Chapter Sixty-Nine: Gathering of the Villains

Pale, long hair, jet-black eyes, and a mask that was neither a smile nor a tear. Though the changes to his outward appearance were not particularly obvious, the killer standing before him—concocted by the Guild of Darkness into something suspended ambiguously between human and demon—was now utterly unlike what he had once been.

Thus, the Apostle of the Dice House slowed his steps.

“Congratulations,” he said, pausing, the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile. His cerulean-green eyes brushed through the fog, clashing with those obsidian orbs, each reflecting the color of the other. “Welcome back to the mortal world, Mr. Jack.”

“Dice House,” the killer looked at the newcomer, lips curling slightly—a gesture that conveyed not the least warmth, but rather a chill that pierced to the bone. “Dick.”

“I’m delighted we have the opportunity to meet again, lord Killer of the Misty Night.” Seemingly oblivious to the oppressive atmosphere, the Apostle—who wore the form of a youth—offered a courteous bow. His gaze was tranquil, as if liquid could drip from his eyes. “I wonder—do you find your new body to your liking?”

“Are you sure you want to know the answer?” The question came suddenly, as did his departure. The piercing intent to kill, the malice as cold as an icy abyss, all the menace that hung between them vanished in a heartbeat.

“Of course.” The beautiful youth with golden hair and turquoise eyes responded unhurriedly.

Even as the killer’s figure faded into the mist.

Even as a lethal blade, emerging from the swirl, pressed against the youth’s throat.

He remained seemingly unaware, composed and calm, as serene as a devotee awaiting holy communion.

A trap?

At the very instant he launched his attack, the killer read the answer in the boy’s face.

But it was too late—

A killer has no path of retreat; once the blade is drawn, it cannot be sheathed. All that remains is to move—faster! Swifter! More ferocious! More lethal!

That is the killer’s creed.

No reasoning, only the use of brute force to crush all who dare obstruct his path.

However—

This path was blocked.

Someone—or perhaps something else—conversed with him through steel.

Blinding sparks lit the darkness. The man who had once borne the name Jack narrowed his eyes, and in their blackness was reflected an absolute void—no person, no weapon, only the invisible stood in his way.

No, it was not as simple as being formless.

Scent, sound—all things the five senses ought to perceive—were absent.

The only proof of its existence was the killer himself, and the curved blade in his hand.

It was not telekinesis.

Confronted by an unknown foe, the killer did not panic. Throughout the thirteen lives he had lived, countless unexpected events had taught him to remain calm under any circumstance.

But calm alone is not enough to seize victory—not by far.

More important than composure is ruthlessness.

In the thousandth of a second before his mind could fully process, his body made the choice. He did not hesitate or falter, but drew his second blade—

Dual-wielding.

Iron-cutting.

As if beneath the Milky Way, blades flashed like a waterfall.

Yet…the unknown force before the Apostle was as insurmountable as the Wall of Sighs in Hermetica.

The mist could not sense it; even the wind did not stir it. It was complete nonexistence.

What was it?

The killer arched an eyebrow, barely perceptible, then—headbutted!

If it were truly a wall, his skull would be cracked open.

But that was only if.

Though he could not determine what this nonexistence was, the killer was certain it was not a wall, at least not a uniform one. The distances between his two blades and the Apostle of the Dice House were not the same, and he could feel the reactive force against him shifting constantly.

Interesting.

The odds it was a living being were high.

For only living things are so fragile.

Instinct screamed as much, but the killer's head struck nothing.

Or did it?

Touch—no, perception itself was sealed.

Yet the innate enmity between chaos-demons and orderly beings told him that the invisible, inaudible, unscented, untouchable, unknowable thing before him was human.

“Splendid,” Dick of the Dice House applauded the brief clash that had just occurred, his voice exaggerated to the point of being almost grating. “Mr. Jack, it appears that after a hundred years’ slumber, your skills have not only failed to diminish, but have grown even more formidable and seasoned.”

He paused, his features as finely drawn as a painting, outlining a captivating smile. “Indeed…you remember the terms of our agreement—Number One.”

He pronounced the final title with deliberate clarity.

The answer was obvious, but the killer chose not to respond. Instead, using the force of his recent blow, he disrupted his adversary’s balance, creating a gap in their defenses. Then, heedless of anything else, he struck again and again, not caring for technique or propriety—just relentless slashing, wild as a steed, unfathomable as an antelope’s horns. In the blink of an eye, they had already exchanged nearly a hundred blows.

