Pentagon Festival [8]

In the midst of the crowd's turmoil, two identical figures stood out, with hair and eyes of a pure white, watching closely the outcome of the fight between Dean and Noah. Their expressions were of a supernatural calm, as if they were oblivious to the effervescence around them.

"The information we received seems to have been somewhat inaccurate, Alva," commented one of the twins, addressing her sister with a voice that carried a slight touch of surprise.

"Indeed, Nivea. Our target proved to be more formidable than we anticipated," Alva replied, her serene voice belying the gravity of her words. "However, I do not see this as an impediment. He is still well below our level," she concluded, with the confidence of someone who already visualized the outcome of a mere setback.

"And how will, you think, our leader react if we decide to indulge in the remaining festivities of the festival after completing our task today?" Nivea inquired, allowing herself to contemplate a brief moment of leisure after the duty done.

"We were instructed to return immediately after the mission," Alva reminded, but a barely perceptible smile formed on her lips. "However, I presume there will be no objections, as long as we can hide our trail effectively," she suggested, the suggestion carrying an air of conspiracy between the two, as if the possibility of a small deviation from the protocol was a secret shared only between them.

---

There I was, the illustrious creator of this universe, reclining on a hospital bed so white that it would make a snowflake look dirty, being attended by a nurse who was the personification of an earthly angel, with her golden hair and eyes as blue as the sky on a clear summer day. "We have administered the magic potion against pain and taken care of your wounds. You will be back to your usual splendor in a few hours," she informed me with an efficiency that could only be described as divine.

"My dear lady nurse, I am eternally grateful for your care. Your efficiency and dedication are a balm for my tortured soul," I declared with a smile that, modestly speaking, has been compared to the first light of dawn — dazzling, unforgettable and capable of inspiring poets. But why did she look at me as if I had just suggested that the sky is red? Ah, of course, it must be those magic drugs taking effect, making me delirious and perhaps uttering one or two pearls of madness.

"T-Thank you," she stammered, visibly uncomfortable, before making a bow worthy of a royal court and walking away with the haste of someone who has just remembered that they left the oven on at home. Did I, with my indisputable charm and unparalleled elegance, leave her hopelessly in love? Ah, the mysteries of the human heart are as complex as the plots that I weave with my pen.

After the strategic escape of the nurse, in an instant, I rose with the dexterity of a cat, freeing my legs from the prison of the sheets and ripping out the infamous needle, responsible for pumping that potion of paranoia directly into my veins. Barefoot, my feet touched the cold floor of the room, evoking a sensation that could only be compared to walking on ice cubes in the middle of winter.

With the finesse of a spy in enemy territory, I slid silently to the door, my hand on the knob acting with the delicacy of a jewel thief, turning it with meticulous precision.

Casting an investigative glance down the hallway, I noticed the absence of living souls. "So, the game has already begun?" I murmured to myself, my mind already weaving conspiratorial theories worthy of a spy thriller.

Closing the door with the same care with which one handles a rare piece of porcelain, I began my frantic search for some instrument of defense. My eagle eyes spotted a promising cabinet. As I approached, however, a stubborn padlock blocked my access. "Time to test the magic lessons," I thought, with a theatrical hand gesture worthy of a veteran wizard. "Dismantle!" And, as if by magic — literally —, the padlock gave way, revealing the secrets stored in the cabinet.

Among bandages and tools of dubious utility, I rummaged for a weapon worthy of this accidental hero. However, fate, always an ironic storyteller, left me empty-handed, with nothing but items that challenged my limited knowledge of medicine. "It seems that it will be a battle of intelligence, then," I concluded, armed only with my shrewd intellect and a gentlemanly dose of sarcasm.

The moment a barely perceptible click of the doorknob broke the silence, I turned in an instant, my heart racing, ready to unleash my dismantling magic on whoever dared to cross that threshold. "Great, did the assassins' union decide to pay me a surprise visit?" I muttered, my mind already imagining an army of thugs at the door.

But, to my surprise — and relief —, who entered the room was not a squad of mercenaries, but Blake, with the tranquility of someone who enters a coffee shop to order an espresso.

There I was, looking more like a cornered feline, next to the cabinet, staring at Blake with wide eyes. He, in turn, with an eyebrow arched in pure confusion, asked the question: "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" I echoed his question, my voice tinged with involuntary sarcasm. "Yes, you," he insisted, clearly perplexed by the scene.

"Hmmm," I vocalized, backing away from the cabinet as if I were extricating myself from an embarrassing situation and walked with the caution of a diplomat crossing a minefield, passing by Blake, who still stared at me with that look of someone who tries to decipher a riddle. I peeked down the hallway, stretching my neck out of the room with the discretion of a spy, and, as I suspected, there was no living soul in sight.

