The lights of Siracusa's capital city glittered through the window like stars caught in a glass dome. Inside the hotel bar, everything was quiet save for the soft hum of old jazz and the low clinking of glasses.
Red nursed a tall mug of beer, his red coat slung over the stool beside him. Queen sat cross-legged in a velvet chair, sipping her cup of sapphire-blue wine with practiced elegance. I held my usual black coffee, scalding hot and bitter enough to keep me awake.
Only the three of us remained after everyone else had vanished to their rooms.
[Red]: So, Hogun... you really were a game dev, huh? I heard rumors you kicked off the full VR era. That true?
[Hogun]: Yeah. I built the first stable VR pod. At the time, everyone laughed it off—said it was another overpriced toy. Until I demoed it. Then the floodgates opened.
[Queen]: That must've been chaos.
[Hogun]: It was a bloodbath. Every studio scrambled to get into the market. And of course, they priced everything like luxury air. $120 for a farming simulator. A literal farming simulator.
[Red]: That's a crime.
[Hogun]: I thought the same. So I dropped something else—a little project called VR Gmad. Partnered with Steam, kept the base price at $20, and let the modders run wild.
[Queen]: You made a sandbox revolution.
[Hogun]: I made a war. Copyright lawsuits, corporate espionage, and whole dev studios sabotaged each other. I still have the legal scars.
[Red]: Let me guess—you won.
[Hogun]: I didn't have to. The players won. They chose creativity. They chose freedom.
A moment passed as we all took a sip from our drinks. The silence was comfortable. Heavy with memory.
[Queen]: You always were more of a builder than a soldier.
[Hogun]: The best generals build peace.
[Red]: Pfft. That's poetic as hell for a guy who still carries a brick in his coat.
[Hogun]: It's a good brick. Also… Red, did you serve as a soldier before all this?
[Red]: Yeah. Before the madness—before VR, before empires and anime waifus—I served.
[Queen]: Which country?
[Red]: Does it matter? Bullets tear flesh the same. Orders still send kids to die. Glory's just blood wrapped in a flag.
[Hogun]: He served in GROM. Poland's elite special forces. Eight years in. Retired as a Weapons Sergeant… after an accident.
[Queen]: I knew some of that, but… damn. That's impressive.
[Hogun]: And you, Queen. A biologist. Lived in the Amazon forest, Brazil. Quiet life… until we all got isekai'd here.
They both froze, staring at me like I'd just spoken prophecy.
[Red]: Wait—how do you know that?
I took another sip of coffee, letting the moment stretch.
[Hogun]: I read your files. Back in the old world."
[Queen]: Then you knew even before we arrived…
[Red]: So… are the stories of Yore real?
I paused, the weight of memory pulling my gaze toward the bar's dark corner.
[Hogun]: Nothing in this world is make-believe anymore. And yes… I created Yore. The most advanced AI humanity has ever known. Ivan's brother.
[Red]: But… he was destroyed. After—
A long silence followed. The name felt like a curse, echoing from old wounds.
[Red]: Damn. If Whiteveil never happened… VR and PC gaming would still be golden. But those corporate parasites couldn't leave well enough alone. They wanted everything. They wouldn't stop until someone was dead—and a lot of people died.
[Hogun]: The past is ash now. What matters is what we do with the time we've got.
I looked at both of them—Red's knuckles white around his beer, Queen's eyes sharp behind her wineglass.
[Hogun]: After we meet the Pope, we're launching a full exploration initiative. We map this server. Every region, every ruin, every shadow. No more unknowns. We can't afford surprises inside our safe zone.
[Queen]: You're building something again, aren't you?
[Hogun]: Not just building. Preparing.
[Red]: For what?
[Hogun]: For whatever's still out there… watching.
The old jazz record stopped spinning.
[Queen]: So we're meeting the Families tomorrow?
[Hogun]: Yeah. Three of them. The Saluzzo, the Bellones, and the Rossati. Each controls a district and a good chunk of the city's underworld, and then we will meet the Capo dei capi.
[Red]: Can't wait. Nothing says diplomacy like kissing the ring of a glorified mob boss.
[Hogun]: They're not just thugs, Red. Siracusa runs on Family power—if we want trade routes, black market tech, or clean passage to Laterano, we need them.
