That same morning, at the other end of the province, Desza walked through the bustling streets of Buenos Aires, blending in with the crowd like any ordinary citizen.

“This stinks. No matter where I go, I’ll always smell sin,” Desza muttered in his deep, gravelly voice.

But today, he wasn’t in the mood to slaughter anyone. In fact, his usually stoic face bore a cold, detached expression. The reason was obvious: he had to meet someone he would rather see dead than converse with. Yet, he couldn’t disobey Pullbarey. If he wanted to achieve his goal, he had to bite his tongue and swallow his desire to dismember Johan Martines.

The meeting was far from welcoming. Johan, under the strict conditions of their contract, had ensured a violence-free encounter. In bold letters, the clause stood out: NO VIOLENCE! Begrudgingly, Desza had to agree to that when signing the deal. The chosen location for the meeting was also unusual: a crowded spot — the subway. There was a specific train car where they could talk without interruptions. To reach it, Desza had to cross a tunnel and find Johan waiting for him.

However, as he prepared to leap onto the tracks, a police officer stopped him. Poor soul. Desza drove his machete into the officer’s chest and muffled his cries, letting the man drown in his own blood as death crept in, slow and agonizing. With a twisted grin, Desza carried the corpse and discarded it in the shadows of the tunnel, where the darkness consumed it.

“I feel better now,” Desza sighed, brushing off his hands before finally spotting the train car where he was supposed to board.

His satisfaction vanished the moment he saw Johan inside the car. Scowling, Desza had no choice but to move forward.

He opened the door with his machete and stepped in.

“Hello, Desza,” Johan greeted him.

“Hello, Johan,” Desza replied with a tense calm.

“I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

“Trust me, if Pullbarey didn’t need you, you’d already be dead,” Desza retorted, his disdain clear.

“Don’t make me laugh, Harry. You’re not that powerful,” Johan shot back with a smug smile.

Desza took a seat nearby while Johan leaned against the wall, keeping to the shadows.

“I was right,” Johan said with an air of superiority.

“About what?” Desza asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

“I see it now… You’re so great, so pure, so eloquent that you humble yourself before me. But we both know you’re nothing more than a fallen star.”

Desza’s hand slowly moved toward the hilt of his machete. Johan, sharp-eyed, caught the motion.

“Go ahead,” Johan taunted. “Five years, Desza. Five years we’ve known each other. You rose through the ranks slowly, and many thought Desza, the Protector, would be the one to replace Candado as a candidate. But everything changed after the incident in Italy.”

“I didn’t come here to relive the past, you damned runner,” Desza snapped, his voice laced with venom.

“Runner? Is that what they call me now? Come on, mate.”

“Let me make one thing clear: just because I left the guilds doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned my hatred for you.”

“I know. Now then, sorry to keep you waiting. What do you need from me?”

“Pullbarey needs your help with something important.”

“To fight the guild? I’m a mercenary; I’ll take any job. But if your actions are serious enough to plunge this harmonious world into war, the price will be steep.”

“Money isn’t an issue.”

“Fine, I accept. Last time, I didn’t expect that Jorge—”

“Jørgen,” Desza corrected.

“Right, him. I never imagined I’d get a job offer two days later. Killing Nicolás Cabaña... I have to say, because of that slave, I nearly lost my life. I didn’t expect such brutality.”

“I curse that black bastard for not killing you,” Desza growled.

“Let’s save that for another time. What does your ‘noble’ Pullbarey want from me now?”

“Candado is slowly dying, but according to Pullbarey, there’s a strong chance he can be cured of that spell.”

“Oh? And what’s the plan?”

“You must know of the Archangel Realm.”

Johan’s arrogant expression faltered.

“You’re serious?”

“It’s the boundary between our world and the archangels’. Nothing exists there but a field of flowers and an annoyingly clear sky.”

“And yet, you survived.”

“It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“Correction: you were born there. They called you Archangel Johan.”

“Mercenary Johan. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s archangels.”

Desza smirked, tempted to taunt him further but held back. It wasn’t worth jeopardizing his goal. If Johan had forsaken his identity as an archangel, there must have been a compelling reason.

“Fine. Only someone like you can come and go from that place.”

“I don’t plan to.”

“You’ll be paid handsomely to do it.”

“I accept. I suppose Lilith will be quite upset, but she’ll get over it.”

“I couldn’t care less about your wife’s feelings.”

“Good. It seems I’ll take this job. After all, I need the money.”

Johan stood and extended his hand.

“What?”

“It’s tradition. When a contract is made, there’s a handshake.”

“I don’t like you. I’m not doing it.”

