Season 3 chapter 44
The Bookstore Syndicate
(Present Day - Seistain Hub)
Miles away from the ocean, deep within the winding, neon-lit backstreets of the Seistain capital, the rusted bell above the door of an old, dusty novel shop quietly jingled.
The store was empty, smelling heavily of decaying paper and old ink. Behind the wooden counter stood Mr. Asphalt, the supposedly humble bookstore owner who had previously pointed a heavy machine gun at Malesh's head. He was calmly organizing a stack of highly explicit Demon Lord comic books.
Stepping out from the shadows of the "Historical Fiction" aisle was Muntari. The number-one ranked assassin in the underground network was wearing his usual nondescript jacket and, true to form, was casually chewing on a half-eaten ham sandwich.
Muntari swallowed his bite and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Mr. Asphalt," Muntari stated, his voice completely flat and devoid of any emotion. "I think so, we should start our missions too. The corporate billionaires have the payload, and the board is set."
Mr. Asphalt stopped stacking the comics. He slowly looked up, his eyes sharpening into the calculating, lethal gaze of a master intelligence broker.
"I think so, you are right about this, Muntari," Mr. Asphalt agreed, his voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous register. "The distraction phase is successfully running. The military is occupied. The executives are in motion. You can go on with the liquidation process."
Mr. Asphalt reached under the counter, pulling out a sealed, black envelope and sliding it across the wood.
"Your target is the royal financial analyst," Mr. Asphalt ordered, using the strict, coded language of the ghost-ops network. "You are authorized to permanently close his accounts. Liquidate the asset. Ensure his operational status is entirely decommissioned. No traces, no loose ends."
Muntari picked up the black envelope, slipping it effortlessly into his inner jacket pocket. He took another bite of his sandwich.
"Liquidating a royal analyst," Muntari mumbled through the bread, shrugging casually. "It will be a highly easy task for me. I'll punch his ticket before he even realizes the market has crashed."
Muntari turned on his heel, heading toward the rusted door of the bookstore to step back out into the chaotic, burning streets of the capital.
"Muntari. Wait."
Mr. Asphalt's voice cut through the dusty air, sharper and colder than before.
Muntari stopped, looking over his shoulder.
Mr. Asphalt leaned over the wooden counter, his expression dead serious. The fate of the entire DI'an Republic was balancing on a knife's edge, and their syndicate was pulling the strings from the shadows.
"Do not let anyone know about the fact that we are also involved in this specific plan," Mr. Asphalt commanded strictly. "To the royals, you are a ghost. To the billionaires, you are just a cheap contractor. If our intelligence network is exposed, the entire regime change collapses. Maintain absolute radio silence."
Muntari gave a slow, respectful nod.
"Understood, Mr. Asphalt," Muntari replied quietly. "I was never here."
"Good," Mr. Asphalt nodded back, picking up a comic book to resume his cover. "Now you can go."
Muntari pushed open the heavy wooden door, slipping out into the dark, rain-slicked streets of Seistain, ready to tear the Royal Family down from the inside out.
The Silent Overwatch
(Present Day - Wollondaik)
The apocalyptic destruction of the Wollondaik district raged on. The deafening, relentless roar of distant artillery fire and collapsing infrastructure masked almost every other sound in the burning city.
Kniya and Malesh pushed their way out of the heavy foliage of the camouflaged bamboo orphanage, leaving the safety of the survivors behind. They didn't look back, their expensive tailored coats flapping in the hot, ash-filled wind as they marched back into the chaotic streets to continue their geopolitical war.
Staying behind at the entrance of the shelter, Filoska and Salesh watched their two bosses walk away.
High above the street, hidden in the jagged, ruined remains of a third-story commercial building, a shadow shifted.
A royal assassin, draped in urban camouflage, slowly crawled to the edge of the shattered concrete. He mounted a heavy, high-powered sniper rifle on the ledge, perfectly aligning the crosshairs directly onto the back of Kniya's head. His finger slowly curled around the trigger.
Down below, Filoska's sharp, aristocratic eyes caught the unnatural glint of the sniper's scope reflecting the street fires.
She didn't scream. She didn't warn Kniya or Malesh. She simply let out a deeply exhausted sigh, smoothly drew a silenced, heavy-caliber corporate pistol from inside her coat, aimed upward with flawless precision, and pulled the trigger.
PFT.
The suppressed gunshot was completely swallowed by the deafening roar of a nearby collapsing building.
The high-velocity bullet punched straight through the sniper's optical scope and into his skull. The assassin instantly went limp, his body tumbling out of the third-story window and slamming into a dumpster below with a heavy, unnoticed thud.
