Chapter 22
Chapter 22
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: The Brotherhood Leader's Wrath
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- Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
In the dark basement, dull thuds echoed relentlessly. The men hanging by chains bound around their wrists no longer had the strength left to scream.
"You... fucking... worthless... scum. You got... humiliated... by just... one... outsider!!"
Imur, the leader of the Brotherhood, swung the leather whip mercilessly.
Even as flesh tore open and bones nearly showed through the deep gashes, the whipping didn't stop.
The remaining members stood in neat rows, silently watching the scene. One wrong word here, and they'd end up the same.
"Useless trash that can't even earn their keep."
Imur was on the smaller side. But the aura he exuded was massive, never small. That was how he ruled the Brotherhood as its boss.
As Imur loosened his collar and leaned back on the sofa, one of his underlings brought strong liquor in an ice chalice.
"So, who the hell is that punk?"
Instead of answering, the underling handed over a single sheet of paper.
It was the personal information on the man who had clashed with Mahrt and his crew the night before.
"Eric 'Hilton'? Any connection to the Hilton Trading Company?"
"He's a collateral branch of the Hilton family. A distant relative of the family head, Anya Hilton, but no visible ties to the company itself."
Imur didn't hide his irritation as he read the document on Eric Hilton.
Entered Byzantin from the capital via warp gate the previous day. Afterward, visited some private residence, then confronted the Brotherhood near a market eatery.
Nothing particularly noteworthy beyond that.
"What the hell is this?"
One line in particular made Imur's face twist even uglier.
-Unable to confirm use of aura or magic.
"You fucking idiots!! What the hell did you even do while getting your asses kicked?"
Crash! Imur hurled the liquor glass at Mahrt. The half-unconscious Mahrt snapped awake from the impact, blood trickling down.
"I-it's just... It didn't seem like aura, but calling him a mage didn't fit either..."
From his build alone, you'd think aura. But no aura was felt, and the rock gauntlet around his fist felt more like magic.
But the fighting style wasn't. What mage in the world fights in close quarters?
There were recent rumors that Emperor's illegitimate son Damian Renekht had swordsmanship rivaling his mage skills, but Imur didn't buy it.
Anyway, multiple men humiliated by one guy, and they learned nothing. Enough to make Imur's forehead vein bulge.
Of course, he hadn't expected much from Mahrt.
He'd given the nominal mid-level rank because Mahrt never shied from dirty work and wouldn't betray him.
Still, Imur's rage stemmed from his own prestige.
They'd brazenly tattooed the Brotherhood scorpion on their shoulders, only to be shamed in front of crowds.
It wasn't just Mahrt's pride crushed—it wounded the entire Brotherhood, and ultimately Imur himself.
"Bring it."
At Imur's command, an underling handed over the red-hot branding iron from the brazier.
"Boss, Boss!! Just one more chance. Give me one more shot, I'll get that scum no matter wha— Gaaaaahhh!!"
Mahrt's scream filled the basement with the stench of burning flesh.
The others held their breath, careful not to cough.
The scorpion tattoo on his cheek twisted grotesquely. Mahrt passed out.
Those bound with him trembled, fearing they'd suffer the same,
But fortunately, Imur tossed the iron to the floor. They weren't worth punishing.
"What'll you do, Boss?"
One executive whispered into Imur's ear as he sat back down.
'Of all times...'
Imur sighed, pulling a letter from his pocket. It bore an imperial crest—similar yet distinct, the symbol soon to center the Empire.
For reasons unknown, that lord had given him a chance. Promised him a seat in the new imperial order.
To claim it, he needed power. Had to prove his worth.
No specific orders were given. But Imur knew what to do: seize Byzantin's underworld. And bare fangs when that lord desired.
So he couldn't afford rash moves. It would disrupt other plans in motion.
Normally, he'd handle it personally as a lesson. But grand visions demanded suppressing personal grudges.
"Got his location?"
"Yes. He's with a kid named Saliba."
"Saliba? That traitor's spawn?"
Imur wouldn't normally remember some low-rank Brotherhood kid's name. But he knew Saliba—due to his unique background.
What connection Eric Hilton had to Saliba's family didn't matter. Insult dealt, time to repay.
"Send some decent guys to teach him a lesson. If he's just a clueless outsider, break an arm and chase him off. If he's someone's pawn, dig out the roots."
The next day, after issuing the order, more men dangled in the Brotherhood basement.
"You goddamn bastards!!"
This time, he sent skilled ones. Yet they returned beaten as badly as Mahrt's crew. Would've been better if one or two died.
Then he could mobilize the guard captain he'd bribed for years.
"Volunteers! Anyone wanna show that bastard the Brotherhood's might!"
Third, fourth time. Elites by his standards, but same result.
He'd stayed back to keep it quiet, but that backfired, letting things blow up.
Rumors spread through Byzantin: some outsider toying with the Brotherhood.
As it repeated, Imur couldn't just rage. Doubt and suspicion crept onto his face instead.
* * *
"Wow, damn... Bro's insane."
Saliba muttered at yet another limping Brotherhood member shuffling away.
Days after Damian shattered Mahrt's jaw, the Brotherhood came for revenge.
But none matched Damian's outcome.
The Imur Brotherhood wasn't the Empire's top crime syndicate, but they threw weight in Byzantin.
Yet Damian toyed with them like kids. Using only his two fists.
