""...""
Confusion lingered in my chest like an itch I couldn't scratch. My mind felt... unsteady. I wasn't used to that.
I moved on instinct, heading toward the nearest hotel Nowhere door. My footsteps were steady, calculated—habitual.
""A true pathfinder looks for no path, and no path leads to Nowhere""
I didn't process much else, not until I stepped through and the familiar sight of the reception lobby came into view.
""Phew~""
The sound left me before I even realized it. A slow exhale, quiet but shaky, as if my lungs had only now remembered to breathe.
Only then did I realize—
I had been holding my breath.
((I feel like I've aged a decade just in this week))
I thought, the wear and tear of continous missions beginning to pile on me both mentally and physically.
""That should be the last one, right?""
I muttered, retrieving the folded letter from my coat. The parchment was still veiled beneath layers of Vigenère cipher encryption, its true contents unreadable at a glance. But the numerous crossed-out sections, each line meticulously struck through, made its purpose unmistakable.
A checklist...
""Done...""
I scanned the checklist one last time, ensuring every mission was accounted for. Every target neutralized. Every objective fulfilled. Nothing left undone.
The paper crumpled beneath my fingers as I tightened my grip, the faint rustle of crushed parchment barely registering in the quiet room.
*Sssht—*
I rolled it into a tight ball before flicking it into the air.
*Snap—Phwoosh!*
Black flames erupted from my fingertips, devouring the paper mid-flight. The dark fire crackled softly, consuming the document in seconds, leaving only a few wisps of embers floating down like dead fireflies.
""One week""
I murmured, watching the last traces of ash scatter.
""That's a new record""
I said, flat, detached and unimpressed as if I myself was debating the necessity of keeping such a record, it certainly wasn't anything worth boasting about.
These assignments were supposed to last a month. I finished them in six days.
((Not important...))
I turned sharply on my heels, my boots making barely a sound against the polished floor. The case comes first. The otherletter in my pocket...second.
Without hesitation, I moved toward the debriefing room, passing Enice's kiosk without so much as a glance.
A few moments later...
The debriefing room was sterile. Cold. The kind of place designed to keep a man from feeling comfortable.
Dim overhead lighting. A single steel table. The faint hum of machinery lurking somewhere unseen.
A figure sat across from me, face half-lit by the glow of a holographic screen being projected by a small orb embedded in a keyboard. Command I called him, he was responsible for my mission control.
He was a plain-looking man, neither old nor young, neither remarkable nor unremarkable. The kind of man who could blend into any crowd and vanish without effort. He didn't look up immediately, fingers moving fluidly over the interface as he processed the data.
A brief silence. Then—
""Command, this is callsign: Oblivion reporting in...""
I called out, awaiting his response.
"The documents?"
I gave a slow nod towards his question.
And then standing there, still bloodstained, still reeking of death, I dropped the reinforced case onto the table with a dull *thud*.
""Here""
I said pulling my hands back from the case.
His fingers stopped. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled the case towards himself all the way across the table with some form of telekinesis, unlocking it and taking a look at the contents.
"Hmm...it's all here, nice work Oblivion. Mission complete"
He studied me for a moment, gaze unreadable.
"Everything went smoothly?"
""...""
I didn't answer right away. My hands twitched faintly at my sides, an echo of something I couldn't explain.
((Aside from my impromptu brain surgery on Ibarim and the visit from the other factions?...))
I blinked, pushing the thought aside.
""No complications""
A lie, technically. But a necessary one.
He leaned back slightly, scanning the documents before speaking again.
"And Ibarim?"
A pause. Then—
""Unfortunately passed""
Flat, to-the-point and nothing more.
Mission Control studied me for a beat longer, expression unreadable. He knew better than to press, but I could sense the curiosity behind his stare.
"Haaah...I trust that his death was a necessary one"
Still, he let it go with a tired sigh and a few words.
((Not really, he just annoyed me so I popped his head off)) (Author: #relatable)
I wisely kept my thoughts to myself.
"Hmm?"
His fingers resumed their work, finalizing the report. He glanced up as I shifted toward the door.
"You in a hurry?"
I didn't stop walking as I replied.
""I need to see the Maestro""
Flat. Emotionless. That was all I gave him.
"Well take it easy, you've been pushing yourself too hard. It's not healthy even for you. We can't have our best agent collapsing in the middle of fieldwork"
Command said, his concern was more out of practicality than sentimentality.
""...""
I didn't wait for any further response, nor did I say anything else myself.
*Click!*
The door shut behind me, leaving the debriefing room in silence.
""But isn't that the whole retirement plan?""
I murmured the unspoken truth.
