"We are still in our room," Erwin stated, his voice as calm and certain in this impossible space as it was in the physical world.
"What nonsense are you talking about?" Soma retorted, looking around at the endless void and the infinite chairs. "We've never seen this place before in our lives!"
Sebas, ever the voice of reason, shook his head slightly. "No, Young Master Soma," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "Young Master Erwin is correct. Our physical bodies are still safe in the living quarters. I believe we have accessed a shared space within our consciousness."
As if to test the theory, Zero raised a hand. He waved it through the air, and with a sudden, silent shift, the massive round table and all the countless chairs dissolved into nothingness. In their place was a simple, defined 10x10 meter space of polished wood floating in the void.
"Interesting," Erwin murmured, a look of intense curiosity on his face. He lifted his own hand and snapped his fingers. In an instant, several tall, neat stacks of books shimmered into existence around them.
"Whoa!" Soma exclaimed, reaching out to touch one. It felt solid. "How did you create those?"
"I did not purely create them," Erwin explained, his eyes gleaming with discovery. "These are manifestations from my memory. The books I read at the Royal Library."
"So you're saying," Zero said, the incredible implications dawning on him, "that we can shape this space to our liking at will? And we can create tangible objects here, as long as they exist in our memories?"
"This could be an invaluable tool for training and planning," Sebas noted. "But further testing is required."
"It's more than good," Erwin said, his mind already racing ahead, seeing the long-term strategic value. "We can use this space as a hub. A private, untraceable meeting place for each of us. Sooner or later, there will be clones that we send to other cities, other duchies... perhaps even other continents." He looked at each of them. "With this mental hub, we can communicate instantly and securely without relying on transmitters or letters. There will be no trails that link us."
"Okay," Zero said, a determined look on his face. "We'll test this skill thoroughly tomorrow morning."
"A great idea, Master Zero," Sebas agreed. "Tomorrow, I will test the effective distance of this hub."
Soma looked at him, confused. "Where are you going, Sebas?"
A serene, almost beatific smile touched the butler's lips. "No need to worry, Young Master Soma. It is just an overdue visit to our... snake friends."
Erwin nodded. "Don't kill them all," he instructed, his voice cold and pragmatic. "Let me know when you are done cleaning up the pests. I believe you can judge which of them might be useful to us from the snake den."
Soma leaned over to Zero, whispering loudly, "Are these two talking about the Viper gang right now?"
Zero gave him a completely unimpressed, deadpan look. "Is it not obvious?"
Soma watched the cool, almost cheerful way Erwin and Sebas were discussing the dismantling of a criminal gang. "They look like they're about to enjoy a buffet of wagyu beef," he muttered to himself.
…
A new day had come. By the time the sun was high in the sky, Erwin was already in position, seated at a corner table in a grimy, noisy tavern near the block the Vipers called their territory. He nursed a single mug of cheap ale, his presence as an unassuming middle-class man completely ignored amidst the boisterous dockworkers and off-duty laborers. He was the command center, waiting.
Meanwhile, Sebas was on the move. From a shadowed alcove across the street from the local Watcher precinct, he observed the front entrance. Just as Erwin had predicted, the two thugs, Orimys and Eroan, were shoved out the front door, looking more annoyed than punished.
"Just as Young Master Erwin predicted," Sebas muttered to himself, his eyes cold. "They were let go that easily. I suppose there is indeed a viper inside the Watchers' nest." He melted back into the shadows, following the two thugs from alleys and rooftops, a silent, grey-clad ghost.
…
Inside the precinct, Detective Wolfe slammed his fist on a desk. "You let them out?!" he roared.
Across from him, Captain Kilpo, a fat, sweating man with greasy, slicked-back hair, didn't even flinch. "Careful, Sergeant," Kilpo said, emphasizing the rank with a sneer. "You're already being punished by having to be a training officer. Do you want me to demote you further? Perhaps to sanitation duty?"
Wolfe's fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. "Did you even read my report? There's evidence of these two shaking down merchants for months, all over the district. We had them dead to rights!"
"Back off, Wolfe!" Kilpo shouted, his jowls quivering. "You listen to me and me alone! As your superior officer, I tell you what to do. Do you not respect the chain of command?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, menacing hiss. "Or do I need to call my father for you to understand the consequences of your words?"
