Amidst the suffocating shadows of the warehouse, the young Don, Hermes Archnemesis, scrambled through a narrow, jagged window. It was the only exit that offered a reprieve from the encroaching circle of his pursuers. However, as he leaped, his body crashed awkwardly into a heavy metal trash bin below. The echoing clang of the impact tore through the silence of the alleyway, instantly alerting a nearby henchman.
Another mistake. Hermes cursed his own clumsy desperation. He frantically kicked away the rotting refuse clinging to his suit, vaulted out of the bin, and sprinted into the gloom.
"There he is!" a blonde-haired man roared, pointing an accusing finger toward the fleeing silhouette. "He's making a break for the next building!"
Two comrades flanked the blonde man, their boots thundering on the pavement as they gave chase. Hermes had expected the persistence, but the sheer tenacity of these professional hitmen was starting to grate on his nerves. He dove through another open window, rolling across a floor littered with rusted metal plates. The sharp edges bit into his skin, and a searing pain shot up his foot as he stumbled over a discarded iron beam.
He ignored the agony, forcing his body upright.
"He jumped through that window! You two, follow him. I'll cut him off from the other side!" the blonde man commanded. His partners nodded with a sharp "Roger!"
The relentless determination of these men to capture him was no longer just terrifying; it was profoundly annoying. Hermes gasped for air, his lungs burning. 'So this is what that fucking newspaper meant,' he thought with clinical detachment. 'The [Punishment Quest] was activated because I deviated from the script? Fucking ridiculous. Just let me escape for real!'
Suddenly, the blonde-haired man burst through a nearby fiberglass partition, shards showering the floor like lethal confetti. Hermes, caught off guard and unable to reach for his pistol in time, was tackled to the ground.
"Gotcha!" the blonde man grunted, pinning Hermes's wrists to the floor with crushing strength. "You thought you could outrun us? No matter where you go, we'll always find you."
Hermes thrashed, but his physical vessel—the weak, unconditioned body of a pampered villain—couldn't break the grip. If he were the original Hermes, he might have wept and begged for mercy. But Aljen Mura, the level-headed creator of this world, was the one in control now.
"Boy, I've heard all about you," the man sneered, leaning in close. "You don't have the strength to resist. You're pushing back like a helpless baby."
Hermes remained calm, his mind already scanning for a weakness. Instead of losing his composure, he decided to use his words to bait the man into a mistake. "Seriously? Do you think you can scare me with that cliché line? Are you stupid?"
He kept his voice steady, dripping with calculated boredom. "Man, you've got some guts pinning me down with that disgusting body. Have you considered a lifestyle change? Maybe hit the gym for that fatty tummy? Poor bastard, I bet your mother regretted raising you."
The man's face contorted. "Y-You fucking bastard! What do you know about me?!" His veins bulged. "Even my mother was like that! You have no right to mock me. She's a bitch—she abandoned me! It wasn't because of my tummy, you moron!"
Hermes's eyes remained cold behind the mask. He didn't care about the man's tragic backstory or his mother's failings—to him, it was just useful data that proved he had successfully triggered the man's temper. "So what? I don't care," Hermes replied flatly. "You still need to lose weight."
"I'm going to shut that mouth for good," the man roared, his face darkening as he pulled back a fist to increase its momentum. "Take this, you motherfu—"
"—I was just waiting for this, fool," Hermes hissed.
As the man released one hand to strike, Hermes didn't flinch. He used the momentum of his own body to drive his head—protected by the sturdy mask—directly into the man's nose. CRACK. The man recoiled, rolling to the side as blood erupted from his nostrils. Hermes felt a dull thud, but the mask had absorbed the brunt of the impact.
'Do you really think I'm just a pathetic wise guy? Fool, I'm Aljen Mura!'
Before the man could recover, Hermes delivered a brutal, precise stomp to the man's crotch. The blonde man's eyes went wide; he let out a strangled wheeze and collapsed into a fetal position. Hermes didn't wait around. He scrambled to his feet, but two shadows were already closing in.
"There you are!" a familiar, gravelly voice barked.
It was Rag. Hermes threw his weight against a locked door at the end of the hall. The wood groaned and gave way, sending him tumbling into a room just as a hail of bullets chewed through the air. Rag paused to slam a fresh magazine into his rifle, his eyes burning with humiliated rage.