((When my end comes, it'll be as Astraea intended—choking on my own blood in some barren, forgotten battlefield, where no one will remember me, no one will care, and whether I exist or not won't matter to anyone at all..))
The thought lingered, cold and absolute, as I ascended the hotel stairs to the Maestro's room.
""...""
The grandiose, well-lit halls of the hotel always felt...wrong to me.
Polished marble stretched endlessly beneath my feet, each step swallowed by the thick, ornate carpets. The walls, adorned with oil paintings of places and people that never existed, seemed to watch in eerie silence. Golden chandeliers cast warm, inviting light, but it never quite reached the corners. The air carried a faint, lingering scent—expensive wood polish, old parchment, something sweet and unplaceable. Everything was pristine, immaculate. Yet, despite its opulence, the place was empty. It's almost always empty.
""Ugh...""
I groaned slightly though my face remained expressionless.
((You know, I kind of miss how the hotel looked during my childhood...at least the scientists vivisecting me were people I could talk to))
I thought, I had nothing but negative feelings about my childhood but even those negative feelings were better than this somewhat.
Maybe it was the liminality of it all—the unsettling sensation of a space meant to be lived in, yet utterly devoid of life. A place designed to comfort, but so hollow it only made the loneliness more pronounced.
((I mean, I know it's by design. Even if we're in the same hotel, none of us will cross paths unless we need each other for something, or the Maestro wills it but still…would it kill to make this place a little more lively? Actually never mind I don't like noisy places either. They're MISERABLE on my senses…))
I thought wondering if I actually prefer this over the claustrophobic kaleidoscope of stimulation on my senses that places like the Verdeleux's gala provided in spades.
The hotel wasn't bound by conventional space. It stretched and shifted according to unseen laws, its corridors folding into themselves, expanding and contracting in ways that made no logical sense, rooms that shouldn't exist have as much space as a platteau while rooms that should be large lead to nothing but a blank wall.
Even if two people occupied the same building, they would never meet unless the Maestro decided they should. It was a place that existed between the cracks in dimensions, outside the linear flow of time—a maze of unseen intersections, hidden doors, and staircases that sometimes led to where you intended, sometimes somewhere else entirely.
((According to the Maestro, this place is shaped by our collective perception of it. We must be a pretty confused bunch, then…))
""...""
I let the idle thought linger for a moment, an attempt at humor that quickly faded as I arrived before the Maestro's door.
Room: "731".
*Clop* *clop* *clop*
I knocked three times and waited.
*Clop* *clop* *clop*
The same rhythm echoed back from the other side. Permission granted.
""Excuse me...""
*Click!* *eeeeee*
I turned the handle and pushed the creaking door open before stepping inside.
The transition was immediate. The familiar corridors of the hotel vanished behind me, erased in an instant. In their place stretched an endless, featureless white void. No walls, no ceiling, no floor—just an expanse of nothingness. No points of reference, save for one: an office desk, sitting impossibly in the center of my vision. And behind it, the one I had come to see.
*Clack* *snap* *click*
The unmistakable sound of wood shifting over itself echoed as the three-headed, doll-like figure turned in his chair to face me.
"Child..."
The Maestro's voice rang out in its usual dissonant mix, layered with conflicting emotions—annoyed, intrigued, dispassionate, welcoming. All at once.
((I never know which head to look at when I'm addressing him...))
My gaze flickered between the three carved wooden faces, each vaguely similar yet overtly distinct in their expressions. Eventually, I settled on the middle one before speaking.
""I apologize for the unexpected visit...but I received a message addressed to you. And considering the two people who delivered it, I thought it unwise to delay""
I pulled the letter from my coat, holding it up.
*Clack* *snap* *click*
The Maestro's heads tilted slightly, his jointed fingers twitching at the sight of the envelope.
"That wax seal, and the stench of oblivion magic on the letter itself...so my old compatriots have finally stirred from their slumber"
A chuckle, a hum, a sigh—emotions overlapping, contradicting, yet perfectly synchronized.
"Should I be celebrating...or worried, I wonder? Give it here, child."
*Clap!*
The Maestro's hands came together in a sharp, deliberate motion.
And in an instant, the desk that had been meters away was suddenly right in front of me.
""...""
Wordlessly, I handed over the letter, my expression unreadable.
((It's always disorienting when he does that))
Internally, I was mildly annoyed.
"..."
Taking the letter from my hands, the Maestro paused, his wooden fingers running over the envelope with slow, deliberate movements. His gaze—if one could call it that—lingered on the wax seal pressed into the parchment, his many eyes studying it with mechanical precision.
