Chapter 4
The Villain with a Hooker's Heart
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Red Hilt is not called a notorious villain for no reason.
First, his power classification is "S"; that means he possesses a "special" ability that does not fall into any known power or skill categories. No one has yet been able to tell what his true powers look like because none of those who attempted to defeat him have survived to tell how they witnessed and experienced the brutality of his power. Some say he can turn anything he touches into a weapon. Others say that he commands Death itself, cutting down his enemies effortlessly and without fail using his unknown dark powers.
But none of this is true. No one has ever seen Red Hilt's actual abilities and powers, not even the Tyrants of the Round Table members, except, of course, to Mordred.
But Red Hilt is known for another ability that can't really be called a power. Still, he was so mind-bogglingly good at it that he defies all probabilities.
He was extremely lucky.
But Red Hilt sometimes dislikes his luck.
Why?
Simply because it makes things boring for him. And everyone knows that he's the type of person who lives for the thrill and is always up for the ecstasy of not knowing what comes next.
That's why Red Hilt devised such a policy not just to cut down Mordred's chances of getting what he wanted, but to ensure that the game remained entertaining on his terms.
"Each of us will take our turn against Red Hilt. Whoever holds the nearest number wins the game until one villain is left to claim the hero. Does anyone here object to these terms?"
No one in the council objected to Mordred's rule for the game. Neither did Red Hilt, who remained calm despite his fellow villain's sharp and malicious looks, as if they had already decided the game's outcome.
"So, what are we waiting for?" said Red Hilt as he leaned back to his seat, "Let's get started."
And so, the game began at the council's lowest rank: a man wearing a jet black coat, a pair of tinted shade glasses, and an oversized black hat that looked like a thick smoke, curling gently in his head as if it were alive. He was approached by Mordred's secretary, carrying two dice that were rolled inside a black box.
Before opening it, he asked rank no. 10 what number he had chosen.
"Your number, Sir?"
The man groaned and slouched deeper in his seat in frustration as he caught Mordred's cold glare at him, causing him to raise his hands in surrender and respond.
"Alright, alright. Nine."
"Five," Red Hilt declared his number confidently and without hesitation. The secretary opened the box, and what came out was six.
According to the rules, the one with the closest number wins.
Red Hilt won the first game.
Next came rank no. 9; a girl who looked no older than twelve. She holds a porcelain doll in her arms, while at her side stood a life-sized replica of her doll with an unsettling smile that arched across its face. Before giving a number, the little girl pressed her lips near her doll's ears and whispered as if she were talking to it.
After a few seconds, finally, the girl spoke aloud and said, "Six."
"Three," Red Hilt declared without a moment of pause. After that, the secretary lifted the lid, where the dice showed four.
Red Hilt won again.
The little villain girl's expression soured in a way that was unexpectedly scary and far from her sweet and innocent expression earlier, before the dice were revealed and lost against Red Hilt.
"Cursed you, faggot!" she hissed, clutching her doll tighter in its neck as if she would like to strangle Red Hilt to Death.
The game continued as each remaining Tyrant took their turn against Red Hilt. But no matter the number, the dice always favored Red Hilt. When the box was finally placed before Mordred, the air in the chamber felt heavy and taut like a tight spring that would break and snap anytime soon.
All eyes turned to Mordred.
"Your number, my lord?" the secretary asked.
But before Mordred could answer, he raised a hand and said, "Why don't we change the rules a little? Just for the sake of additional fun."
Red Hilt's eyes narrowed slightly as he responded, "Okay, I'm listening."
"Whoever hits the exact number the dice show wins the game," Mordred proposed.
Red Hilt smiled at the suggestion, but it wasn't apparent because the mask covered half his face.
"Fine. I agree."
Mordred's sharp gaze slid to the secretary beside him and said, "Seven."
A slight murmur filled the room. Seven is a safe choice because it is the most common number in these games and gambling. Apparently, Mordred had immediately secured his chance to win the game.
But Red Hilt showed no sign of worry. Instead, he simply tapped a finger on the table before casually stating his chosen number.
"Two."
Everyone was surprised, of course. Of the many numbers that could appear on the dice, 2 had the lowest chance of appearing in this game.
It would be a matter of luck if it came up and sided with Red Hilt.
The secretary hesitated only momentarily before shaking the box and lifting its lid. For a heartbeat, silence reigned oddly in the entire chamber. Then, after a few seconds, it was followed by loud murmurs of disbelief from the round table members.