Wolfe's jaw worked, but he held back the torrent of angry words. Kilpo slicked his greasy hair back with his hands, a smug look of victory on his face. "You're dismissed, Sergeant. Now get out of my office."
…
Sebas followed Orimys and Eroan through the city streets, assuming they would go straight back to their headquarters. But unfortunately, their first stop was a dingy tavern—the very one Erwin was in—to celebrate their release with a drink. This required improvisation.
Sebas entered the tavern through a back entrance, his eyes scanning the room. He saw Orimys and Eroan already laughing and drinking at a table. He then saw his target: a tavern waitress with a weary, distracted look in her eyes. He approached her as she was carrying a tray of empty mugs. As he passed, he lightly brushed her arm, his fingers making the briefest contact.
He activated his skill: 'Palm of the Puppeteer'.
The woman paused for a fraction of a second, her eyes going blank before returning to normal. Sebas walked away without a second glance. The waitress, now under his command, put down her tray and approached the thugs' table, a seductive, painted-on smile on her face. She flirted, laughing at their crude jokes. The two thugs, drunk and arrogant, immediately took the bait. The lady leaned in and whispered for them to meet her in the back alley for a more private celebration.
They chugged their drinks in one go and swaggered out the back door, already talking dirty to each other about how they would "share" her. But what they saw when they arrived was not the waitress, but the old, dignified butler from the café, standing there calmly.
"The fuck are you doing here, old man? Get out!" Eroan slurred.
"Do you wanna join us, too?" Orimys added with a lewd laugh. "Well, you can watch, but I doubt your old dick can even work at your age! Hahahaha!"
They both laughed. Sebas simply smiled, a serene, almost pleasant expression on his face. Then, in a blur of motion, he stepped forward. Before either of them could react, he had touched a single, gentle finger to each of their foreheads.
'Palm of the Puppeteer.'
"You will forget what happened here," Sebas commanded, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper. "You will go back to your headquarters immediately. You have discovered big intel your boss needs to hear right away. Go now."
Orimys's and Eroan's eyes went blank. Seconds later, they blinked, their expressions shifting from drunken lechery to one of intense, urgent purpose. They looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them, as if they had just uncovered a massive conspiracy. Without a word, they turned and practically ran out of the alley, desperate to report their "big intel" to their boss, completely unaware that they were now just breadcrumbs leading the wolf to their den.
…
Orimys and Eroan, driven by a manufactured, urgent purpose, led Sebas straight to an old, abandoned factory on the industrial outskirts of the city. A rusted sign, hanging crookedly from a single hinge, identified it as the former site of "Iron-Heart Runic Engines," a business long since bankrupted.
"Hmmm," Sebas muttered from his hidden vantage point on a nearby warehouse roof. "So this is their headquarters. Quite large for a snake den."
With the location confirmed, he smiled and closed his eyes. In an instant, his consciousness shifted, leaving the grimy physical world behind for the clean, quiet void of their mental hub. He found himself standing on the familiar polished wood floor, but this time, he was not alone. He saw the fleeting, transparent silhouettes of Soma, Zero, and Erwin, each sitting in their respective positions from the night before. They looked like ghosts, faint afterimages of their presence. So this is how they appear when they are not focusing on the hub, he thought.
He walked over to Erwin's shimmering, translucent form and gently tapped his silhouette on the shoulder.
…
Back in the tavern, Erwin, who had been calmly observing the patrons, felt a distinct tug in the back of his mind. He recognized the summons immediately. He took a final sip of his ale, placed a few coins on the table, and closed his eyes, allowing his consciousness to be pulled into their shared space.
He opened his mental eyes to see Sebas standing before him, his form solid and real. The transparent forms of Zero and Soma were still present but unaware.
"So," Erwin said, his voice echoing slightly in the void. "How is the investigation?"
"It has proceeded outside of our initial predictions," Sebas reported. "Their headquarters is not in the suspected buildings within the slum block. It is this abandoned factory, quite far from their usual territory."
Erwin rubbed his chin, a flicker of grudging respect in his eyes. "Quite good for a snake's brain. They've already prepared an extraction point or a secondary base of operations."
