Hermes slowly approached the old man and his children. He watched as Zamor embraced his twins, the rugged warrior's frame shaking with tears of relief. The children immediately began pointing toward the young Don, their voices overlapping as they told their father how the "Masked Man" had saved them from a nightmare. They even began scolding him, telling him to stop crying because he looked "awful," which forced a wet laugh out of the Chief.
However, as Zamor wiped his eyes and turned to face Hermes, his expression curdled instantly.
'A... a monster,' Zamor thought, his lips retracting into a snarl of instinctual fear. He instinctively pulled his children behind his back, his hand gripping the strap of the rifle slung over his shoulder. He didn't raise the weapon, but his stance was rigid and defensive as he warned the young Don to stay in his position.
Hermes placed a hand on his forehead and let out a long, weary sigh. "Hold up, please. Look, I'm just an unarmed and harmless man. Seriously, do you still see me as a threat?"
"Whoever you are, sir, I appreciate what you've done," Zamor explained, his eyes fixed on the black gas mask. "But wearing a despicable mask like that... it is a sight rarely seen in this present era. It is very unsightly. I'm sorry if I instinctively reacted this way; it's out of habit. But never mind, I'm sorry for treating you like an enemy." He relaxed his posture slightly, though his hand remained near his weapon's strap.
"Hoo~ then I am deeply pleased to accept your apology," Hermes replied, bowing his head. He ignored the insult about his clothes, but deep inside, he felt a sting of annoyance. What was wrong with wearing something like this? He had modeled his outfit after the high-end casual suits worn by prestigious merchants traveling abroad.
Seeing the masked young man reminded Zamor of someone from his past, but he dismissed it as a trick of the light. He presumed the person he was talking to was a noble or honorable person because of his refined speech. Honestly, he wanted to ask the boy to reveal his face, but he was terrified of the butler standing nearby.
'I have to make this work,' Hermes strategized. 'This man is the Village Chief—one of the most important NPCs in the game. He's the guide who helps playable characters unlock their potential through his knowledge and leadership. I have to create a good relationship with this old man. It's now or never.'
"Pleased to meet you," Hermes greeted. He placed a hand on his chest and bowed. "My name is Aljen, a merchant from the Southern Cimeria Continent. I am no enemy but a friend, sir. Please, you don't have to fear me. As you can see, I am unarmed. I bring no harm to your family or your people, Village Chief."
Zamor's eyes snapped wide at the title. He hadn't revealed his identity yet. His face turned serious, looking at Hermes with a cold, aloof stare. He instinctively took a half-step back, wary of how much this stranger already knew.
Thankfully, the tension diminished after July and Troy stepped forward, tugging on their father's sleeves. They begged him to trust the young man who had saved them. With no other option, Zamor gave in.
"Then, forgive me. It looks like it's my loss," Zamor affirmed. "I can't believe someone other than my daughter could gain the trust of my children so quickly. Man, I'm getting old. Frankly, I don't want to trust someone dressed like that, sire. But considering how eagerly my children believe in you, I will consider this a favor."
"Oh, sure. I don't mind at all," Hermes nodded.
"Please bear in mind that anything that happens between us should be kept a secret," Zamor added with a strained smile, looking toward his unconscious militia men. "The villagers would panic if they heard of this humiliating defeat from two travelers. Got it?"
"Fine, sir. I will," Hermes assured. 'Thank you, kids! Cuteness is the key to success! But again... the clothes? These people have no sense of fashion at all.'
"So, we have a truce through oral conversation. We are no longer enemies, and everything is forgotten, right?" Hermes confirmed.
"Yes, sire. We are now in a neutral relationship," Zamor clarified with a bead of cold sweat.
"Justin, come here. I want you to apologize," Hermes ordered.
"Sir, I apologize for the terror I committed—despite the fact that you guys are the ones who started it," Justin declared with a terrifying smile. "Be grateful that I don't need to slay—cough—I mean, I'm grateful I no longer have ill will to eradicate you all."
"R-right," Zamor gasped. "As the leader, I wish for your forgiveness for any trouble my men caused. It is their duty to protect this place." He offered a hand to the butler.