"Two."
Red Hilt smiled behind his mask as if the game's outcome had never been doubted.
"I win," he declared to all his fellow villains in the round table, but his words were aimed explicitly at Mordred. "Arondight is mine."
Then, he stood victorious in his chair and said to everyone, "I must admit, this was entertaining. I didn't expect these gatherings to be fun. Perhaps I'll join again at the next round table meeting."
His bloody red eyes glinted throughout the rest of the Tyrants sitting at the round table for the last time before leaving them cursing under their breaths.
"Are we just going to let him go like that, Mordred?"
Seated beside him was the third-highest-ranked among the villains, a man who looked surprisingly plain for his position at the round table. He wore nothing more than a black tailored business suit and carried a simple gray suitcase at his side. Once Red Hilt left the chamber, he leaned slightly toward Mordred and spoke with a low but somewhat suggestive tone. Unlike most of the members at the round table, he was one of the few permitted to talk to Mordred so freely.
Mordred remained in his seat and has not responded yet. However, he stared sharply and followed Red Hilt as he left the meeting room. There was no trace of anger on his face. Instead, what shone on him was his smile curving on the corner of his lips.
"Let's just leave him with his small victory for now," he said coolly to the man beside him. "After all, the game isn't over yet. It's only just the beginning..."
And this was something that Red Hilt is fully aware of.
He knew that, despite his victory, he had only managed to further aggravate his fellow villains, especially Mordred.
But he doesn't care.
All that matters to him now is to chase what thrilled him. And now, nothing thrilled him more than the thought of finally crossing blades with Arondight. What happened there in the meeting was just the first part of Red Hilt's plan. The next thing he had to do was to lure Arondight into his trap.
But he didn't want it to be too flashy and laborious...
So the simplest thing he could do was to make a scene. But first, he needs to locate Arondight.
"Let's see..." Red Hilt murmured. Then slowly, his body turned into red smoke before re-forming atop the city's tallest tower, where his eyes could see the entire Galahad City. Then, he took something from his pocket: a ziplock containing a single strand of Arondight's brown hair, which he had stolen when the man lost consciousness after their night at the bar. Red Hilt pinched it between his fingers, then crumpled it in his palm while muttering words. Then, he let the strand dissolve into smoke, which curled upward before it scattered completely into the air.
All he had to do was wait at the place where he expected Arondight to show up.
But waiting was one of the things that really bored him. So, to pass the time and amuse himself, he decided to stir a little chaos, just enough to rattle the city's capital. His crimson smoke drifted toward the busiest place in the capital, curling into the glass doors of a modest bank that first captured his sight.
And that's where the fun began.
Without any fear or hesitation, Red Hilt unleashed his red shadows pooling beneath his feet and spilling outward like a living ink. The shadows roam freely inside the bank, forcing their way into every opening of their victims' bodies and possessing them one by one until they fell under the shadows' control, with their eyes igniting into a bloody crimson, almost mirroring Red Hilt's own.
Dreadful screams erupted in the crowd upon witnessing the people turning into mindless puppets. The possessed people tore through the doors and windows of the bank. Their shrieks mingling with the terrified screams of those still free from the possession. Some turned violent and lashed out at innocent bystanders with mindless fury.
"Please! Someone! Help us!!!"
The guards and later the police tried to respond, but they were powerless against Red Hilt. Every bullet fired was swallowed by a thick wall of red smoke that rose around Red Hilt like a shield. Without a word, the smoke shifted, twisted, and expanded until it formed a monstrous shape that looked like a vast, deformed man covered with red eyes and was impenetrable to any bullet or weapon.
Panic filled the bank as the creature let out a guttural roar that rattled the grounds.
And Red Hilt? He only smiled behind his mask, treating the chaos as nothing more than just a game.
Suddenly, a luminous spear burst from nowhere, piercing through the smoke wall Red Hilt created to protect himself. It grazed his cheek before slamming into the marble floor with a resounding crack.
A thin line of blood trickled down from the graze in his cheek. Red Hilt touched it with his fingertips, and the wound sealed instantly as if nothing had happened.
Red Hilt chuckled softly in anticipation.
"Finally..." he said. "Took you long enough, Arondight?"