Though limited by his opponent’s capabilities—or something else—he could not sense the specifics of the one barring his way. But in this moment, the one who held the initiative was undoubtedly him. No, it was more than that; in the latest exchange, his advantage was overwhelming.

Victory was only a matter of time.

But the so-called matter of time is merely the victors’ composure.

“Enough. I have tested Mr. Jack’s abilities, and they are outstanding—truly outstanding.” Dick of the Dice House spoke in a steady, authoritative tone. “So this unnecessary probing can end now—yes, I said, end.”

The youth he had all but ignored now intervened at this critical moment.

And as though an unreasonable chess player had overturned the board, the battle, which had been raging so fiercely, was abruptly brought to a halt.

Time—or something else—had been stopped.

His body, unresponsive, was forcibly bound in place.

A lapse in judgment.

The demon once called Jack reflected on his error: the moment he realized the blocker was not alone, he should have withdrawn. This was no fair one-on-one duel; from the outset, there were more than one enemy to eliminate.

Against two, victory was impossible.

With this realization, the killer activated his chakras.

Remarkably, his form shimmered like a flower on the water or the moon’s reflection in a well. A gentle breeze sent ripples through him, and then—like a phantom at the appointed hour, or a bubble burst—before anyone could react, the ambiguous mask and its owner vanished into the mist.

Mist-form.

Humans may kill their own kind with weapons, slay their predators, or the monsters that roam the wilderness, but how could they kill the formless, nameless mist? How could they destroy a natural phenomenon that endures with the world itself?

They could not.

Once the killer dissolved into the mist, the scales of victory and defeat returned to balance.

“The pointless testing ends here.” Though an astonishing turn of events, not a flicker of surprise crossed Dick’s almost unnaturally perfect face. He was as serene as still water. “According to our contract, you must do one thing for us—assuming you complete the final restoration.”

Yet the mist was filled only with silence.

The Apostle of the Dice House was in no hurry; he simply hummed a tune softly and waited for the killer’s answer.

Like an angler and a fish, both parties tested the limits of each other’s patience in the long silence.

“What do you need me to do?”

It was the voice from within the ever-thickening mist that broke the deadlock.

“My friend, don’t always wear such a cold expression. You should face life with a smile.” The golden-haired, green-eyed youth smiled, and in that instant, the dark underworld seemed to gain a touch of color. “Say, Jack—don’t you find the lower districts far too dull these days? Dull as stagnant water.”

“What do you want to do?” The killer’s eyes narrowed in the depths of the mist.

“To make this world livelier, noisier,” the Apostle of the Dice House spread his hands, a wicked smile appearing on his face. “How about it?”

“Your reason?” The cold words revealed a hidden fragility.

“Because it’s entertaining,” Dick, walking the world in the guise of a youth, replied with a childlike innocent smile, but quickly sobered. “Of course, that’s just by the by—I need you to kill someone.”

No answer came from the mist.

“Amy Ulysses.” After a moment, the Apostle of the Dice House uttered the name of the Glorious One. “I want you…to kill him.”

Still, no sound emerged from the mist. In fact, the entire mist began to dissipate.

“You’re just going to let him go?” The tall, graceful brunette woman flicked her cigarette holder. “I’m not your enforcer. If you want another chance to force his hand, it’ll be tough…and besides, that’s not your style.”

She lowered her head, looking down at the youth who stood a head shorter than herself.

“No need.” Dick did not glance at the mature woman who appeared suddenly before him. He merely watched the thinning mist, then looked at her a beat later, explaining, “No need to waste effort on the dead.”

“He is, after all, a high-level demon—a monster that has trespassed the boundary between human and demon,” the woman called Samantha exhaled a smoke ring. “At least hold onto a little hope, a little faith.”

“A wager?”

But the youth replied with a single word, a rising tone of inquiry, mercilessly discarding the last trace of pity from his heart.

What a joke.

This was Hermetica.

And the one to be killed was Ulysses.

That being who transcended life and death, good and evil, whose very existence stood at fate’s farthest end—the “monster” in her words, a monster through and through.

How could a mere high-level demon have any chance of victory? Any hope of survival?

Don't be so naïve!