((I didn't look at it too closely before but the wax seal has the Arcus Temporis on it, the chronicler's emblem depicting their fabled artifact of the same name...))
The seal bore the unmistakable emblem of the Chroniclers of Morn: the Arcus Temporis. A symbol both intricate and ominous, it depicted an hourglass suspended within two overlapping, halo-like circles, the delicate grains of sand frozen in time, neither falling nor rising.
It was an image that evoked both reverence and unease, for the Arcus Temporis was more than just a crest. It was the name of the Chroniclers' most fabled artifact—a relic whispered to possess the power to reset time in its totality, unraveling existence itself back to a point of the wielder's choosing.
((Either an exaggeration...or just another myth spun by old men who are too afraid to accept the present))
I had no patience for either possibility.
Honestly, I never put much stock in such an absurd claim. A power like that would be bound to be abused by anyone who had access to it. If the Arcus Temporis truly existed—if it really had the ability to rewind all of existence—then the fact that reality hadn't already been wiped clean, either through sheer stupidity or deliberate malice, was enough to cast serious doubt on its legitimacy. At least, for me.
((Even if such an artifact were real, the cost to wield it would have to be nearly impossible to pay…or it could only be activated under some grim, unimaginable conditions))
I considered the matter from a practical standpoint. Hypothetically, if an artifact of that magnitude did exist, then the [Rule of Providence]—the irrevocable law that governs all magic—would impose restrictions so severe that its use would be all but impossible.
((But whatever. I suppose it isn't relevant to the current situation))
I pulled myself from my idle thoughts, refocusing on the matter at hand.
*Rip!*
With a smooth, precise motion, the Maestro's wooden fingers tore open the top of the envelope, extracting the letter while leaving the wax seal perfectly intact.
""…""
((For someone without skin, his hands move with the precision of a true artist))
I watched the fluidity of his movements—controlled, deliberate, almost elegant.
((But then again, given how many surgeries he's personally performed…never mind))
I cut off that train of thought before it dredged anything unpleasant back up.
"Hmm…I see, how intriguing"
As the Maestro's wooden heads scanned the letter, their hollow eyes shifting with apparent interest, I remained completely still, waiting for him to finish.
Normally, I would have left the moment my task was complete—deliver the message, turn around, and walk away. But something told me this time was different.
((They did say that the message in the letter was for the Maestro but they technically never said anything about it being for his ears only))
The fact that he hadn't dismissed me yet only confirmed my suspicion.
*Clack* *snap* *click*
"…"
The Maestro shifted in his seat several times, the sound of creaking wood filling the void. Then, with deliberate care, he set the letter down. His three heads lifted in unison, their hollow gazes fixed somewhere distant, as if his thoughts extended beyond the confines of this space.
"Is that how it is?"
His overlapping voices—usually a chaotic blend of contradicting tones—rang out in rare harmony, a deep, unified contemplation threading through them.
""…""
I remained silent, my expression unreadable, though inwardly, I took note of the shift in his demeanor.
((It's rare for his voices to align so perfectly))
Of course, I kept that thought to myself.
"Haha…so that's how it is"
*Clack**clack**click**clack*
A chuckle—low and eerie—escaped his doll-like form, his wooden frame shuddering with a strange, rhythmic clicking, as if even his laughter was constructed rather than felt.
"Hahaha! How exciting…or is it terrifying? Iritating? All of them! No…it's…difficult to encapsulate it all with words"
The Maestro chuckled, his multiple voices layering over one another as he seemed to debate with himself over what exactly he should be feeling.
""…""
I remained silent, there was nothing for me to add to this strange man's ongoing conversation with himself.
((Make up your own damn mind!))
I thought, feeling both mildly irritated and—somehow—more unsettled by his demeanor than usual.
"Hm..."
After a bit more laughter, his chuckling subsided, and his heads tilted slightly as he lapsed into a contemplative silence.
"This is undeniably something to look forward to…not just for the opportunities it presents but…"
He trailed off momentarily before continuing.
"It seems I may have made a slight misplay, starting this conflict so soon. If I were to do as they ask and send you away now, we might lose more assets than originally calculated…but the alternative is…unacceptable"
The Maestro murmured, rubbing his chin—or at least one of them—as he sank deeper into thought.
((A miscalculation? From you? That's certainly not something you see everyday))
I thought, my interest piqued at the rare admission of error from the Maestro. Whatever was in that letter, it must have been significant for him to acknowledge a mistake. Undoubtedly, this was getting interesting.