He'd made gauntlets with earth magic, sure. But overpowering aura users in strength and speed? Absurd.
He seemed like a mage, but Saliba had never heard of one fighting like that.
"But it's weird, right? At this point, Imur should've come himself..."
As Saliba said, Imur's strengths were action and ruthlessness.
Aura traits aside, he charged like a limb-loose berserker on the battlefield.
Increasing friendly casualties needlessly, of course.
'Has Michael made contact already?'
The reformists recruited Imur early.
After dominating Byzantin's underworld, he grew power until civil war—then purged orthodox nobles, securing the capital-south warp gate early on.
Orthodox counterattacks destroyed it later, but still.
If quiet for underworld unification prep, it made sense.
But his temper wouldn't hold forever. Just wait patiently.
"But with bro's skills, couldn't you just bam-bam and snap their necks easy?"
"Then the guards move in."
"Oh, right."
No deaths by Damian's hand yet. So guards toed the line without intervening.
They avoided underworld messes anyway. Corrupt city all around.
"What? Who's next today?"
Saliba pointed down the street.
At first, thought Brotherhood. But a girl dashed toward them, skirts fluttering.
Thud thud thud thud! Momentum rivaled any thug.
"U-uh, uh. Eric bro, sorry. Gotta go first."
As she neared, Saliba paled.
He tried fleeing into the alley, but Damian grabbed his collar.
"Sal-i-ba!"
Girl two or three years younger than Damian. Southern bronze skin glowed, sky-blue hair like Saliba's reached her waist.
Jewelry on wrists and ankles, delicate makeup—she was a dancer.
"Sis... Came earlier than expected? Th-this show's supposed to last two weeks..."
Saliba's sister. Shey, he recalled.
Fell for Imur's scheme, sold to a brothel—sparking Saliba's guerrilla days.
"You-you-you! I heard everything. All of it!"
Shey yanked Saliba's wrist up. Sleeve fell, revealing the Brotherhood tattoo.
"I'm going insane. Really insane! I told you not to get tangled with them!"
"N-no, it's..."
"Before hanging with scum like that, study the magic book I bought you."
"I... sold it..."
"What, what!?"
Shey's face flushed purple at Saliba's words. She slapped her palm hard across her brother's back.
Saliba shot a resentful glare, but Damian just watched.
"Do you know how much that cost!?"
"That's why I sold it. Buy food with the money. You'll collapse on stage all skin and bones."
"You little!"
Damian chuckled despite himself at their bickering. No wonder he'd risk life for a sister like that.
"But who's this?"
Shey eyed Damian with narrowed glare.
Outsider skin obvious. Bad vibes seeing her brother with such.
"Oh, this is Eric Hilton bro, mage from the capital. Seriously, insanely good. Toys with Brotherhood brutes like dolls."
"M-mage!?"
Gone was the wariness—Shey dropped to her knees before Damian.
Saliba got dragged down too, shoulders pinned.
"Teacher! Please take my brother. He's talented. Not meant to rot here."
Damian knew. Aura vs. magic superiority pointless, but entry harder? Magic, hands down.
Aura possible with talent alone; magic needed a teacher. Even great Rubia had one.
Saliba entered magic without. Innate talent, different from Rubia's.
But limits clear. Needed guidance. Pre-regression, none offered—so aura, thug-style.
His aura talent barely beat Damian's. Only post-recruitment into reformists did he formally learn magic.
"Damn, sis, embarrassing. Told you not to say that..."
"You kneel too. Gonna live hearing 'traitor's spawn' forever? Grab chances and succeed big!"
"Hey, quit it!"
"Show something quick! Or he won't care about you."
Not pleasant seeing siblings bow to an outsider.
Passersby glanced over, so Damian pulled them up.
"I've seen enough."
Just clumsy flight magic now, but Damian remembered Saliba's pre-regression spells.
"R-really...?"
Hope filled Shey's eyes. Proper lifeline at last.
"But teaching magic myself's tough."
Her face hardened instantly. She knew demanding blindly was rude.
She'd pitched Saliba to visiting mages before. Always rejected.
Saliba hadn't hoped much, but rejection soured his mood.
"But I can introduce someone good."
Saliba and Shey's eyes widened.
Patron for a backwater bumpkin, traitor's kid? Recent acquaintance.
They tried kneeling again, so Damian herded them inside.
Lirian was out. Kids from Mahrt's crew, like Saliba, stayed temporarily.
Bringing strays puzzled the great-grandma, but Damian's money kept her from refusing.
"R-really, Eric bro? You can really introduce someone?"
Expressive kid normally, but now eyes sparkled like stars.
"One question first."
Solemn tone like a test made Saliba and Shey gulp.
"Anything you want? I'll do whatever I can..."
Shey hand on heart. Sold herself to brothel for brother—wouldn't balk at anything for his success.
But Damian meant something else.
'My own faction...'
Lingering thought since Agnes incident.
Building forces secondary to personal power growth.
Orthodox outnumbered reformists in quantity/quality—yet reformists won.
Michael, Rubia. No matter torches' number, can't beat sun and moon.
But factions weren't useless. Would aid Damian's aspirations.
First candidates: guerrilla comrades. Knew their talents/characters—trustworthy.
But they needed reason. Like pre-regression guerrilla join: life-risking cause.
So Damian asked Saliba.
"Why do you want to get stronger?"