[Queen]: And if they say no?
[Hogun]: Then we remind them who cleared the western ruins of zombies… and who has a guy named Mastiff with two hammers called 'Tax Evasion' and 'Emotional Damage.'
[Red]: Still the best damn names I've ever heard.
[Queen]: And still incredibly illegal.
[Hogun]: So is gravity here. Let's not pretend we're law-abiding.
I stood up and brushed the front of my coat.
[Hogun]: Also, we need to dress up for tomorrow. We can't exactly roll into a mafia negotiation looking like we just left a battlefield.
Red and Queen stared at me like I'd just suggested we take up synchronized ballet.
[Red]: Hogun… have you ever realized that you can't actually remove your gas mask?
[Queen]: Seriously, you sleep with that thing.
[Red]: I've been wearing this Mongolian warlord hat that's been glued to my head for over a hundred years. Tried to remove it once. Nearly crashed the server. It's part of the model—same for armor, body mods, and most gear. Only caps, coats, and maybe some accessories are detachable.
I chuckled, reaching into my inventory and pulling out my trusty toolgun.
[Hogun]: That's why I prepared multiple skins for the same model. Watch this.
With a click and a flicker of digital shimmer, my look shifted—from my standard battlefield gear and gas mask to a sleek black suit, combat-cut at the shoulders. A half-mask now covered only the lower half of my face, the rest showing a battle-worn face framed by silver-streaked white hair.
[Hogun]: Huh. I look like an older Ivan. Did I… add the hair?
[Red]: You aged yourself? Respect.
I handed the tool gun to him, and in seconds, Red swapped out his ornate eastern armor for a dark business suit with gold trim. He tossed his Mongolian hat into the void with a relieved sigh.
[Red]: Finally. My scalp can breathe. I feel ten kilos lighter.
[Queen]: My turn!
In a burst of shimmering polygons, she transformed into what could only be described as a walking cosplay event. A sleek black exosuit with gothic motifs, silver trim, winged heels, and glowing cat ears. The full 'Black Silent Angelica' skin from one of Project Moon's darker titles. Of course.
[Hogun]: Queen… we've talked about this. Try to stick to original skins. No imports from games, movies, or anime.
She was striking a pose and looking at me with a smile.
[Queen]: Come on! Light and I spent a week perfecting this for the cosplay party. And weren't you going to use your General Grievous skin? And Red still has his Mandalorian model saved.
[Red]: This is true.
Sighing deeply
[Hogun]: Fine. Use it. But if anything goes wrong during the meeting, don't call me. Especially if your ears start glowing in the middle of a trade deal.
[Queen]: No promises.
[Red]: This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?
We headed out from the hotel, just as the sun began to rise over the skyline of Siracusa. Tomorrow, we'd face old money, mob traditions, and a dozen knives hidden behind smiles. But for tonight… we had style.
[Later - Meeting Hall – Siracusa Capital City]
[Note: Hogun added two dark wolf ears and a wolf tail to his current skin so he can talk more easily with the Siracusa families.]
The chamber was grand, with vaulted ceilings, marble columns, and chandeliers made of gunmetal and old money. All around us stood guards in pinstriped suits, armed with everything from handguns to plasma blades. And on the overlooking balcony sat the Three Families—ancient powers of Siracusa.
And in front of us, with a dozen guns aimed at our heads, was chaos incarnate.
A grinning white-haired woman with wild eyes and a twitch in her step.
[Lappland]: So... you're Hogun. The one who took my Texas away from me.
Her voice cracked like glass under pressure. The kind of voice that came from someone who'd chewed glass and smiled through the blood.
That was Lappland Saluzzo. Disowned daughter of Don Alberto Saluzzo. Declared a lone wolf. Unstable, unhinged, and—worst of all—alive.
I could feel Red and Queen tense behind me. Even Mastiff shifted slightly, his gauntlets flexing with the whisper of crushed air.
Lappland cocked her head.
[Lappland]: Hy can't speak? What's wrong, gone quiet already? I thought the infamous General would be more than a mutt with a brick.
She gave me a predator's smile—wide, wrong, almost hungry.
I smiled back. Calm. Cold.