"Things are moving much faster than anticipated. I should have made more preparations, moved the assets into the hotel sooner. Well…no matter. Compared to the possible gains, the losses are acceptable. But still, I'll have to speed things up, especially since…she's coming back"
*Clack* *snap* *click*
The Maestro mused aloud, his three heads shifting in unison before finally turning to me—almost as if he had only just remembered I was still in the room.
((This should be interesting…))
I braced myself mentally, already anticipating whatever insanity was about to come next.
"Child, I hate to burden you with another set of tasks after you so efficiently handled the last ones, but can I trouble you to take care of a few more things for me? After that, I'll be sending you away for…let's call it an "early vacation", or something like that"
The Maestro's words stopped me in my tracks.
""Uhm…are you…doing alright?""
I asked, completely thrown off by the phrase "vacation" coming out of the wooden bastard's mouth.
((A vacation? Okay, what kind of suicide mission is he sending me on this time?))
Internally, I was already dreading what was coming next, fearing that "vacation" was just a thinly veiled code word for another impossible, life-threatening task.
"Though normally I'd humor you, this sarcasm is unbecoming of you, child"
The Maestro's many discordant, overlapping voices took on an edge of irritation as his wooden body clicked in displeasure.
*Clack* *click* *click*
""I'm not apologizing""
I replied flatly, unfazed as I stared him straight in the eyes, or at least the eyes of the puppet.
"…"
A moment of silence passed before his wooden frame let out a few soft clicks, the sound of joints shifting as he moved the conversation along.
"Very well then. For your information, I am quite well, and I wasn't joking"
His many voices layered over each other, each one carrying the same certainty.
"They must have told you the same when they delivered this message, no? That you should withdraw from this conflict as soon as possible? After much deliberation, I find myself of the same opinion"
He leaned forward slightly, his wooden fingers interlocking.
"I'll have you handle some final cleanup, and then you will be sent on a particular long term mission. However, this "mission" will be more of a break for you, all things considered"
He explained it as though it was simple, but nothing was ever that simple with him.
""…""
I took a moment to process his words before speaking the question that immediately came to mind.
""Just what was in that letter?""
"Not important. At least, not yet—not where you are concerned"
The Maestro dismissed my inquiry without hesitation. Then, without missing a beat, his three heads tilted downward toward his desk. With a fluid motion, he opened a drawer and retrieved another envelope—a white one. A task list. Another set of assignments for me to complete.
"Here. Do them at your leisure"
The wooden puppet extended the letter toward me.
""…""
I stared at it for a brief moment before taking it from his outstretched hand.
""As you command…""
I accepted it without protest.
"Now leave, child. I have much to do"
His three heads turned away, already dismissing my presence.
""…""
Wordlessly, I turned and left through the same door I had entered, stepping out of the white void and back into the liminal halls of the hotel.
*Eeee**click*
The door to Room 731 clicked shut behind me.
""Well...that was a lot""
I muttered, my voice barely more than a breath, as I walked down the dimly lit halls of the hotel. The envelope felt heavier in my hands than it should have—its weight purely psychological. My eyes traced the edges of the letter, my fingers brushing over the wax seal as I turned it over, wondering what it all meant.
((The sudden interest from two neutral factions…and their Ophions, no less. They have remained silent for years, watching, never interfering. Their neutrality unshakable))
It didn't make sense, why were they choosing to come out of the background now?
((Yet now, out of nowhere, they're breaking that silence. Even that creepy puppet seemed caught off guard…I think))
The Maestro always acted as though he had everything under control, his plans spanning far beyond what any normal person could comprehend. And yet, tonight had been different. He had faltered—if only slightly. It was a rare, almost unprecedented display of uncertainty.
But why?
((He also mentioned someone—a "She"—coming back.))
My grip on the envelope tightened as I turned the question over in my mind.
((Who is "She"? And why does her return require us to accelerate everything? Is she also the reason he's sending me on this so-called "vacation"?))
I had a few theories, but nothing concrete. There were only a handful of women in existence who could make an Ophion of the Executerii reconsider his plans. But even among them, none stood out as an obvious candidate.
And then there was the matter of this so-called vacation.
((A "break" for me? Who the hell would be dumb enough to buy that? The Maestro? Giving me a break? What's next, Gehenna freezing over?))
The thought was absurd. The idea that he would send me somewhere without an ulterior motive was laughable at best.
My mind spiraled deeper into the labyrinth of unanswered questions, the pieces refusing to align no matter how I turned them, mostly because I lacked the critical context to turn my theories into concrete answers.
""...!""
Then, without warning, a realization struck me—not about the situation, but about myself.
((I'm questioning everything again…just like with Orland))
A quiet unease crept into my chest, settling there like a stone at the bottom of a well. I had always been analytical, my job required it, and I always ensured that I had the necessary information before carrying out a mission. But this was different.