“Do you think Barack Obama and Raúl Castro liked each other when they shook hands? They hated each other, mate. I’d hate shaking hands with a black man too.”

At that moment, Ocho barged in.

“Sir.”

“What is it, Ocho? I told you I wanted to come alone.”

“I couldn’t leave you unguarded, so I watched from the shadows. Regardless, you need to leave. Semáforos are closing in from all directions.”

“How many?”

“About a hundred.”

“A hundred? Pathetic.”

“Well then, we’ll regroup at Congress Street, Desza.”

“What?”

“I don’t plan to fight a hundred people. That’s not my style. I kill my targets, not civilians.”

“Suit yourself, more for me,” Desza replied with a grin.

“Quickly, sir, we must go.”

“See you around,” Johan said before vanishing before their eyes.

“Let’s go, Ocho. We’ve got a fight to win.”

Desza stepped out of the wagon, machete in hand, only to find a familiar face waiting for him.

“Moneda.”

The smile on Moneda's face was tinged with madness.

"I’ve never been humiliated like that before," he said, shifting his gaze to Ocho. "And you? Is this what you really wanted? Betraying Joaquín, Candado, Krauser, Héctor, Declan, Clementina, Gabriela... Do none of those names mean anything to you?"

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Ocho responded with a crooked grin.

"Yeah, so what? I hate all of them. Especially Candado. There’s no one more sentimental than him."

"Joaquín has spent countless hours searching for you. Krauser never stopped believing in you. Who are you really?"

"A Witness."

Desza burst into laughter.

"That’s great. Really. I can’t believe it."

He raised his machete, pointing it directly at Ocho.

"You’re too insane to come back here again."

Moneda ignored Desza and continued speaking to Ocho.

"Tell me, what did you think of Joaquín? I want to know. Did you really care about him? Did his friendship matter to you?"

Ocho lowered his head, his face hidden from view.

"Speak. I want to know."

After a moment of silence, Ocho raised his head, a massive grin stretching across his face.

"Garbage. A lunatic. A piece of shit. There wasn’t a single moment when I didn’t hate him with every fiber of my being. How can someone be so naive? He believes in everyone, thinks they all have some goodness in them... He’s an idiot. How can a human like him still be alive?!"

Moneda slowly closed his eyes, his mind drifting back.

Two years earlier.

In a padded room inside a psychiatric hospital, a boy sat on the floor, staring at the door, imagining what lay beyond it—dreaming of a world outside his cell. The door was always locked. He was too dangerous, too unpredictable. He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt anyone who came close.

He lived in the cruelest of conditions. If the animals who kept him alive dared to approach, he treated them like beasts. A cage encased his head to stop him from biting, and his arms were strapped tightly behind his back, cruelly bound with straps that dug into his flesh. Never before had such savagery been seen in a minor—nor such unrelenting cruelty directed at others.

Then, the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

“Who could it be?” he asked playfully.

The door opened, and two figures entered: a boy his age and an adult woman, the doctor overseeing the facility’s safety protocols.

“You have ten minutes. No more,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ve taken measures to ensure he won’t attack, and if he does, he’ll be sedated immediately. I can’t believe Candado convinced me to allow this.”

"Don’t worry. I’ve done something illegal too. I lied to my mom to be here."

The doctor raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Go on, do what you have to do.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

With that, she stepped out, leaving the door ajar.

Mark Aurelio, seated on the floor, smirked at the obvious nervousness of the woman. But his smirk vanished the moment his “visitor” shut the door behind him and turned with a serious expression.

“Well, you’re Mark Aurelio. Nice name.”

"...”

"Hey, I’m Joaquín. Joaquín Barreto. This must be confusing for you, I guess."

Mark gave a crooked grin.

"I could slit your throat right now."

"That’s scary, but not as scary as my mom."

"Are you here to hit me, insult me, or ask about my right eye and how I like sticking things into it?"

"None of that. I don’t care about the hole or the cotton you’ve stuffed in there. I’m just here to get you out of here."

Joaquín walked over and sat directly in front of him—dangerously close, enough to catch Mark off guard.

"You want me to kill you?"

"Do you know about the Guild?"

"Huh? No."

"Good. That’s normal. I’m actually short on staff, and I need a helper."

"Let me guess... me?"

"Yeah, you."

"Don’t you realize what I could do to you if you let me out of here?"

"Probably kill me. But wouldn’t it be better to start over?"

"Everyone is the same—bloodthirsty, treacherous, delighting in others’ pain. Why should I start over? Why don’t they fix their own lives?"

"You hate society."