Justin looked at the hand with pure disgust, completely apathetic to the gesture. Hermes quickly stepped in to settle the matter before the butler's gaze could burn a hole through the Chief's palm. "We're honored to accept your apology," Hermes said, grabbing Zamor's hand and shaking it firmly.
"The honor is mine, sire," Zamor simpered. The cold atmosphere had finally disappeared, and the children rejoiced.
"By the way, is there something we can do? I want to express my gratitude for you taking care of my children, and I hope I can do something to pay for this mess," Chief Zamor offered, gesturing toward the bruised men scattered in the field.
"Oh, that's very kind of you, but I don't think it's a good idea," Hermes replied, waving a hand dismissively while maintaining a humble tone. "Both parties are guilty of hurting one another. Honestly, we only helped the children out of goodwill. Let's just pretend it never happened."
Hermes offered a polite, masked smile. 'Oh, well. I hope he takes the bait. Only a noob player wouldn't take this chance. Thankfully, Zamor is the type of man who won't let a debt of honor slide.'
As expected, Zamor looked surprised—and then insistent. "No, no, that won't do. It makes me feel bad," Zamor interjected. "How about this? My family is known for collecting rare herbs from the Forbidden Forest. We have stocks that would be considered quite valuable. Would you like to see them?"
"I... I don't know. You really don't have to—"
"I insist!" Zamor declared, his voice booming with the stubborn pride of a frontier leader.
'Good.' Behind the gas mask, Hermes's expression shifted into a satisfied smirk. He heaved a theatrical sigh of "defeat" and nodded. Justin, witnessing the exchange, did a mental "guts pose." 'What a wonderful plot, my Don. I can see you weaving your web. I won't let your efforts be in vain!'
"Alright, you win. You're very persistent, Chief," Hermes shrugged.
As they prepared to move, Hermes asked for the village map. For "reference," he had Zamor mark the clinic and the Camelia House. Once the marks were made, he turned to his butler. "Justin. Take care of these men—the pitiful guards you knocked down. Use our car to transport them to the clinic, then meet us at the Camelia House."
"Yes, master," Justin responded. He bowed once before vanishing from sight to begin the task of loading the "cargo." He handled the unconscious guards like sacks of grain, tossing them into the backseat with a rhythmic efficiency that made Troy and July wince. "Are they going to be okay, Mr. Justin?" July whispered. Justin merely shot her a terrifyingly sharp smile that made her hide behind Hermes's coat.
THROUGH THE GATES OF HISTORY
A few moments later, Hermes was seated with the children in a medium-sized wagon. As they creaked toward the massive, fourteen-foot steel gates of Neue Fiona, Zamor leaned out to show his face. "Open up! And listen," Zamor ordered the gatekeepers. "There's a vehicle coming behind us. Let it through, capiche?"
The gates groaned open, but as the wagon entered, the black car Justin drove followed closely behind. Seeing the elite militia—men who regularly fought off forest predators with ease—reduced to a pile of snoring, battered limbs, the onlookers at the gate came to a terrifying conclusion. They assumed the mysterious "Black Carriage" was a specialized containment unit for the survivors of a high-tier Demon Beast attack, and whispers quickly spread among the hushed villagers that Chief Zamor had barely escaped a massacre by a legendary monster.
The crowd parted in a wave of panicked reverence, some even crossing their hearts as the car passed. They watched the procession with trembling hearts, never suspecting that the "monster" they feared was actually the young man in the merchant's suit sitting calmly in the wagon, while the "beast" responsible for the carnage was the polite, impeccably dressed butler behind the wheel.
"The people look scared, Brother Aljen," Troy noted, clutching the side of the wagon as he looked at the pale faces of the vendors. "They think something terrible happened."
"Don't worry about them, Troy," Hermes said, patting the boy's head. "They're just surprised to see such a fancy carriage." Inside, he was laughing. The irony of being mistaken for a monster-slayer while his own butler was the one who had thrashed the village's best men was almost too much to handle.