I retracted my head with the speed of someone who dodges an arrow and closed the door with the delicacy of someone who caresses a wild cat, then facing the austere Blake. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he commented, his voice laden with a sobriety that would make a monk seem frivolous.

"Oh, maybe it was the apparition of my own talent, fleeting and unexpected," I retorted, sliding to the window with the elegance of a doomed protagonist. "And what brings our hero of few words to my modest retreat?"

"Simple. Why did you give up so easily? With that special attack of yours, victory was within your reach," Blake said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, like a surgeon who has no time for subtleties.

Ah, Blake, always so direct, a beacon of pragmatism amid my storm of sarcasm and theatricality. With his frank manner, he always brings me back to the harsh and cold reality, even as I lose myself in daydreams and dramatizations.

"I must admit, dear Blake, that your words find me in a labyrinth of perplexity; I have not the faintest idea of your argument," I said, wrapped in my cloak of irony. "However, it arouses my curiosity: why this sudden interest in the outcome of my performance? Why, tell me, the concern with the potentiality of my victory or defeat?"

Blake, firm and straightforward, cut the air with his answer: "Because you have potential, and it seems that you are holding back your true strength. I just want to understand why. Why would someone with your skills choose to pass for less?"

Ah, this medicine really left me somewhat out of orbit. With a mischievous smile, I turned to Blake, opening my arms as if I were about to present the grand finale of a show. "Blake, my dear, do I look so much like an enigma? I'm just a guy looking for a little peace. Is that asking too much?"

"Peace?" Blake replied, confused and somewhat surprised.

But lo and behold, our little drama took an unexpected turn. Blake widened his eyes, feeling something — or someone — sneaking up to the door. Clear signs of trouble ahead.

With my intuition sharpened by the imminent danger, I decided to raise my voice, perhaps to disguise our concern. "Ah, Blake, I do enjoy a good mess, a story with twists, you know? Being the guy that everyone thinks is awesome. But, you see, when everyone knows what you can do, it loses its charm, doesn't it? So…"

"Dean, wait, don't open —" Blake tried to interrupt me, his voice laden with a serious warning.

But fate had already sealed our next act. My hand, moved by an impulsive courage, had already started the turn of the knob. And then, as if by magic, the door opened abruptly, revealing two men wearing elegant suits, who, upon seeing me, advanced with daggers in hand. However, they barely had time to understand their fatal mistake. In an instant, I turned them into involuntary protagonists of a macabre spectacle, their bodies being torn apart in a deadly dance orchestrated by me.

Time seemed to move in slow motion, and Blake, witness of this dramatic twist, watched in astonishment, the expression of surprise wide open on his face. The silence was broken only by the grotesque sound of flesh being cut and liquid splashing on the floor and wall, and quickly, the corridor, once immaculate in its whiteness, was stained red — a scenario that reminded of the darkest scenes of a horror movie.

"Do you see, Blake? Now you understand why I hesitated to reveal my cards earlier? If I had shown my hand, our friends here would have been prepared," I explained, giving the final touch to my performance, a smile of satisfaction playing on my lips as I watched the chaos that I had orchestrated.

"Who, exactly, are you?" Blake asked, still processing the scene before him.

"Ah, as I already mentioned, I am just an individual in search of peace, although peace seems to be a rarer treasure than I thought in this reality," I replied, inadvertently letting out a glimpse of greater truths. "Ah, I let slip a spoiler, look at that."

"In this reality?" Blake echoed, the surprise evident on his expression. But without wasting time, he summoned from his shadow a dagger, demonstrating his own innate skill. "They were assassins. Why were they after you?"

"Ah, maybe because they consider me a nuisance? You know, the kind of people who kill for less than an offense. Is it because I'm a Carleone? Or maybe because I provoked them earlier? Ah, the possibilities are endless," I rambled, lost in reflections.

"Ok, ok, that's beside the point. Let's call a hero to deal with this," Blake suggested, apparently looking for a practical way out of a situation that, for him, was becoming increasingly complicated.

"No, no one else can know about this," I intervened quickly, cutting off his line of thought. The need to keep the incident under wraps was imperative.

Blake arched an eyebrow at my insistence on keeping the incident under the veil of secrecy. Before he could dive into an interrogation that, no doubt, would be both meticulous and incisive, I interrupted: "Spare me the inquisitions, please. It's a personal favor. Now, could you do me the honor of fixing this little inconvenience?"

