[I'd advise against letting your excitement take over this time, Master. We don't have a single, clear target here, so we can't just teleport out of Arlcliff City like we did with the vampires. On top of that, their base is in a crowded area. If you let that version of yourself loose now, there will be casualties.]
Right. So I need to be sharp. Precise. Flawless. In that case... why not pride? That side of me would never allow anything but success, right?
[True. But with pride comes confidence—and sometimes, overconfidence.]
Perched on top of the tower, rain and wind whipping around him, Magnus paused to consider.
Well, worst case, that's why I have you, isn't it? If things go sideways, you can always step in and bring me back. I trust you.
[Hmm. That approach may work. Very well, Master. I'll use my best judgment and act as needed.]
Good enough.
Once he made up his mind, Magnus didn't hesitate. The change started right away. His mind stilled as his brain rewired itself—some parts faded into the background, others came alive, all in a matter of seconds. When the world snapped back into focus, there was a different Magnus in control. Behind the white mask, his eyes grew calm—not unfocused, but free of the old anxious sharpness, as if he no longer worried about missing anything.
Now, confidence and certainty colored everything he saw.
He didn't speak.
He simply looked down from his perch. The mercenary guild's base wasn't just hidden and forgotten; the whole area was guarded. Guild members—every one of them a Titan Soldier who'd taken the tonic—were stationed throughout the district. Unlike the base itself, they didn't bother to hide. After all, mercenaries were allowed to carry weapons openly; being ready for a fight was part of the job. With their credentials, they could brush off any city guard, and no regular citizen would dare get close to a hulking, armored figure carrying a weapon.
They were perfect sentries—spread out across the city, always watching for threats to the guild.
One of those guild members was stationed directly beneath Magnus at that very moment—dozens of meters down, tucked in an alleyway just a building or two from the base of the tower. The figure leaned against the wall, arms crossed and hood drawn low over their large frame, shielding themselves from the pounding rain. Sentry or not, most people couldn't endure this kind of weather. But Magnus figured the supersoldiers Zeth had been engineering for Nightshade—and by extension, this guild—were likely built to resist things like disease and extreme conditions.
Magnus's eyes narrowed slightly as he walked the edge of the tower's rooftop, just one step between him and the void below. Then he took it. A single step, guided by [Self Body Puppetry], launched him forward into the air, cutting clean through the storm. Momentum carried him several meters upward before gravity pulled him down. His body shifted midair, naturally rotating so he faced the ground, diving headfirst. The white robes conjured by the mask whipped around him in the wind, yet made no sound at all.
Down below, the guild member kept a lazy eye on the street. Even if the weather didn't make him sick, it was still miserable. Cold, wet, boring. Honestly, he didn't see the point in keeping watch. With a storm like this, who'd be dumb enough to make a move? No one could even see properly with how hard the rain was coming down.
"Ugh..." He let out a quiet groan, drowned out by the storm, and tugged his hood tighter around his head. That's when he noticed something. Lightning had been flashing steadily overhead, casting distorted shadows of buildings as it churned in. But this time, something was different. When the sky lit up, it didn't create a sharp shadow of a wall or sign.
No—he was sure he saw a human figure. And more than that, it had been moving.
"What the hell...?" He muttered, squinting at where the shadow had flickered. He tilted his head up, blinking against the rain now pelting his exposed face. Another bolt split the sky, and in that moment, he saw it—outlined in the lightning above, something was falling toward him.
Reflex kicked in. He reached for his sword.
"Huh!? Ah-"
But he was too slow.
Before the sound finished leaving his throat, everything went dark. Whether any other sound escaped that alley or not, it was swallowed by the roar of the storm.
The mercenary guild's base was hidden—not in the sense of a secret door or illusion, but in how ordinary it appeared. To a passerby, it looked like any other storefront, maybe even abandoned. Nothing about it stood out. Combined with the Titan Soldiers spread discreetly through the area, it was easy to overlook completely—at least from the front.
Around back, however, the building had a secondary entrance. A short stairwell led slightly underground to a locked metal door. Unlike the front, this side was actively guarded. Two guild members stood watch there, one of them holding a water-resistant lantern that glowed a warm orange in the sea of gray and shadow cast by the storm.