As they rolled through the streets, the sunlight hit Hermes's eyes, and he couldn't hide his delight. The village was a beautiful blend of Victorian aesthetics: sturdy concrete houses, ornate postal lamps, and bustling vendors. A street vendor tried to offer bread, but her hands shook so violently as she looked at the following car that Zamor had to reach out and catch the basket before it fell.
They finally arrived at their destination: The House of Camelia. Hermes closed his eyes, recalling the game lore. This was the place where heroes were forged. With Zamor's help, players acquired lost artifacts and learned the forbidden arts of ancient society. As the wagon stopped, Hermes stepped down, ready to begin the next phase of his plan.
Hermes stepped into the foyer of the Camelia House, his mind racing through the game's lore. Within these walls was a powerful item—a prototype developed by Zamor's junior—that would eventually turn one of the female protagonists into an absolute powerhouse. In the original timeline, that hero would use that very power to dismantle the tyranny of Hermes Archnemesis.
'If that item falls into the wrong hands, or if I handle this poorly, my death flag is going to descend faster than a falling guillotine,' Hermes thought, a bead of cold sweat rolling down his neck. 'I just hope I can stop the bad omen before I have to leave this island.'
The wagon had come to a halt before a sturdy, two-story structure that combined rustic charm with the defensive solidity of a fortress. Built from heavy timber and reinforced stone, the Camelia House felt like the heart of the village. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of drying herbs and woodsmoke. Hermes removed his leather shoes, sliding into the soft slippers Zamor offered.
The living room was a masterclass in frontier comfort. In the center sat a heavy wooden table, scarred by years of use, surrounded by four single-seated chairs upholstered in thick, cream-colored fur. To the left, a massive stone hearth dominated the wall, the crackling fire casting dancing orange shadows against the tiger-skin rug that lay across the floor—its glass eyes reflecting the embers. A large, empty ceramic vase stood by a frosted wooden window, catching the pale afternoon light.
"Would you like coffee or tea?" Zamor asked, his voice echoing off the exposed ceiling beams.
"Coffee, please. A sweet aroma—one cube of sugar should be plenty," Hermes requested, settling into a chair.
Zamor disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two steaming ceramic mugs. He sat opposite Hermes, taking a slow, deliberate sip. "Don't worry about the taste," the Chief noted with a wry smile. "I didn't add any poison to yours."
"I wasn't worried," Hermes replied, though he hadn't touched the mug yet. He lifted it, inhaling a scent so deep and chocolatey it felt like a physical embrace. "I'm just fascinated by the aroma. It's... fantastic. Truly delicious."
"Haha! I'm glad you like it. Those are Dark Scily Beans, harvested only from the Seerside Garden of the Dark Scily Forest," Zamor beamed.
"Amazing. I'd love to have a pack of these for my own home," Hermes grinned. 'Addicted to coffee? Absolutely. I need a sack of this in the mansion.'
"Consider it a gift as an apology for this morning. I'll give you a sack."
"Really? That's kind. Then... make it two," Hermes chirped, playfully raising two fingers.
Zamor laughed heartily, the sound vibrating the small table. "Who am I to refuse a fellow coffee lover? It's a pleasure to meet someone who appreciates the finer things, Mr. Aljen."
THE MERCHANT'S INTEL
The Chief set his mug down, his posture shifting. The friendly host persona didn't vanish, but it was now layered with the sharp edge of a seasoned leader. He crossed his legs and fixed Hermes with a piercing look that seemed to try and bore through the black lenses of his mask.
"Now, let's talk business. Enough of the coffee break," Zamor said, his smile turning slightly terrifying as the firelight caught his amber hair. "How did you know I was the Chief? I never revealed my identity out there, and I was certain no one but my men knew my face. So, tell me... who are you really?"
Hermes flinched internally. His heart hammered, but he forced his body to remain still. He couldn't reveal his true name, nor could he say he knew this world from a past life. He set his mug down with a slow, theatrical sigh.
"Don't stare at me like that, Chief. It doesn't suit you," Hermes countered, leaning back. "It's simple. Only a fool wouldn't recognize the man leading a militia. Besides, the children spoke of you with such pride—I'm not so silly that I'd fail to recognize the man of his word on this island. Never underestimate the intel of the merchant before you. I'm no ordinary traveler from the Southern Cimeria Desert."