((This isn't just caution. This is something else))
The unsettling part wasn't the questions themselves, but the fact that I was asking them at all. Once, I had only ever questioned what was necessary for the task at hand. Anything beyond that was irrelevant—extraneous thoughts to be discarded.
But now…
((What's happening to me?))
The shift in my own thinking sent a ripple of discomfort through me. The changes were subtle, creeping up on me like a slow-acting poison. And worse, I hadn't asked for them. They had arrived unprompted, uninvited.
""Ugh…I need to stop thinking so much. Let's just get this over with.""
I exhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling off. There was no use getting tangled in thoughts that led nowhere.
Instead, I turned my attention back to the envelope in my hands, using it as an anchor to ground myself.
*Rip*
The wax seal split apart with a crisp tear, and I pulled out the letter inside.
Immediately, something stood out.
((No cipher...))
The objectives and mission details were written in plain, direct language—clear, easy to understand.
No layers of encoded meanings. No hidden messages buried beneath complex phrasing.
Just the words as they were.
((Strange…))
For a moment, I simply stared at the letter, my unease lingering. Something about this felt… different.
""Well, whatever...""
Shoving aside my thoughts, I turned my attention to the letter and began reading the mission details.
The first few assignments were standard black ops work— more assassinations, more sabotage, the things I'm used to. Precise, methodical, the kind of tasks designed to destabilize without drawing too much attention. Each one was laid out in meticulous detail, listing locations, targets, and contingencies. Nothing out of the ordinary.
""Hmm what's this?""
But as I neared the bottom of the page, something caught my eye.
Location: Village of Hassel
Target: Class-P Intelligence Outpost
Objective: Infiltrate the outpost and secure all classified dossiers regarding the Empire's subterranean trade routes, financial backchannels, and compromised officials. Priority is placed on intelligence concerning illicit arms shipments, covert supply chains, and Mekhanite espionage within the imperial administration.
Description: One of our Pioneer-Class intelligence outposts has gone dark. All communication ceased without warning, and preliminary probes have failed to re-establish contact.
Additional objective: If data retrieval proves impossible or the risk of exposure becomes unacceptable, execute full-site asset denial protocols. No sensitive materials are to be left for recovery.
Tertiary objective: Eliminate all traces of external involvement. Civilian exposure must be minimized. The destruction should be framed as either an internal accident or an external assault, ensuring no suspicion falls upon us.
I read the final mission listed twice. Then once more.
""The Empire? That's rare""
I muttered noting how rare it was for me to be dispatched to the empire.
((Our operations within imperial territory were minimal. Not because we lacked the capability, but because the Empire was largely controlled by the Black Covenant, the Executerii's financial and economic arm. Our own influence—which we mainly wield through our proxy the cartel—was strongest in Irkalla and Coastania, where the underworld bent to the will of the syndicate. Sure, many imperial nobles made deals with us, funneled money through our networks, and relied on our services when it suited them, but we never made a direct push into the Empire's core. Too much risk. Too many delicate balances to maintain))
I recalled what I've been told about the Executerii's operation in imperial territory, which was headed by the Black Covernant faction.
((And yet…this important information is stashed in a pioneer-class outpost and not somewhere more secure? Why? Don't we have copies of it? If not, why wasn't it extracted and relocated to a more secure facility sooner? And why had the outpost gone silent now of all times?))
I wondered about the peculiarities of this mission.
((I don't like this))
A cold feeling settled in my chest. An instinct. A warning. I pushed it aside.
((Also...the Empire is where the Ro-...))
An unbidden thought surfaced—the face of a particular girl I had encountered on a mission flashing through my mind before I forced it back into the depths where it belonged.
But whether I acknowledged it or not, it didn't change the truth. Ever since that night, something in me had been shifting. Subtly, but undeniably. A slow, creeping change I could neither halt nor fully understand.
And I could feel it coming, powerless to stop it.
""Well, whatever the case…let's just get this done""
The mission parameters were clear: Recover the intelligence. If that's not possible, make sure no one else gets it.
A clean job. No unnecessary witnesses. Civilians were not the target—this wasn't a massacre, at least not unless something forced my hand. The directive was explicit: No outside interference. No loose ends. Make it look like an accident.
""I'll handle the other tasks first. This one…feels like something I should save for last""
I exhaled slowly, steeling myself for the marathon ahead.
I should have known then—this was never going to end well...
Because if there's one constant in every mission I take on, it's this: there is always a 100% chance of everything going to sh*t but only when I least expect it to and only when things are at their most critical importance.