the divine laws of our Mistress. I haven't come to scold you for minor infractions." He paused, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "I've come to deliver an urgent notice from our beloved Underboss, Matheus Dante."
A ripple of hushed gasps traveled through the ranks. The name of the Underboss carried a weight of both terror and reverence; his involvement meant only one thing—the Cold War was turning hot.
"Rejoice," Patioche continued, his voice rising with a dramatic flair. "The shepherd has been caged! The Consigliere of the Archnemesis—the very man who has kept that pathetic family breathing for years—was captured by our elites today. He lies in our dungeon as we speak, broken and forgotten."
The soldiers erupted into a low roar of approval. In the underworld of Scily Island, Justin was a legend, a wall that no one had been able to scale. Knowing he was down was like hearing the enemy's main fortress had crumbled.
"Do you know what this means?" Patioche shouted over the noise, his eyes gleaming. "The era of the 'Major-Minor' split is over! The 'Bandit Time' where the Archnemesis dared to defy our borders is at an end. The unification of the East and West is no longer a dream—it is a mandate! Raise your banners! Start the engines! Check your magazines and sharpen your blades! Tonight, we don't just patrol... tonight, we go to war!"
The speech acted like a spark in a powder keg. The morale of the men skyrocketed, the mechanical hum of transport trucks beginning to vibrate through the pavement as drivers scrambled to their vehicles.
Patioche snapped his arm upward in a stiff, formal salutation. "For the glory of the Verdugo! Long live the bloodline! All hail, Lady Veronica!"
The courtyard became a single, thunderous voice. Hundreds of men raised their fists in unison, their faces flushed with a fanatical, cult-like delight.
"All hail, Lady Veronica!" they screamed.
"All hail, Lady Veronica!"
"All hail, Lady Veronica!"
The name of their Supreme Leader echoed off the concrete walls, carried by the wind toward the borders of the Fourth District. The gears of the Verdugo war machine were finally turning, and they were pointed directly at the heart of the Archnemesis territory.