It was a classic "white lie" woven into a half-truth. Zamor's expression softened into one of impressed wariness.
"Ooh, scary. To think I'm that popular," Zamor cackled. "I'll have to have a word with my children about leaking family secrets. But I must say, by the way you speak and carry yourself, you act more like the son of a brilliant noble than a mere merchant."
"You can't earn trust without revealing a little truth," Hermes declared. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."
Zamor tilted his head. "I don't quite follow the philosophy, but I suppose being from that colonial nation explains the mask. I've heard the sandstorms there are lethal, though the land is rich in gas and crystals. I'd love to visit one day."
"I'll make sure to reserve a room for you at my hotel in Libya," Hermes promised, raising his mug in a toast. "As a fellow gentleman, I won't forget it."
"Thank you, Sir Aljen," Zamor simpered. He leaned forward. "So, shall we discuss a trade agreement?"
"A trade agreement is a fine idea," Hermes replied, his tone turning serious as he made his move. "But there is something more important I wish to discuss before we get to that."
Zamor's eyes turned sharp, tracking Hermes's every movement. "And what might that be?"
"You've already realized I'm not an ordinary merchant," Hermes said, tapping his finger twice on the armrest. "I am a man of my word who handles the 'nasty' jobs that ordinary men cannot—for the right customers."
"I see," Zamor whispered, the atmosphere in the room freezing into a professional silence. "Let me guess... your customers receive a very specific kind of favor. That's the service you've provided."
"Exactly," Hermes nodded.
The two sat in the silence of the hearth, the only sound the crackling of the logs and the distant splashing of the twins in their bath.
"I see. So, rascals like you actually exist in this world, huh," Chief Zamor said, his voice dropping an octave as his face turned dark.
Hermes felt a sharp, terrifying aura radiate from the man, making him gasp for air. 'I've pushed too far,' he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. But just as he prepared for a violent reaction, Zamor's expression shattered into a wide, relieved beam.
"Brilliant! What wonderful news. I'm glad," the Chief laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"E-eh?" Hermes tilted his head, completely bewildered. 'I thought he was going to kill me, but he's... happy?'
"Forgive me, Sir Aljen. It is a habit of mine to test a man's mettle. I thought the gods had forgotten us, but to think they would send a man who handles 'nasty jobs' right to my doorstep! I am very pleased," Zamor chuckled, though the underlying tension remained.
"By any chance," Zamor prompted, leaning in close, "are you free? I presume you don't have any pending contracts."
"I am currently a free agent," Hermes answered, regaining his composure.
"Great. Work for me," Zamor urged, cutting straight to the point.
"I... I don't mean any disrespect," Hermes stammered, trying to play the part of a cautious professional. "But I don't plan on being hired by anyone just yet. Please understand."
"Of course, of course. But I hope you'll consider it. I'll pay you properly, I guarantee it," Zamor assured him. He paused, his gaze turning grave and heavy with bloodlust. "But be honest with me... is killing people part of your repertoire?"
Hermes felt the temperature in the room drop. He knew this was the moment to establish his "Aljen" persona as a high-tier mercenary. "Yes. And I can guarantee we never fail a mission. Let's get to the point, Chief. You want someone dead, don't you? That's why you're trying to hire me."
The air in the room froze.
"I admit it. Yes. That is exactly why I want you by my side," Zamor confirmed.
Hermes set his cup down on the wooden table with a quiet clack. "Are your men even legal? It is prohibited for a village to arm themselves without the approval of the mafia boss. You're building a militia without your Lord's consent."
Zamor's face fell into a mask of sorrow. "No, it isn't legal. But we won't allow ourselves to stay unprepared. We need self-protection."
"Why?" Hermes asked, leaning forward, his mask reflecting the hearth's flames. "Why arm yourselves against your own rulers? I'm inquisitive by nature, Chief. Forgive me if I dig too deep."
"It's no longer a secret," Zamor said, winking a weary eye. "But information has a price, Merchant."