[Hogun]: Sorry. I thought I heard a wet dog whimpering just now.
That got her to blink.
[Hogun]: And I don't talk to cubs. I speak with adults. So why don't you run off somewhere and play make-believe, little puppy?
You could hear the clack of safeties being released. Even some of the guards stiffened.
Red let out a low whistle.
[Red]: Savage. Even for you.
[Queen]: How long do you think before someone starts bleeding?
[Red]: My bet was five minutes. I lost. It's gonna be three.
Upon the balcony, one of the Dons chuckled—a low, rumbling laugh from Don Bellini, who leaned forward, gold rings glinting in the sun.
[Don Bellini]: Enough, Lappland. You were told to observe, not harass the guests.
Lappland didn't look away from me. Her eyes still locked, wild and twitching—but she stepped back. Barely.
[Lappland]: Fine. But next time, I'll bring the leash.
[Hogun]: Make sure it's silver.
The mood shifted. Guns lowered—reluctantly. The guards pulled back to the walls. The air, however, remained thick with tension. You could taste the steel and salt in it.
Then a new voice rang out—measured, feminine, cool like chilled wine.
[Signora Sicilia]: General Hogun. Red Khan. Queen of the Depths. Welcome to Siracusa. Let's not waste this rare moment of peace. Come. Let's talk business, not blood.
I stepped forward, posture straight, ears flicking once from the nerves I refused to show.
[Hogun]: That's what I'm here for. Peace.
[Signora Sicilia]: Then let's find out what your peace costs.
I walked up to the meeting chamber.
The grand chamber reeked of cigars, perfume, and old blood. Velvet drapes hung like shrouds, and the air was heavy with gold, ambition, and centuries of organized violence.
At the long obsidian table sat the Three Heads of Siracusa:
Don Alberto Saluzzo, lean and hawk-eyed, fingers like claws tapping a gold-tipped cane.
Donna Rosa Bellone, matriarchal and cold, with a smile that could chill a volcano.
Don Vittorio Rossati, youngest of the three, broad-shouldered with tech implants running down his temple like creeping ivy.
Each one eyed me as if measuring my worth in bullets and favors.
And above them, the Capo dei capi herself—Signora Sicilia, dressed in jet black, eyes like steel. She radiated the kind of authority that made knives lower and tongues stay silent.
[Signora Sicilia]: So, General. You want peace, trade, and support. That makes you either brave… or foolish.
[Hogun]: Foolish men don't survive what I've survived.
[Don Rossati]: You want our resources, our networks. What do we get?
[Hogun]: Stability. I'm not here to rule your world—I'm here to make sure it doesn't burn while you squabble over the ashes.
They didn't laugh—but they didn't pull guns either.
Progress.
But just as Sicilia opened her mouth to speak again, my comms buzzed.
[Ch'en – over comms]: We have a situation. It's Lappland.
I sighed.
[Outside – Near the Black-Market Courtyard]
[Ch'en POV]
Lappland had appeared like a bad itch—grinning, twitching, looking for a fight. Her eyes locked immediately on Texas, who stood beside Exusiai and Mostima, calm but clearly on edge.
[Lappland]: Well, look who crawled out of the library. You didn't even say goodbye last time, Tex.
Texas remained quiet, her hand resting near her blade.
[Lappland]: What, too good to talk to your old friend? Or just ashamed I'm the better wolf?
[Texas]: You're not a wolf.
That did it.
Lappland lunged—knives out, grin wild. Texas met her halfway, and steel clashed with a ring that echoed across the courtyard.
Exusiai shouted something. Mostima raised a spell. Civilians scattered.
But before the second strike fell, he was there.
[Hogun], stepping between the two like a brick wall with a death wish.
His hand caught Lappland's blade mid-air. His other hand blocked Texas without flinching. His face—stone.
[Hogun]: Ladies, this is a diplomatic mission. Not your personal deathmatch arena.
Lappland hissed and yanked her blade back.
[Lappland]: You again. Still pretending you're in control?
[Hogun,]: Still pretending you matter?
She blinked.
[Hogun]: You act like a threat, but you're a punchline with a trauma complex. You don't own fear—you just wear it like perfume.
That set her off.
