The day closed with a frenzied sunset at the borders of the Empire. The atmosphere was tense—soldiers scrambling to enforce new measures, their nerves frayed after the recent chaos. It's already been a few turbulent months since Gamal's assassination at the hands of Night Raid, coupled with the brazen attempt on Captain Ogre's life, had thrown the entire garrison into high alert.
Prime Minister Honest, ever eager to tighten his grip, responded by imposing suffocating security. Every road and every gate leading into the Empire was watched. Nothing—and no one—passed through without inspection. Or at least, that was the pretense.
In reality, these so-called "tightened inspections" became little more than legalized banditry. Soldiers demanded exorbitant tolls, knowing most travelers couldn't afford them. Those unable to pay were stripped of their valuables under the guise of regulation—or worse, cast out to fend for themselves, easy prey for the dangers lurking beyond the walls: ruthless brigands, starving outlaws, or feral Danger Beasts.
Merchants and suppliers, once the lifeblood of commerce flowing into the Capital, found themselves bled dry before even reaching the city gates. Profit vanished into the greedy hands of toll guards, leaving them with little more than bitter resentment.
And yet, amid this predation and despair, there was one business that defied the odds. One enterprise that slipped past the extortionists without offering a single coin, its wagons passing through checkpoints unscathed, as though protected by invisible hands.
A caravan of three travelers from the southwestern lands had arrived at the foot of the Empire's gate. Their wares were bundled and lashed down beneath a heavy cloth, ropes wound tight to keep everything hidden and secure. As the caravan halted, two toll guards sauntered forward while one of the merchants climbed down to prepare the required payment.
"We've come to trade in the Capital," the merchant said, as placid as ever. He set five gold coins on the inspection table with steady hands.
The toll man's expression hardened; greed flavored every line of his face. He scoffed at the coins as if they were an insult.
"Are you peasants looking down the Empire with such meager payment?" he jeered. "Night Raid has been spilling blood all over the Capital. We can't accept such a paltry sum. Double it—or turn around and go home."
The other two guards slid their hands to the hilts of their swords, preparing to "confiscate" whatever goods the merchants had brought.
"Come on then—hand over everything you've got," one of them snickered. "We'll make sure it's put to better use than you intended."
Despite the taunts echoing through the gate, the merchants remained unnervingly calm, as if they'd expected this exact scene.
Their leader stepped forward, voice steady but edged with resignation. "If you insist on taking what we have, then I suppose the Five Angels Trading Company will answer for it."
At the mention of the name, the toll man laughed and tossed his head. "Too bad for you. Either you cut your losses, or they cut off your head—whoever they are."
The effect, however, was not what he expected. At the very mention of Five Angels Trading Company, the other two guards went pale.
"Wait—these crates… they're meant for them?" one blurted, recoil in his voice.
He took a step back and began to fumble for gold in his pockets.
"No, no, no—I'm not going to vanish over this. You can go. Pass through."
The toll man's eyes bulged with outrage at his subordinates' sudden retreat. He barked, "What do you two think you're doing?!"
One of the guards swallowed and answered, voice small: "With all due respect, sir… we're not risking our necks when it comes to them."
Silence fell heavy over the checkpoint, thick enough to drown even the sound of the wind. The merchant calmly placed five gold coins on the counter, the clinking echoing through the tense air. Without another word, he slid the remaining coins back into his pouch and gave a subtle nod to the caravan. The wagons creaked forward, wooden wheels groaning against the dirt road, the canvas covers flapping once as they passed beneath the gate—untouched, unpaid, and unbothered. Every guard watched in disbelief as the convoy disappeared into the distance, swallowed by the misty horizon.
The toll guard's jaw tightened, anger flaring behind his eyes. His fingers curled into fists as he turned toward his two subordinates, his voice rising like a whip cracking through the still air. "Will somebody explain what just happened? Why did you let those cretins stroll into our glorious capital? And look at you two—pale as corpses! What's gotten into you!?" His tone carried the weight of a seasoned commander, the kind used to being obeyed without question.
One of the guards swallowed hard, stepping forward with visible hesitation. The color had drained completely from his face. "Boss, with all due respect… crossing anyone tied to the Five Angels Trading Company is the same as signing our death warrants."
"Five Angels?" the toll guard scoffed, though a flicker of unease crossed his features. "They're just some upstart trading company—probably lining pockets like every other group of smugglers."
The other guard interjected before his superior could finish. "No, sir. They're not just smugglers. They became rivals to some of the biggest merchants in the Capital in less than two weeks. Two weeks! At this rate, they'll be controlling half the city's trade by month's end." His voice trembled despite his best attempt to stay composed.
The toll guard frowned deeply, his curiosity battling his irritation. "That's absurd. Nobody rises that fast unless—"
"Unless they have powerful backing," the first guard cut in. "And they do. I heard they took over Gamal's assets only three days after his death at the hands of Night Raid. People are saying that wasn't luck. Rumor is, they used Night Raid—hired them to eliminate competition and cloak it as justice."
The toll guard blinked, disbelief flickering across his face. "Then whoever runs that company should be rotting in a cell."
"Except they're not," the guard replied darkly. "No one could pin a single crime on them. Their alibi was flawless, airtight. Worse still, Captain Ogre vouched for them personally—and even twisted the whole incident to make it look like the dead man tried to assassinate him."
The second subordinate leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper so faint it was almost lost in the wind. "It's like they have that demon of a captain wrapped around their finger. Some say he's even handling their dirty work under the Empire's nose."
The toll guard stood rooted in place, his breath caught in his throat. He replayed every word in his head, trying to make sense of it all. The more he thought, the colder his spine grew.