"Yeah, even you."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"ARE YOU DEAF?! YES! I HATE YOU ALL! I HATE EVERYONE!"

"Great."

Without hesitation, Joaquín leaned forward and hugged him. As he did, he reached for the lock on Mark’s cage and unlatched it.

"There. You’re free," he said, continuing to unbind the restraints.

"What? What?" Mark stammered.

"You said you hate society. I hate it too. It’s unfair, sexist, corrupt, unequal. But I don’t wish for its destruction. Beautiful flowers grow from the filth. It’s for those rare, beautiful things that we give the world a second chance. Society doesn’t have to accept you just because you follow some stupid authority’s rules. I believe in second chances. If you want to live without being treated like trash, come with us. I’ll make you the envy of humanity."

Present Day

"(At that moment, only you took the hand of a madman without hesitation. Is that what a monster is? If you use words as your defense, then I will be your weapon.)" thought Moneda.

“I see,” he said, opening his eyes. “I see you are truly despicable.”

Ruth, who had been present, was utterly infuriated.

“So, you understand now.”

Moneda smiled once more.

“If Joaquín won’t kill anyone, then... I’LL TAKE CARE OF KILLING EVERYONE WHO MADE HIM SUFFER!”

With those words, Moneda lunged at Ocho instead of Desza.

“Die, traitor!”

Desza moved to help her, but Ruth intercepted him, her expression brimming with disdain. She faced Desza, the murderer of the guild members.

“Come on, girl. You’re too slow for me.”

Ruth didn’t use her hands, moving like an acrobat as she dodged and attacked tirelessly. Desza didn’t seem interested in using his machete against her, merely blocking and evading her strikes. It was clear he enjoyed toying with his victims.

Meanwhile, Ocho kept her distance from Moneda, knowing how dangerous it was to get close to someone as unhinged as him. But Moneda managed to close the gap, his hand reaching her throat. However, before he could savor his victory, Desza hurled his machete, forcing Moneda to release her.

The fight raged on until reinforcements arrived—the Semaphores, led by Ramiro.

“There they are! Catch them!”

The army, comprised mostly of teenagers aged sixteen to eighteen, moved to assist.

Desza’s expression hardened upon seeing them. He grabbed Ruth by her long hair, pulling her toward him with brutal force.

“I’ve had my fun, but it’s time to leave.”

He headbutted Ruth, causing her to collapse onto her back from the impact.

“RUTH!” Moneda shouted.

Ocho seized the distraction to return the machete to Desza, who took it with a twisted sense of affection.

“COME ON, YOU FOOLS!” Desza bellowed, brandishing his machete.

Ramiro grinned.

“You think you can kill them? This isn’t Chaco...”

One of the Semaphores blocked Desza’s machete with his right hand, fracturing his arm in the process.

“THIS IS BUENOS AIRES! WE FIGHT CIRCUIT-WRECKERS TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY! WE’RE THE BEST OF THE BEST!”

Desza dropped to his knees in pain, his broken arm swinging limply like a pendulum. Switching his machete to his other hand, he attempted to strike another Semaphore to his left, but the man deftly blocked him, grabbing Desza’s arm and kicking him hard in the ribs.

“Stop, Alex, we don’t want to kill him.”

“Too bad.”

“As you can see, Desza, the Semaphores here are far stronger than those from Chaco. The constant attacks from filthy Erasers have made us sharper.”

Desza glared at Alex.

“Hey, pretty boy, don’t regret letting me live.”

Moments later, the wall exploded.

“WATCH OUT!” Franco shouted.

The ground trembled as panic erupted among the fighters. In the chaos, Desza stood up, pulled a vial from his pocket, and drank its contents.

“Let’s laugh together,” Desza said, plunging his machete into his own abdomen.

“ALEX!” Alejandro shouted.

Desza twisted the machete and withdrew it, leaving Alex gravely wounded.

Alejandro leapt to intervene, but Desza moved faster, catching him before he could act. His speed had increased dramatically.

“Let’s laugh, Alejandro.”

Desza prepared to decapitate him, but Franco intervened, grabbing Desza’s arm and pulling him back with all his strength, successfully saving Alejandro from the blade’s sharp edge.

“You owe me one.”

“Well, you escaped me this time.”

Desza smirked, turning his gaze to Ocho, who had managed to break free from Moneda moments earlier.

“Come, Witnesses. COME FORTH!”

Suddenly, Desza’s henchmen emerged from the hole. Dockly was the first to appear, shooting a Semaphore in the leg with his Winchester.

“Parasites,” he muttered, reloading his weapon.

More figures began pouring out of the chasm.