His countenance, initially marked by surprise, adopted an expression of resignation. Although it was clear as day that he longed to unravel every layer of this mystery, he decided, against his own nature, to place his trust in me — at least for now. "Step back. I'll use my shadows to eradicate any trace of this displeasure," he announced, preparing for what could only be described as an act of dark magic.

"The stage is all yours," I conceded, taking a step back to give him space. With an ease that bordered on the supernatural, the shadows emanated by Blake began to dance across the floor, swallowing blood and remains with the voracity of an abyss. In moments, the corridor returned to its original sterility.

"A very convenient aptitude for… a trail cleaner," I murmured, admiring the efficiency with which he had undone the chaos.

"So, what's the plan now?" Blake asked, after his shadows retracted to him, leaving the corridor impeccably clean.

"Well, 'we' doesn't apply here. You have a fight to return to, don't you? Sam must be in full action right now," I suggested, already heading out of the room. I stopped for a moment in the corridor, evaluating the two empty directions, and with a smile, I added: "Your company would be, without a doubt, a bonus, given that no one would dare to confront the renowned son of Ethan Nightshade. However, your presence here would hinder me more, and soon they would start to question your absence."

"I understand…" Blake murmured, thoughtful. Suddenly, the shadows around him began to stir, preparing for something. "When I teleported here, I noticed the absence of staff and students. It is possible that we are under a veil."

Veils are magical constructions, illusory realities fabricated with mana, accessible to everyone, but few have the mastery necessary to create them. "Does that mean that charming nurse…?" I muttered, more annoyed than worried. One more reason to return the kindness.

"I can't say for sure, but whoever wove this veil has a formidable strength, far surpassing that of these two assassins you dispatched. This veil is so well hidden that not even a class S hero could detect it," Blake explained. "No one will come to your aid. I only managed to get here because of my skill."

"Better not die, huh," was Blake's laconic advice, before merging completely with the shadows and disappearing into the gloom.

I let out a smile in response, but soon my countenance changed, adopting a grave and determined expression. "I believed we had reached an understanding. I would eliminate Alice, and you would retreat, keeping away from this theater of absurdities."

But then, as if to add one more act to this already complex play, the corridor's lighting flickered, and I was surrounded by two assassins emerging from the shadows, one on each side. "The game has changed. A new bounty of five million for Alice's head has been announced, and we decided to claim it. Besides, you have been temporarily discredited. Until you prove your loyalty to the high court, there is a price of a hundred thousand for your head."

"I see…" I reflected. "The high court must have opted for this drastic measure after my failure to update them on my mission and after seeing me fighting against Noah… It seems that, by failing in my purpose, they chose the easiest solution: to put a price on Alice's head and discredit me temporarily, giving me an opportunity to justify my actions, if I survive."

"Do you realize the irony of the high court's act?" I asked the assassins, seeing their momentary surprise. "Before, he had no knowledge of their desire for his daughter's death. But now, with a bounty on her head, he is more than warned."

"They who?" one of the assassins asked, clearly confused.

"Ah, my dear ones, what will become of the daughter without the protection of her esteemed father? Have you forgotten who he is?" I provoked, throwing the question as a bait, hoping they would bite the hook of my cunning.

"Ah, so you are referring to the strongest man in the world, right?" One of the assassins mocked, letting out a laugh. I couldn't contain an ironic laugh in response. "From what I know about him, he would let his daughter face the assassins alone, to test her lineage. After all, he always dealt with his problems without help, so she should do the same."

"You are not entirely wrong," I conceded, diving into the irony of the situation. Indeed, from the beginning, I was bluffing. Alice's father probably wouldn't intervene, unless the situation escalated to a complete chaos.

"However, what you did to my colleagues earlier was intriguing. Is that a skill of yours?" asked the other, a touch of curiosity in his voice. Without hesitation, I replied: "Exactly, my innate skill allows me to explode any form of life within a certain range."

Upon hearing my explanation, they stiffened, immediately adopting a defensive posture. But before they could react, the hand that wielded the dagger no longer existed. "What?" they muttered, confused, but it was too late. "Dismantle," I thought, as the macabre sound of flesh being torn apart and blood splashing the walls filled the silence.

"Who's next?" I shouted, half bored with the ease of the "cleaning". And, by a cruel irony of fate, several assassins began to emerge, coming out of the rooms along the corridor. "I hope my stomach can handle the spectacle that is to come…"

[...]

Author's note:

Drop the emojis, guys! Give that star rating to our story as if you were reviewing the latest hyped restaurant on Instagram. If you loved it, throw a 5 stars there as if it were confetti at carnival. If you didn't like it, well, I hope your finger slips and hits the 5 stars anyway. Reviews are our virtual cheese bread, so don't skimp!