The two henchmen tried to follow, but Hermes had already spotted a large wooden crate filled with old metal plates. With a surge of adrenaline, he shoved it with all his might, the crate sliding across the floor and wedging itself against the doorframe.
"Eat those metals, you morons. Adieu!" Hermes shouted, waving a mocking salute before turning to run.
"Men, don't let that brat mock our pride!" Rag screamed. "Capture him through hell if we have to!"
"Are you guys perverts?" Hermes yelled back. "Chasing me even in hell? I'll take heaven, thanks!"
He sprinted toward a stairwell, the sound of bullets splintering the banisters behind him. Reaching for the small of his back, his heart sank. His hand swiped against empty air. His pistol—his only real defense—was gone, likely lost during the scuffle with the blonde man.
He clenched his fists, his mind racing. No gun. No magic. Just his wits. He needed a weapon—something long and light enough to counter-attack while keeping those professional killers at a distance.
Hermes's eyes scanned the cluttered second floor, finally locking onto a heavy, reinforced crate positioned near a stack of industrial pallets. Moving with the fluid grace of someone who had spent thousands of hours in virtual combat, he dropped into a low crouch and sprinted toward the cover, diving behind the wood just as a spray of bullets chipped the paint off the wall behind him.
He pried the crate open, and his eyes widened. Resting inside was a Colt Model 1801 Carbine along with ten specialized rounds. The weapon was a masterpiece of old-world engineering—essentially a revolver-type rifle with a rotating cylinder. It felt surprisingly light in his hands, balanced perfectly for quick target acquisition.
Suddenly, something smooth and thin slapped against his mask. He peeled it off, his level-headedness momentarily cracking as he stared at the familiar, cursed parchment.
"A-A newspaper?" Hermes hissed, his grip tightening until the edges of the paper crinkled. "Seriously, are you fucking with me, Stump G? What the hell is this?"
[New Objective: Subdue the enemies using the provided weapon.]
[Constraint: ZERO FATALITIES. Do not kill anyone within this zone. Failure to comply will result in a SEVERE PUNISHMENT for the pity user.]
[PS: Good luck. Teehee~]
"Teehee? You self-proclaimed, mother-freaking God," Hermes growled, his voice a low vibration of pure spite. "Are you sick in the head? A 'no casualty' run in a warehouse full of mafia hitmen is an impossible task!"
He tore the paper into confetti, letting the pieces drift into the dust. He picked up the ten bullets, examining them closely. They weren't lead; they were non-lethal, high-impact sharp rounds designed to incapacitate rather than pierce vitals.
"I see... high-velocity rubber-coated sharps," Hermes sighed, reloading the cylinder with practiced ease. "Light, fast, and non-lethal. Let's see if my FPS reflexes translated to this body."
The thud of boots grew louder. Hermes took a breath, exhaled slowly, and snapped the carbine to his shoulder. He peered through the scope, locking onto the first silhouette that rounded the corner.
Crack!
The shot rang out. The bullet caught a henchman directly in the forehead. The man's eyes rolled back instantly as the concussive force shut down his nervous system. He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.
"Hide!" Rag screamed, diving behind a pillar.
"Too late," Hermes simpered. "I've got you guys in my sights!"
Moving with a calm, terrifying precision, Hermes fired two more shots. Each round found its mark—straight to the temple or the forehead. Two more men collapsed, out cold before they even realized they were being targeted.
"Return fire!" the bald man roared, hoisting his rifle. "Suppressing fire! Pin the brat down!"
The warehouse erupted in a cacophony of lead. Hermes tucked himself into a ball behind the green crate, the wood splinters flying around him. He waited for the rhythm—the slight pause when the blonde-man (who had recovered and returned to the fray) adjusted his aim.
"Take that, you motherfucking son of a bitch!" the blonde man screamed, his face a mask of rage as he showered Hermes's cover with bullets.
Hermes didn't get angry. He stayed analytical. He rolled to the left, leaning his body low to the ground, and snapped a shot.
Crack!
The bullet took the blonde man right between the eyes. He went down hard, silenced by the non-lethal impact.
"Gotcha."