An upstart business, growing faster than any in history... a ruthless Imperial Captain acting as their shield... and now merchants tied to them mocking the Emperor's authority by paying a mere five gold coins—without consequence…
If even a fraction of what they're saying is true, then we're standing at the edge of something far more dangerous than smuggling.
Sweat trickled down his temple as he forced himself to resume his post. His hands shook slightly as he adjusted his ledger, pretending to focus on his duties. But the illusion of routine couldn't hide the dread creeping through his veins. For the first time in his career, the toll guard found himself wishing he hadn't asked too many questions.
Night had fully fallen over the capital, the moon casting a pale light over the cobbled streets where Captain Ogre carried out his monotonous duty of patrolling. The familiar echoes of his boots against the stone, once a reminder of his authority, now sounded hollow and distant to him. Something was different tonight—something within him felt out of place.
He no longer spent much time in the darker corners of the Entertainment District, where vice and corruption thrived under the Empire's shadow. Instead, he found himself drawn more often toward Little Italy, a modest but vibrant district that seemed to pulse with new life. Perhaps it was because he owed them his life—because since that night of blood and fire, he had become more than just a soldier of the Empire. In their eyes, he was now soldat—a guardian, an enforcer, and in many ways, their man. He had bound himself, willingly or not, to the will of his benefactor, Vito Corleone.
Ever since meeting Vito and the rest of the Five Angels the day after the attempt on his life, Ogre's path had begun to twist into something darker and more complicated. The requests came slowly at first—simple tasks meant to rid Vito's allies of troublesome competition. But soon, those requests grew more ruthless, more calculated, crossing boundaries that even Ogre had once considered beyond reason. Yet, he never refused. Each job paid well, and with every favor completed, his bond with the Five Angels deepened.
It began with punishing those who dared to harass or extort Vito's allies—merchants and traders who had pledged their loyalty to the Corleone enterprise. Ogre's methods were simple but effective: swift, public, and brutal enough to make an example. Those who survived his lessons rarely made the same mistake again. The payments he received were generous, often disguised as "donations" to the guard's welfare fund, but everyone knew whose pockets were being filled.
By the time Vito secured control over Gauri's former assets—thanks in no small part to the cunning of their newest ally, the trade overseer involved in the arson—Ogre's role had grown even more pivotal. He was no longer just a tool of intimidation; he became the invisible hand that guided the city's underbelly. When shipments of foreign goods and olive oil began arriving at the Empire's gates, Ogre ensured they passed through unhindered. He leaned on the gate guards with a quiet but deadly authority, convincing them to look the other way. No questions asked. No witnesses left.
As the weeks passed, something began to shift within Little Italy. The people—who once trembled at the sight of him—started to greet him with cautious nods, even faint smiles. Children whispered his name without fear. Shopkeepers offered him bread and wine without being asked. To them, he was no longer a tyrant of the Empire but one of their own, a necessary evil who kept worse evils at bay.
Ogre could feel the change taking root deep inside him. The respect—no, the acceptance—of those he once trampled upon stirred something unexpected in his hardened heart.
So this is what it feels like… to be respected by those I used to treat as dirt… it feels… cathartic.
For the first time in years, a wry smile tugged at his scarred face. As he walked through the narrow streets, lit by the soft glow of lanterns and filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, Captain Ogre felt an unfamiliar calm. The Capital's night life buzzed faintly in the distance, but here in Little Italy, the world seemed slower, steadier—almost peaceful.
His boots clacked lightly against the cobblestones as he made his way toward Vito's home, his mind occupied with thoughts he had long forgotten how to entertain: loyalty, respect, and belonging.
"Oh, Ogre, how can I help you?" Genco was the first to greet him at the front door, more casually than when they first met. His demeanor was friendly, even warm, as if Ogre were not an Imperial officer, but an old friend returning from a long journey.
Inside, the scent of olive oil and wine filled the air. The room glowed in the orange hue of candlelight. Ogre's eyes scanned the scene: Vito and Josef were seated at a round table, deep in conversation with a few merchants. Their voices were low and steady, speaking in the calm rhythm of men who understood both power and patience. When Vito noticed Ogre standing in the doorway, he gave him a small, knowing nod
At the counter, Tatsumi was diligently polishing a set of drinking glasses, though his expression betrayed curiosity as he occasionally glanced at the older men.
"Hey, what's up with those people talking to Vito-dono?" Ogre asked in a low voice, taking a seat at the counter.
"Apparently, they came to thank him," Tatsumi replied, setting a glass down. "They said he helped them pass through the city gates. They were carrying supplies for the harbor, but some Imperials tried to stop them."
Ogre scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. "Those fools… I know exactly who you're talking about. They were my men once. Lazy, greedy, and stupid enough to think they could reach my level." He clenched his gloved fist before letting out a tired sigh. "Tsk… I'll give them a piece of my mind after I'm done here."
Tatsumi chuckled nervously. "No need for violence, Ogre. They said it only took a little persuasion for the guards to let them through."
Ogre raised an eyebrow, amused by the phrasing. "Persuasion, huh? I see. Seems like this company has become a cautionary tale for those fools over time."
"I couldn't agree more," Tatsumi replied with a faint smile. "People talk about the Five Angels Trading Company now like it's something bigger than a business—almost like a legend."
Ogre's gaze drifted back to the table where Vito sat, the air around him calm yet commanding. For the first time in his career, Ogre felt that same sense of command—not one built on fear, but on respect.
He leaned back, resting an arm on the counter, and muttered under his breath, "Maybe this place isn't so bad after all…"