"I have already puppeteered the two thugs to gather all active members of their gang to the factory under the pretense of urgent, important news," Sebas continued. "All we have to do now is wait for nightfall."
A cold, strategic smile touched Erwin's lips. "Divide and conquer."
"Divide and conquer," Sebas agreed with a respectful nod.
Suddenly, another form in the hub solidified with a flash of light. It was Soma, a wide, proud grin on his face. "What are you two doing in the Flavor Nexus without me?" he demanded.
Erwin stared at him, completely unimpressed. "The... what?"
Soma proudly puffed out his chest. "The Flavor Nexus! It's the name for this place. It's a good name, right? Grand, mysterious, has a nice ring to it."
"Calling it 'the Hub' is sufficient," Erwin stated flatly.
"What?! That's so underwhelming for this grand, amazing place!" Soma protested, turning to the butler for support. "Right, Sebas?"
Sebas, a master of avoiding crossfire, gave a slight, polite bow. "If you will excuse me, Young Masters," he said smoothly, "I must continue to monitor the snakes. I will report when the gathering is complete." With that, his form dissolved, leaving the hub.
Erwin turned his deadpan gaze back to Soma. "You are not the protagonist of an anime. Stop trying to give everything a dramatic name. It will not get you a harem." He too began to fade, his consciousness returning to the physical world.
Soma was left standing alone in the vast, empty space. "Hey!" he shouted madly at the spot where Erwin had just been. "One of your cards isn't even the main character of his anime! At least my name is in the damn title!"
…
Night had fallen, casting the abandoned runic engine factory in deep, industrial shadows. Inside the cavernous main assembly hall, dozens of Viper gang members had gathered, their faces a mix of greed and confusion. Portable magitech lamps cast a harsh, ugly light on the scene. At the center of it all, the big boss—a hulking, scarred man with a braided beard—sat on a makeshift throne of old engine blocks, looking impatiently at his two lieutenants.
"Now," the boss boomed, his voice echoing off the high, rusted ceilings. "We are all here. You said this was 'active intel' that required all of our manpower. So, spill it. What's the score?"
Orimys and Eroan, who had been bursting with a sense of manufactured purpose just moments before, now looked at each other, a dawning horror on their faces. They opened their mouths to speak, but no words came out. The "big intel," the urgent reason they had summoned their entire gang, was gone from their minds, leaving only a confusing, terrifying blankness. They had been guided here, puppets on a string, and they had just brought everyone into the puppet master's theater.
"What is it?" the boss demanded, his patience wearing thin. "Go on, tell us!"
Clap. Clap. Clap.
A slow, deliberate clapping sound cut through the tense scene. From the deepest shadows of the factory, a figure emerged, calmly applauding as if he had just witnessed a fine theatrical performance. It was Sebas.
"What a wonderful show," the butler said, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Having a hard time remembering, Orimys? Eroan?"
Instantly, dozens of runic firearms—from heavy, high-caliber revolvers to sleek pistols—were aimed directly at Sebas. He stopped, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.
"Now, now," he said, his voice still infuriatingly calm. "Are we not civilized beings? Surely we have passed the era of such crude violence."
"Who the hell are you?" one of the thugs shouted, his voice trembling slightly. "Where did you come from?"
"I am just a mere butler," Sebas replied with a serene smile. "That is all."
The big boss grunted, his eyes narrowing. "Forget about him," he ordered his men. "Shoot him dead. We'll deal with his body later."
Sebas's smile didn't falter. "A shame," he said softly.
The factory erupted in a deafening roar of gunfire. Magical energy bolts and physical slugs tore through the space where the butler had been standing, kicking up clouds of dust and ricocheting off the old machinery.
When the last shot ceased, the ringing silence was broken only by the nervous breathing of the thugs. They stared at the spot where Sebas had stood. There was nothing there.
"Where... where's the body?" one of the thugs stammered.
As the words left his mouth, a shadow detached itself from the darkness directly behind him. A pair of white-gloved hands reached out, one cupping his chin, the other the back of his head.
CRACK.
The clean, sharp sound of a snapping neck was the only answer he received.
*A/N*
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*A/N*