Hermes shifted his aim to the bald man. He fired three rapid shots, but the man ducked behind a steel girder just in time. Hermes rolled back to his original cover, his heart racing. In any other situation, a teenager would be screaming in panic, but Hermes felt a surge of cold, dark excitement. For a die-hard fan of multiplayer shooters, this was the ultimate high—landing perfect headshots in a high-stakes environment.
After several minutes of the intense exchange, Hermes realized he was running low on ammo. He needed to change the game.
"Hey, Mr. Rag! Can we talk?" Hermes shouted over the ringing in his ears.
"What?" Rag replied, his voice strained with uncertainty.
"I said, can we talk about this situation? Negotiate?"
"You fucking bastard! You think I'll fall for a deal? What the hell is there to talk about?"
"Heh~" Hermes suddenly popped up, snapping a shot at a man peeking from behind Rag. Crack! "Got one more. That makes five."
"You cheater! You're just trying to lure us out!" Rag screamed, resuming his fire. "Show yourself or we'll kill you!"
"Oh, really?" Hermes stood up fully, his carbine leveled at the remaining group. "Then try it."
The sudden boldness stunned them. Rag froze, his finger hovering over the trigger. "What the fuck? Are you kidding me? You've got some guts to just stand there. You're a despicable, annoying brat, aren't you?"
"What gives?" Hermes mocked, gesturing with one hand for them to come at him. "Too scared to shoot?"
"Sir, should we?" the bald man hissed, his sweat-beaded face twitching. "Give the command!"
Rag clenched his teeth, looking at his unconscious men on the floor. He spat on the ground and lowered his rifle slightly. "Hold your fire. Wait for my command. Put them down. I'll handle this."
Rag stepped out from cover, facing Hermes directly. "You're a mindful freak, Don Hermes. You've seen right through our original motive, haven't you?"
"Of course. It's obvious," Hermes said, his voice level and cold. "You guys keep shouting about 'capturing me alive.' But 'alive' doesn't mean 'unhurt.' I know your type. You'd torture me until I lost my mind before handing me over to your Boss. I'm not interested in that ending. Besides, look at you guys. You're exhausted. We're wasting bullets and sweat. It's better to talk."
"So, what do you want?" Rag asked, his shoulders sagging slightly.
"You mentioned you'd be dead if you failed to catch me tonight, right?" Hermes leaned the carbine against his shoulder.
Rag sighed, a sound of pure defeat. "Yes. We'll be floating in the river if we don't drag you in front of the Boss. So what? Are you planning something, Don Hermes?"
"Woah," Hermes mocked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm surprised. You're actually being polite now. 'Don Hermes' instead of 'bastard kid.' How very cooperative."
Rag ground his teeth. After the humiliation and the precision shooting he'd just witnessed, he was finally reading between the lines. This wasn't a child; it was a professional in a child's skin.
"Anyway," Hermes coughed, his gaze turning piercing. "Are you guys actually fond of your work? This life?"
"Yes," the bald man barked before Rag could answer. "We're happy to serve the Boss!"
Hermes looked at the bald man with a gaze of genuine, chilling pity. "Then you're a stupid freak, bald guy."
The warehouse felt like a tomb of industrial decay. The air was thick with the scent of ozone from the carbine fire and the musk of ancient dust disturbed by the scuffle. Moonlight filtered through the jagged holes in the corrugated ceiling, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floorboards. Hermes stood amidst the silence, the cold metal of his weapon a stark contrast to the heated tension of the room. He looked at the group before him—not a disorganized rabble, but Mafia men whose professional discipline was currently fraying under the pressure of his psychological warfare.
"B-bald guy? I have a name you—Hey, listen!" the man stammered, his pride stung even in his fear.
"Anyway," Hermes interrupted, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, chilling cadence. "There's someone I adored from reading his timeline. Before he died, he stated: 'He'd always been a man who followed his head and not his heart. The heart was just a bloody motor. The head was meant to drive.' His name was Mario Puzo. I know you're all morons who don't even know who that is, so don't think too much; you don't deserve to learn his true identity. My point is specific: Don't throw your lives away for one person. Whether it's for loyalty, a bloodbath, or whatever is common these days. What are you going to do if you die so young? Get it? Life is short. You can do better than chasing me."