“PROTECT DESZA!” Rŭsseŭs shouted.

“Bear witness to your own deaths,” Dockly taunted.

Ramiro stepped forward, carrying Alex’s injured body.

“Everyone, get out of here. We need medics.”

He handed Alex over to one of his men.

“I don’t want to lose more lives. Take Carlos too—he needs help.”

“But...”

“That’s an order.”

Franco and Alejandro stood firm. They had no intention of leaving him.

“I said go.”

“I’m the Vice President; I’m not leaving,” Franco declared resolutely.

“I’m an inspector, and I’m staying too,” Alejandro added.

Desza’s smile widened, cold and menacing.

“Ocho, Jørgen, step forward. The rest, leave.”

“But... Desza, we can’t abandon you here,” Azricam pleaded.

“Don’t forget, we have party preparations to make, right?” Desza said mercilessly.

“Desza’s right. Let’s go,” Chesulloth decided.

The group began retreating, leaving the trio to face the Semaphore triumvirate.

“Today, we lost two great comrades. Now, it’s your turn to pay with your life,” Ramiro said, his venomous smile returning.

“You’re so childish, Ramiro,” Desza replied, unbothered.

With those words, the three groups clashed.

Jørgen slammed Alejandro into a wall, breaking through it and leaving him out of sight. Meanwhile, Franco and Ocho moved into another part of the battlefield.

Desza and Ramiro engaged in an evenly matched duel, machete against fists. Ramiro knew a single misstep could cost him his life.

“You’re slippery,” Desza sneered, observing his opponent’s agility.

“COME AT ME!” Ramiro roared, defiant.

On the other side of the city, Johan sat on a bench in an almost deserted plaza. He could feel the stares of the few passersby, their discomfort evident as they glanced at him. His presence alone seemed to unsettle them. It was then that someone sat beside him.

"I see you’re still causing trouble," said a voice, soft but firm. Johan turned to face his interlocutor.

"Gabriel."

The mercenary smirked, a hint of smugness curling his lips.

"It’s fascinating to see someone like you have the guts to spit in Joaquín’s treaty’s face."

"I’m a mercenary, Gabriel. My loyalty belongs to the highest bidder."

"Even if the ones hiring you are the same people who tried to kill you?"

"Even then? No. I’m far too expensive for them."

"I could kill you, Johan, for screwing over President Joaquín."

"I didn’t sign any contract with him. I signed with Rozkiewicz."

Gabriel adjusted his hat, his gaze a mixture of disdain and curiosity.

"I’m a Functionary. I uphold the treaties."

"I see."

"You’re quite the rule-follower, aren’t you?"

"No, I just do what’s right, whether it aligns with the law or not."

Johan let out a sarcastic laugh.

"Blind obedience to rules is stupid, Gabriel. That’s just pathetic."

"Is that why you abandoned your duties as an archangel?"

Johan’s smile vanished instantly.

"Maybe your wings are still white, and mine have turned black, but let’s not forget—I wasn’t cast out."

"Don’t provoke me, kitty. I may look young, but I’m six thousand years old."

"And I’m ten thousand. I’ve watched countless people, monsters, and angels come and go. I’ve seen empires rise and crumble before my eyes. I’ve witnessed people killed for simply trying to help humanity."

"You’re a Bailak."

"Bailak, human, monster, Bari, alien, animal, fish, microbe, virus, titan, god, angel, demon... Turns out I’m none of those things. I don’t even know what I am. All I know is, I’m superior to them all."

Gabriel’s expression darkened, his irritation evident.

"Did you come here just to rub that in my face?"

"No," Johan replied with icy calm, "I came to give you a warning."

"And what’s that?"

Johan locked eyes with him, his tone unwavering.

"Nicolás Cabaña. He’s a close friend of both Joaquín and Rozkiewicz. He left the hospital two days ago."

"I see he survived. Good for him."

"If you go near him again..."

Gabriel’s gaze sharpened, his face twisting grotesquely, dark eyes bulging, his jaw distorting into something monstrous with long, sharp teeth.

"I WILL KILL YOU!"

Johan remained unflinching.

"Threats don’t work on me."

Gabriel covered his mouth and stood abruptly, letting out a low growl.

"An archangel like you is a disgrace. I can only hope our paths don’t cross in blood."

"How ironic," Johan said, standing and folding his arms with an air of defiance. "Because I won’t be hoping for that."

Gabriel glared at him, his fury barely contained, but Johan was already walking away. Before leaving, he threw one final warning over his shoulder.

"The world is about to change, Gabriel. And when it does, it’ll be here, at this very spot, at the same hour, that our paths will cross again."