The angle of the alley shielded them from the worst of the wind and rain, which blew hard but mostly passed them by. Thanks to that shelter—and the frequent flashes of lightning—the pair had decent visibility. Between the natural lighting and the glow of the lantern, they could see the entire alley clearly.
That was how the guild member holding the lantern saw them: the masked figure in white. The mask had no pupils, no signs of flexibility—just a fixed theatrical grin that made you wonder if there was even a person underneath. The guild member's gaze froze at the alley's entrance, lantern trembling in his grip. For a few long seconds, he didn't move. Then, with his free hand, he reached out and shook his partner—hard.
The other guild member stumbled, irritation flashing across his face as he turned.
"Why the hell did you push-"
His words cut off when he saw the same white-masked figure.
Sheltered from the storm, the stranger's voice was clearly audible. It wasn't monotone, but neither was it friendly. Instead, it hovered just outside of neutral, laced with a theatrical edge—almost like an announcer.
"Hello, gentlemen. If I'm in the right place, this should be the headquarters of your guild. So, would you be so kind as to direct me to your boss?"
The two guild members exchanged a wary glance. Whoever this freak was, he knew about their guild and wanted their boss. That was all they needed to hear. The masked figure noticed when the second guard, the one without the lantern, shifted his stance. One hand stayed out of sight, clearly gripping something.
"Don't," the masked figure warned, voice still even.
But the guild member didn't listen.
In one swift motion, he whipped out a crossbow from under his cloak and fired down the alley, the arrow slicing through the air. But by the time it reached its mark—or maybe even before he'd pulled the trigger—both guards realized the masked figure had vanished from where they'd been standing.
A moment later, the same augmented voice sounded behind them.
"Now, why would you do something that stupid?"
The crossbow-wielding guard's eyes went wide as he turned, but he was too late. A hand clamped down on his weapon and wrenched it away, crushing it as if it were nothing more than an eggshell. Wood splintered and metal twisted under an unyielding grip.
Then, before he could react, that same fist that had crushed his crossbow swung toward his face. At the speed it was moving, it seemed almost gentle, yet the blow sent the guild member flying back into the wall, his head snapping against the stone. Before he could collapse, the masked figure gestured. A construct of mana, shaped like a mask, appeared and clamped onto the guard's head, pinning his head to the wall and sealing his mouth shut. He couldn't even groan. Unless the spell was released, he'd need to shatter the wall or the magic itself to escape.
For anyone without magic or aura, that was impossible.
"Who am I kidding? You people never think before you attack," Magnus—still masked—remarked, turning to face the last guild member holding the lantern.
"Now then, are you-" Magnus started, but didn't get to finish. The remaining guard had already tossed the lantern aside and drawn the heavy sword from his waist, swinging it in a wide arc at Magnus's neck. The sheer size and craftsmanship of the blade were enough to cut a man clean in two, and with the support of the abnormal strength granted by the Titan Tonic, it could chop down trees or slice through monsters with hide thicker than plate armor.
But as the blade connected, something impossible happened.
The sword, forged from special alloys and made to kill beasts and mana creatures, shattered on impact like glass. Fragments of metal clattered to the ground or bounced off the alley walls. The sound of breaking steel faded almost instantly, leaving the guild member staring at the ruined weapon in his hands—an expression beyond shock frozen on his face. He'd felt it through the sword: it hit flesh, and flesh had given way. But when the edge struck bone and muscle underneath, the blade broke apart, leaving not a mark on Magnus.
Lightning cracked overhead, and Magnus's shadow stretched across the ground. The guard finally looked up, the last of his courage gone, replaced by pure fear. His body trembled.
"So, you watched me crush your partner's crossbow and pin him to the wall, and your answer was to swing a sword at me? I take it back—calling you an idiot was generous. No wonder they picked you for grunt work." Magnus let out a pitying, almost mocking laugh as he stepped forward. That was all it took for the guild member to stumble, dropping the remains of the sword and falling backward over the uneven ground.
"W- Wait! I'll tell you—I'll tell you where our boss is!" He raised a desperate hand, voice cracking.