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The weight of Hermes's level-headed nihilism seemed to crush the will of the Mafia men. The bald man's hands trembled; the reality of their precarious situation—caught between a lethal "brat" and a ruthless Boss—finally broke him.
"W-w-wow," the bald man muttered. He let his rifle clatter to the floor and sank to his knees. "Yeah... life is short. Why are we even risking ourselves for this? I'm tired of this shit."
"You! What are you doing? Stand up!" Rag barked, though his own voice wavered. "Stand up and don't let your guard down!"
"But, sir," the bald man whispered, looking at the floor. "He's telling the truth. We're going to die anyway. We can't catch him."
"Don't be fooled! He's just deceiving us!" Rag screamed, but he was backed against a stack of crates, shivering.
Hermes chuckled, a dry, melodic sound that echoed off the metal walls. "You dare tell me I'm bluffing again, Mr. Rag?"
Rag gulped, his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. "I... I don't even dare say that." He stepped back, avoiding Hermes's antagonizing scarlet gaze. "But we'll never betray our oath to the Boss. Never."
"Seriously? Are you happy with this life?" Hermes stepped closer, his boots crunching on glass. "Proving you can do anything within his grasp? He doesn't care about you. Throwing your lives away like garbage is a non-ethical way of proving your worth. Truth be told, no one will remember your names, even if you do drag me in front of your beloved 'kind' man."
"Insolence!" a minor henchman interrupted, raising his gun with shaking hands. "You just want us to believe your own beliefs!"
"Shut up, moron. You're just a minor character," Hermes snapped.
"M-minor character? No, you shut up! You don't know how much they paid us to capture you alive! If we didn't have orders from the higher-up, you'd be a slice of dead meat!"
Hermes let out an exhausted sigh. "For the last time, don't interrupt my speech. You're a minor character in this scene, so back off."
"Why you—"
BANG! BANG!
Rag fired two rounds into the floor near the henchman's feet. The room went silent.
"I said shut the fuck up," Rag hissed, pointing his weapon at his own man. "If I hear another word, I'll be the one to shoot your throat. You'll be the one in the garbage bag. Got it?"
The henchman retreated, cowed. Rag turned back to Hermes, his expression one of grim curiosity. "Now... what is your proposal, Don Hermes?"
"There. That's the correct way to interact," Hermes simpered. "Specifically: you guys are going to work for me. For the time being, I guarantee you'll be compensated with more money than the lump-sum wages you get from these illegal activities."
"You want us to work for you? After you made us look like deep shit?" Rag gibed.
"C'mon, there's no harm in it," Hermes pressured. "Look at the facts. My people have left me. I have no soldiers I can trust. I don't want you as subjects for some grand ambition—I want you to be practical. You can live your lives to the fullest with your wives and children."
"Another bullshit offer!" Rag shouted. "We won't follow someone weak—wicked—like you! I've dedicated my life to the Clan. The Clan never throws its members away!"
"Wait," Hermes's eyes narrowed. "Did you just say Clan? I thought you were lowly bandits. Don't tell me—"
"Yes," Rag said, a strange pride flickering in his eyes. "We aren't just ordinary men. We are from—What the hell is that light?"
Rag pointed toward the ceiling. Hermes noticed a shadow growing rapidly across the floor. He turned, his eyes shrinking as a brilliant, searing white light poured through the roof.
"Shit! That's not an ordinary light! Everyone get the hell out of here, now! It's an arti—"
BOOM.
A massive explosion of pure magical energy illuminated the district, vaporizing the warehouse in a single, deafening blast. The impact leveled the structure, igniting crates of old explosives that went off like a chain of macabre fireworks. Concrete turned to dust and metal melted in an instant.
High above on a neighboring rooftop, amidst the swirling smoke, a man in a black suit-jacket stood silhouetted against the moon. He exhaled a long cloud of cigarette smoke and lowered a massive, magically-enhanced rifle.
"Mission accomplished," the stranger said into a communication device, his voice deep and devoid of emotion. "Like you said, he was here. I hit them with a Tier 4 Artillery spell. I'm sure of it. He's dead, along with the hunters pestering him. The plan hasn't changed. It's all going according to your prophecy, sir. The target is dead."