Lappland screamed—a distorted, primal noise—as she lunged again, blades carving streaks through the air like lightning from a mad god. Her feral aura warped the space around her, and for a moment, I considered stepping in—
But Hogun?
He didn't even blink.
His suit shimmered again, faint silver lines running across the fabric like veins of mercury. And then, with one hand, he caught Lappland's strike mid-swing. Not with a weapon—just his bare palm.
Like it was nothing.
She snarled and slashed again. He blocked again, the same way you'd brush aside a branch on a trail.
And then he smiled.
He actually smiled.
The crazy bastard reached into his coat and pulled out—
...Flowers?
No.
Knives.
Shaped like orchids, tulips, and roses. Gleaming silver edges with etched patterns of ivy, thorns, and steel petals. Hogun spun, throwing them with the ease of a dancer tossing confetti. They whistled through the air, not meant to kill, just to guide her, slow her, confuse her.
And then—before I could even draw my blade—he was there. Inside her guard. One hand disarmed her in a single motion. The other?
The other was resting on her waist.
He leaned in—just a breath between them—and smiled like some smug noble prince.
[Hogun]: Lady, would you like to be by my side?
And then, the finishing move.
He handed her a knife-flower, gleaming red like a rose dipped in fresh blood.
Lappland froze. Literally froze.
Eyes wide.
A blush. An actual, honest-to-the-Stars blush spread across her cheeks. Her grip trembled. Her snarl twisted into something... confused. Flustered.
Did she just take the rose?
No. No. No no no no—
She took it.
Oh gods, she took it.
I stood there, stiff as a board, my eye twitching violently.
Just how many women is this man going to charm like this?! Is this some kind of hidden skill? Does he have a "+10 to seduction against dangerous psychopaths" buff I don't know about?!
My maiden heart is breaking down from secondhand embarrassment.
And I'm not even the one holding the rose.
Just... why?
Why did Chef Wei think this was a good idea?
Why am I the one assigned to protect this overpowered, knife-throwing, flirtatious warlord for a whole month?
A whole month!
Mostima, wherever you are, I want to switch duties. Right now.
[Hogun – POV]
Oh god, what have I done?
I invited a sociopath into the citadel.
To work for me.
As if my life wasn't already an absurd blender of mafia deals, server diplomacy, mutant foxes, and interdimensional admin permissions. Now I had a feral knife-gremlin with emotional issues blushing at me and holding a weaponized rose like it was a love letter.
Did I go crazy or what?
I turned around, desperate for backup—my usual saviors in this hormonal wasteland of my own making.
[Hogun]: Hy, girls, help me. Why are you all glaring at me? Exusiai? … Exu, no—put that gun down.
Exusiai's expression was serene.
Peaceful.
Lethally righteous.
[Exusiai]: Oh Lord, guide my bullets to that sinful man's heart. Ladies, join me, please.
[Texas]: Yes.
She drew her sword in perfect sync.
That's when I realized I was in trouble. Real trouble.
I looked to my last hope—Red and Queen.
Red was biting his glove to hold in his laughter. Queen had already pulled out her holo-cam, tears streaming down her cheeks from the sheer force of how much fun she was having.
No help.
No mercy.
Only judgment.
[Hogun]: Red, continue the meeting without me!
And then I ran.
Full sprint. Boots pounding the Siracusan marble as a hail of high-caliber judgment began peppering the floor behind me. A fork embedded itself in my shoulder pad—courtesy of Texas. A bullet grazed my coat, singing an ominous hymn of divine punishment.
[Ch'en]: GET HIM!
I heard chairs flipping. Mafia guards ducking for cover. Lappland cackling madly in the distance.
And me?
I leapt over a wine rack, dodged behind a fruit sculpture, and activated the nearest emergency admin escape portal with the voice command:
[Hogun]: Code Sinner Alpha: Romantic Misfire.
The portal opened like salvation itself.
I dove in.
[Mafia Meeting Hall – Red's POV]
The echo of Hogun's boots faded into the Siracusan skyline.
Gunfire? Still going.
Screaming? Definitely Ch'en. Exusiai's righteous wrath carried in every syllable of "Repent!"
I was alone. In a very expensive suit. At a very high-stakes table.
With three mafia heads staring at me like I was either their next business partner or tomorrow's breakfast.