Magnus tilted his head slightly, unimpressed.
"That trial's expired. I was willing to be reasonable since I didn't want to waste time doing this, but you've convinced me that trying to talk to a bunch of simpletons like you is an even bigger waste." Without another word, Magnus's hand shot out, gripping the guild member's head and palming his face. The man's mouth was smothered, so his screams came out as muffled cries. He clawed at Magnus's arm, struggling to break free, but it was useless. With [Self Body Puppetry] active over his entire body, every move Magnus made was perfectly controlled by the Command Console.
Outside of battle or those rare moments when he needed a break, it was always in effect.
"Basker." At that single word, the hound within Magnus's mind sprang into action. From what looked like a hidden pocket of space above Magnus's head, living darkness began to coil downward, twisting around his body like ethereal veins. It flowed along his arm and plunged straight into the guild member's mind.
In the past, using Basker offensively like this had been risky—like when he faced the Nullfang. Without the hound, Magnus's mental abilities dropped off sharply. He'd lose perfect memory, control over his wild imagination, and the suppression of impulsive thoughts. The Command Console could automate some things, but with his visualization crippled, even that was limited. He'd be able to use [Self Body Puppetry] on certain limbs and little else.
But that was then.
Now, with his brain operating on a much higher level, Magnus, even without Basker, was only a bit worse than he'd been with Basker before fighting Austra. His memory still had its flaws, and taming all the chaos in his mind was still outside of his capabilities—but now, he and Basker could work together without Magnus being reduced to an ordinary person.
The hound probed the nearly defenseless subconscious of the guild member caught in Magnus's grip. It only took a minute before Basker's shifting shadow form retracted, slipping back into Magnus's mind. As soon as the hound was fully integrated again, it released the information it had gathered as artificial memories that Magnus could immediately recognize as not his own, but could review and archive just like real memories.
"So that's where they are," Magnus muttered, tossing the guild member aside. The seemingly gentle movement sent the man flying into the opposite wall. With a flick of his hand, another mana-formed mask appeared, pinning the man's head in place just as he slammed into the stone, sealing him in silence.
Magnus turned his focus to the rear entrance. He strode down the short flight of stairs, stopping before the metal door. Raising his arm, he made a simple plucking motion—and when he let go, an immense force slammed into the door. It shot off its hinges, smashing part of the wall it was set into; the door was supposed to open outward, not in.
Inside, two more guild members sat at a table, playing cards. The door crashed into them before they could even react, splintering the table and leaving the pair sprawled unconscious in the wreckage.
Paying them no mind, Magnus stepped into the basement and glanced around. The space was crowded with boxes and crates; he opened a few and saw this area was mostly used for storing equipment the Metal Gear Guild needed for their jobs—monster subjugation, escorts, and the like.
"Niall," Magnus called, summoning the vampire from his storage ring.
Niall appeared in a quick flash, already kneeling, hand across his chest and head bowed.
"You called for me, my Lord?" He asked.
Magnus nodded, gesturing to the two guild members pinned beneath the twisted metal door.
"Our target is on the top floor. They're to be left unharmed. As for the rest, I have no interest in dealing with them. If they look like these two, you may do as you wish—feed on them, kill them, it doesn't matter to me. The two I captured outside will be enough for the Major General's interrogation. But anyone who isn't part of the guild should only be subdued."
He leaned in slightly, voice suddenly sharper.
"If a single innocent dies... so do you. And your immortality won't save you. Understand?"
Niall didn't flinch at the threat—he simply lowered his head even further.
"Yes, my Lord." With that, his form dissolved into a familiar shadow, slipping into the darkness and vanishing up the stairs so quickly he couldn't be seen with the naked eye.
Magnus, by contrast, took his time. Hands clasped behind his back, he strolled toward the stairs at a relaxed pace. Moments later, the sound of chaos echoed from above—clashing, shouting, the unmistakable screams of men facing terror and pain, or something in between.
Inside the building, where even the storm's roar faded to a dull murmur, those cries quickly filled every corner.
And as they rose, Magnus continued up the stairs, his stride rhythmically unbroken.