Kniya and Malesh kept walking down the street, completely oblivious to the fact that they had just been a millisecond away from having their brains blown out, too busy arguing over the volume of the nearby explosions.
Salesh stood next to Filoska, crossing his arms and shaking his head in absolute, numb exhaustion.
"That is literally the twentieth time in this week alone," Salesh complained flatly, watching the dead assassin bleed out into the trash. "I don't know how many more of these shadow-ops the Royal Family is going to send. We are running out of dumpsters."
Filoska didn't say a word. She just gave a grim, tired nod, smoothly ejected the spent casing from her pistol, and slipped the weapon back into her coat before turning to deal with the hundred orphans waiting inside the bamboo hut.
The Bribe-45 Syndicate
(A few years prior to the current situation)
(Raidwai, KDC)
The night air in the city of Raidwai was completely still, offering no relief from the suffocating political corruption that actively choked the KDC state.
Tucked away in a highly secure, heavily gated industrial cul-de-sac stood the massive, concrete headquarters of the Republic's most notoriously corrupt political faction: The Democratic Extortion & Bribe-45 Party.
Deep in the shadows of an adjacent alleyway, completely hidden from the streetlamps, stood Leon Debestez.
The royal heir's presence was a dark, suffocating weight in the alley. He was flanked by three of his elite, hyper-lethal royal shadow-guards. They were dressed in pitch-black tactical gear, their faces obscured, moving with the terrifying, silent precision of apex predators.
Leon leaned casually against the brick wall, adjusting his immaculate, highly expensive coat. He gave a slight flick of his hand.
One of his guards silently crept to the edge of the alley, peering around the corner to observe the main entrance of the Bribe-45 headquarters.
Two low-level, heavily armed political guards were stationed at the front doors. They were completely relaxed, leaning against the concrete barricades with their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders, deeply immersed in a conversation.
"Hey, did you read the latest market reports?" the first guard asked, pulling a cheap cigarette from his pocket. "Do you know the price of the commercial fart cylinders has really gone down this month? It dropped by like, thirty percent."
"Seriously?" the second guard replied, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Well, I think so that is great news for the fart terrorists."
"Oh, absolutely," the first guard nodded, lighting his cigarette. "It's a massive economic win for the naughty children groups who use them to completely ruin various birthday parties. They are going to be buying those things in absolute bulk now."
The second guard shook his head, a look of profound, philosophical disgust crossing his face.
"Yeah, I know that thing," the second guard sighed heavily. "They are really, really bad. I honestly don't know why the fuck those cylinders are so incredibly popular in our country. It is really, really weird to witness these kinds of things happening on a national scale."
"It's a cultural epidemic," the first guard agreed.
"In a normal country," the second guard ranted, gesturing with his hands, "normal people shouldn't give a single fuck about this thing! But our country? Our federal politics literally give a lot of fucks to this thing! Half of the Senate was debating the taxation of artificial flatulence last week! It is embarrassing!"
The Royal Entrance
As the two guards continued to passionately debate the geopolitical ramifications of cheap fart cylinders, a tall, imposing figure suddenly stepped out of the shadows and walked directly into the glow of the streetlamp.
It was Leon.
The two guards instantly stopped talking. They unslung their heavy rifles, holding them at the ready, though they were immediately intimidated by the sheer, terrifying aura of the aristocratic man standing before them.
"Hey!" the first guard barked, trying to sound authoritative. "You cannot enter this building. This is the private headquarters of the Bribe-45 Party. Who are you? Please identify yourself immediately!"
Leon didn't say a single word. He didn't even stop walking. He just kept his cold, dead eyes locked on the front doors.
Before the guards could raise their weapons, two shadows detached from the darkness behind Leon.
His royal assistants moved with blinding, supernatural speed. In perfect synchronization, they lunged forward. Before either guard could even inhale to scream, the assistants violently slapped thick, chemical-soaked cloths directly over the guards' mouths and noses, instantly cutting off their air supply.
In the exact same fraction of a second, the assistants drove long, hollow steel needles directly into the sides of the guards' necks.
The highly concentrated, fast-acting neuro-poison pumped into their veins. The two political guards' eyes rolled back into their heads. Without making a single sound, their bodies went completely limp, dropping onto the concrete like heavy sacks of flour.
The royal assistants dragged the silent corpses into the decorative bushes, clearing the path in less than three seconds.
Leon didn't break his stride. He calmly stepped over the dropped cigarette, pushed open the heavy glass doors of the Bribe-45 headquarters, and walked inside.