"Fair enough," Hermes countered with a grave tone. "Here is my side: I am searching for a permanent place to settle and build my business kingdom. This village is undeveloped, but it has potential. If I invest here—and bring in my foreign connections—the value of this place will skyrocket. But I need to know the risks. I need to know everything. A fair trade for your secrets, wouldn't you say?"
Zamor contemplated the offer, rubbing his chin before grinning. "Fair enough. You win. Have you heard the name... Archnemesis?"
Hermes felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. "The family known for seeking glory through bloodshed? The taboo clan with the only male heir?"
"Yes," Zamor spat the word like poison. "They have a hostile relationship with the feminist societies and a reputation for savagery. They are Amerigon descendants who occupied western Scily a century ago. But it's the current state of things that is the tragedy."
Zamor grimaced, his eyes clouding with the ghosts of the past. "After the war between the Corleon and Archnemesis families, we thought peace had come to Scily. We were wrong. For the past five years, a bloody man has held the throne and made us suffer. The youngest son, Hermes Archnemesis, has terrorized this village."
Hermes's eyes trembled behind his lenses.
"He sends mercenaries to raid us instead of helping us," Zamor declared, his voice trembling with fury. "He destroys our hopes for sport. Half our population tried to flee, but he had the fugitives murdered to set an example. No one dares leave now. They fear dying like the others. So, we decided to rearm secretly. We trade materials for rifles, preparing to free ourselves. This year, we will be ready to murder the new Don of the Archnemesis family. We just need a leader to guide us to victory."
'Oh my god,' Hermes thought, his entire body shaking with internal terror. 'What kind of monster was the original Hermes? I didn't expect the character I possessed to be this cruel.' He stared at the fierce, vengeful man across from him, realizing he wasn't just sitting in a living room—he was sitting in the headquarters of a revolution aimed directly at his own throat.
"S-s-so... are you guys planning to do it soon?" Hermes asked, the moisture of cold sweat beginning to coat his face behind the mask.
"No, I don't think we can do it yet. There are a lot of things we need to prepare before we can commence," Chief Zamor said, his voice softening slightly. "But remember this—we always prayed to God that the boy would change his ways. Since he's just a kid around your age, we hoped he would finally realize his mistakes, but—" The Chief paused, his eyes hardening into flint.
"Good... that's good then..." Hermes breathed a sigh of relief, taking a long, shaky sip of his coffee.
"However," Zamor continued, his smile turning predatory, "if the opportunity presents itself, we will strike without remorse. I don't care if he's a teenager or if he has the backing of the Mafia Council. We will ravish that kid and behead him, hanging his head on a dirty torch for all to see."
"...Eh?"
Hermes froze, nearly spitting his mouthful of coffee back into the mug. He clamped his hand over his mouth to force the liquid down, his eyes bulging in sheer terror as he listened to the man's unbridled resentment. He was utterly petrified.
"We want to execute that sluggish, stupid, and mad Don in front of everyone," Zamor declared, his voice rising with a dark passion. "If we had enough manpower, we would siege his mansion and burn it down until only his charred bones remain. We've already started guarding our boundaries to ensure his men can never return. Arson, protection rackets, and assassination are now banned here. We refuse to be part of his childish, cruel whims. We want to separate from his turf entirely, become an independent village, and eventually a town."
Hermes gulped, his entire body trembling as he processed the Chief's reasoning.
'Eeeh? Seriously, this is completely different from the story I know!' Hermes screamed internally.
This situation had spiraled far away from the original plot of the game. In the original timeline, Chief Zamor was supposed to be a supporting character who helped the female protagonists; he wasn't supposed to be an independent revolutionary plotting a bloody coup. Rearming the village was a suicidal move. Even if they managed to kill the "Don," the Mafia Council would never tolerate such a rebellion. They would simply send a replacement to raze the village to the ground to maintain the law.
Hermes realized that someone had fundamentally broken the logic of this world. There was only one person he knew who could screw up a plot this badly.
'Stump G... what are you planning?' he grimaced, turning his face away so Zamor wouldn't see his wrinkled, panicked expression. 'You're totally destroying the story. If I don't fix this "bad omen" soon, my head really is going to end up on a torch.'