From the shattered entrance of the bank, Arondight emerged with a spear in hand, and its brilliance cut through the lingering haze of red smoke made by Red Hilt's shadows. His signature hero attire was a striking blend of modern armor and urban stealth: a white, form-fitting body suit that hugged his frame like a racer's gear, with an angular plating on the surface segmented that gave off the impression of sleek, hardened muscle. Draped over it was a cropped hooded jacket in muted light gray, casting a profound shadow effect across his face, lending him an enigmatic, almost spectral presence.
He was, in every sense, Red Hilt's opposite. And that contrast alone was enough to make Red Hilt's grin widen behind the mask.
"You are Red Hilt, aren't you?" Arondight's voice was steady as he stepped forward with his spear gleaming.
"I am," Red Hilt replied. The way he said it to the other carried both certainty and amusement. "And I'm sure you received my message. That's why you're here, isn't it? So tell me, will you accept my challenge?"
Arondight's grip tightened on his spear while his gaze was fixed on the villain before him. "If it's a fight you want, I'll end it quickly, before more lives are dragged into your games!"
Red Hilt was delighted upon hearing Arondight's response. So for that reason, he raised his arms slightly, as though welcoming the clash between them with open arms.
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
The floor of the bank trembled as Arondight charged towards Red Hilt. His spear was immediately aimed at the villain and blocked all of Red Hilt's attacks. It got to the point where they had to go outside, far from the public, and continue their fight in the air, where every attack Arondight unleashed was precise, swift, and calculated. However, Red Hilt constantly blocked and dodged his attacks as if he wasn't serious about their fight. Sometimes he would attack with his shadows, but Arondight managed to block and counter them even though some grazed the young hero's body.
"Your moves aren't bad for a beginner, Arondight!" he taunted as he accompanied it with the rush of shadows that lashed out like whips that would counter the brilliance of the hero's spear. "Is this the best the so-called golden hero of Galahad City can do?"
Arondight gritted his teeth in frustration. He was forced to raise his hand, which formed a large ball of fire that he released at Red Hilt. He accompanied it with sharp ice crystals as if trying to corner Red Hilt into a box.
Then, Arondight saw a hole that could completely knock Red Hilt down.
Arondight spun around, pretending not to see the small opportunity to knock the villain off his track. Then with the right timing, he raised his spear, not to pierce Red Hilt directly, but to tear through his defenses. The villain was shocked by the surprise attack from behind, but still dodged. However, that attack quickly ripped his face mask off his face, which caused him to lose his concentration in the fight even more.
"Now it's my turn..."
Arondight called upon the air and wrapped Red Hilt around it. And with a swift move, he slammed him with all his strength to the ground, where he could not get up.
Time stood still for the two of them. And for the first time, Red Hilt's face was revealed, and only Arondight had ever done this in history. He witnessed Red Hilt's entire face: a handsome man with a piercing pair of bright red eyes that matched perfectly with his pale, smooth complexion and his silky black hair that looked so soft it seemed like a model in a shampoo commercial.
Arondight was stunned. He had never imagined the man behind the mask would have such a pretty face. But he knows that justice must be his number one priority. Except that time where his brain was screaming like, "WTF! Why is this villain so hot?"
It's annoying to admit, but many villains have beautiful faces that could rival popular celebrities.
And this man was one of them.
But Arondight did not let himself be fooled by the villain's beauty. To him, Red Hilt was an enemy. There was no room for any doubt when it came to justice.
So, despite the fatigue, wounds, and bruises that burn against Arondight's skin, he forced himself closer to Red Hilt. His grip on his spear remained steady despite his injuries, and he asked him:
"Any last words?"
Red Hilt didn't respond right away. Instead, he just stared at Arondight. He never thought that the day would come when someone would manage to kiss his body on the ground. But even then, he wasn't angry. Instead, a strange feeling of excitement burned within him, especially as he stared at Arondight, who was on top of him and ready to thrust his spear into him.
The tip of the spear sank slightly into his skin, creating a thin streak of blood that slid down to his throat. But even so, he kept staring at the hero above him, as if he saw no one else around but him.
I wanted more than this...
Red Hilt's lips curled into an unsettling but alluring smirk Arondight had ever seen.
Then, the villain calmly said, "How about hooking up with me instead?"
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Because at that moment, just as it had been on that fateful night in the bar when they first met, Red Hilt knew...
...he had finally found a game that was far too entertaining to ever let go.