Signora Sicilia raised an eyebrow. Her wine glass never even tilted.
One of the Rossati underbosses leaned in and muttered something about "Why do we always deal with theater majors?"
I cleared my throat and tugged my collar.
[Red]: "So… hi. I'm Red. Co-founder of this fine disaster. The gas-masked one who just fled was Hogun. He'll, uh, be back after dealing with some internal… personnel issues."
The three Dons stared.
[Saluzzo Don]: He just fled a meeting with a Capo dei Capi.
[Red]: With grace.
[Rossati Don]: And a flying woman tried to shoot him?
[Red]: Divine retribution. Very spiritual. We value theology where we're from.
There was a long, pregnant pause. Then Queen, sitting cool as ice across from me, added with a sip of wine:
[Queen]: We're modern. Think of it like performance-based diplomacy.
That somehow made them nod.
And now I was stuck walking through Hogun's notes on our tablet while trying not to pronounce the names wrong.
[Hotel Rooftop – Hogun's POV]
I slammed the emergency portal shut behind me and collapsed into a chair on the rooftop patio. The skyline of Siracusa glowed gently in the evening light.
It was quiet… for three seconds.
Then the door opened.
Exusiai, first. Halo glowing like divine wrath. Followed by Texas—emotionless, sword still humming. Ch'en, dragging a power cable behind her like she was ready to whip me with it. Lappland, oddly enough, skipped in with a new flower knife, whistling.
[Hogun]: Ladies, I would like to formally—
[Exusiai]: No.
[Ch'en]: Sit down.
[Texas]: Or kneel.
[Lappland]: Make him kneel~
I sighed and pulled out the emergency coffee kit. If I was going to suffer, at least I'd do it caffeinated.
[Hogun]: Look, I get it. Lappland was uncalled for.
[Exusiai]: You gave her a flower.
[Ch'en]: You called her 'Lady.'
[Texas]: You smiled.
[Hogun]: That's just diplomacy!
[Lappland]: I thought it was a proposal.
I choked on my coffee.
Suddenly, Queen's voice came through the comms, utterly smug:
[Queen, via comms]: Red just got the Bellones to sign the trade accord. Your absence has blessed him with unexpected charisma.
Damn it.
They had me surrounded like a pack of very attractive, very dangerous wolves.
Exusiai sat on the railing, polishing her gun like it was a divine relic. Her smile? Pure judgment.
Ch'en had her arms crossed, foot tapping in metronomic menace. The foot-tapping was always a bad sign. You got three taps. After that, the blade comes out.
Texas stood like a frozen mountain breeze—silent, emotionless, and probably calculating how many bricks it would take to bury me alive.
Lappland, ever the wildcard, leaned against me like I was a plush chair she'd claimed via mortal combat. The way she smirked? She knew I wasn't escaping this unscathed.
And then—
A lazy warp shimmer split the air beside us.
[Mostima]: Did I miss something juicy?
Mostima strolled in, oversized bag of snacks in hand, chewing on something suspiciously spicy.
Everyone looked at her. She blinked innocently.
[Mostima]: Okay, definitely missed something juicy.
[Ch'en]: Mostima,
Ch'en said through gritted teeth.
[Ch'en]: You were supposed to help me keep him safe.
[Mostima]: I was helping,
Mostima shrugged.
[Mostima]: From afar. Spiritually. Also, I brought popcorn.
[Exusiai]: You brought a flamethrower last time.
Exusiai muttered.
[Mostima]: I like to diversify.
I took a long, slow breath.
Then exhaled.
Then muttered the emergency exit phrase.
[Hogun]: Alright… dates.
There was silence. Even the wind paused.
[Hogun]: One date. With each of you. Individually. Each of you. No illusions. No evasion. Just me. You decide if I'm worth the stress.
Exusiai stopped polishing.
[Exusiai]: ...You're saying we get a trial run before we declare war or a wedding?
[Hogun]: Exactly.
[Texas]: Efficient
[Ch'en]: You're joking.
[Lappland]: I accept this challenge
[Exusiai]: You're already booked, sinner.
Mostima popped another snack into her mouth and grinned.
[Mostima]: Well, this just got interesting. I want a night with fireworks. Literal or romantic—I don't care.
Before anyone could throw a punch (or me off the rooftop), Queen's voice chimed through the comms.
Smooth. Calm. Smug.
As always.
[Queen, via comms]: Good news, trouble magnet. The mafia talks are done. We've got the trade contracts, the shipping lanes, and a partnership agreement.
I blinked.
[Hogun]: Wait, what?, really? No shootings? No explosions??
[Queen]: Red did fine. I cleaned up the rest. The Dons only asked for limited autonomy inside the Citadel—safe zones, cultural preservation, and private economy sectors. Nothing militarized.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
[Hogun]: So we now have a functioning mafia district inside our base.
[Queen]: Welcome to globalization, darling.
[Hogun]: I...
[Queen]: Also, Red tried to arm-wrestle Don Bellone, but I smoothed it over. We're invited to the celebration banquet tonight. Dress code: mafia noir. Oh, and Lappland is officially on the Saluzzo diplomatic list. Try not to flirt with any more mafia daughters before dessert.
I looked around at the girls.
Exusiai's gun gleamed. Ch'en's sword twitched. Texas just stared. Lappland was humming. Mostima winked.
I was going to die.
But at least I'd do it well-dressed.
[Extra: The ten lore books in the city]
The City never slept. Not because it didn't want to—but because it feared what would happen if it did.
Inside a dimly lit fixer office in Lobotomy Sector 8, two men sat huddled in a patch of flickering light. Rain ticked against the metal shutters like the tapping of knives.
[Graham]: I'm telling you, Ops, this book is something else. Just read it.
[Ops]: You've been chasing that mechanical winged lunatic for a day, and all you got was... a book?
[Graham]: He tore through an R Corp squad like they were paper dolls. Five minutes. Five. The fact that I got this? It's a miracle. There were ten books—ten! But the Arbiter, some Wings, and a few top-ranked fixers grabbed the rest. I barely escaped with this one.
He placed the leather-bound tome on the desk. The cover was black, embedded with dull silver circuitry lines. In its center: a sigil of wings wrapped around a mechanical crown.
Its title read in embossed script:
["Lore: Adam von Flama"]
—compiled by Light Angel Mechanical, King of Sky City
Ops opened it, frowning. Then his brow furrowed deeper as he read.
It told of a man named Adam von Flama—his rise in the City of Whiteveil, a paradise lost to calamity. It detailed the wonders of that world: talking beasts and ageless kings, floating citadels and swords that sang in battle. Adam had survived six cataclysms, forged peace with monsters, and even tamed sky-borne dragons.
But on the seventh disaster, he died.
His mantle—his red-lined coat and immortal cape—were taken by another. A warlord, engineer, and tactician known as "Hogun."
The book ended with Hogun's return to the Citadel, bringing with him Adam's legacy.
Ops, now pale, closed the book slowly.
[Ops]: …Hide it.
[Graham]: What? Why?
[Ops]: Because if even a fraction of this is true, then we've just opened a door that can't be shut. The Wings will want to weaponize it. The Head will want to dissect it. You think White Nights and Dark Days are bad? This could bring the Tenth Plague.
[Graham]: We could just burn it.
[Ops]: No. If this world is real… if the 'Citadel' exists… if birds really sing in a blue sky… I want to go there. I want to see trees, touch real water.
[Graham]: You mean watermelon.
[Ops]: Whatever it's called—I want to taste it.
They stared at the book in silence.
Elsewhere in the City, similar conversations were blooming.
A high-ranking Arbiter stared at a different lore book in her private chamber, her eye twitching as she flipped through illustrations of skyships and glowing forests.
The Tech Priest of Wing C-17 ordered his researchers to "replicate the biomechanical crown" described in Chapter Four.
The Head, through its proxies, began plotting routes to "destabilize the anomaly sector." They marked one name across dozens of intel boards:
[Hogun.]
Leader of the Citadel.
Key to the New World.
Back in the fixer office, the wind picked up, rattling the steel walls.
Ops looked at Graham.
[Ops]: Find a Gatekeeper. Or a Keyhole Broker. If that winged bastard made it here… there's a way we can make it there.
The City stirred.
A storm was coming.
But in another world… the sky was clear.
[Chapter end]