Inverted Pentagram
Several weeks had passed since Amon began his groundwork to screw over the pharmaceutical company. In that time, the gifts he had prepared for them boiled down to two major ones. First, aiding Miller Pharmaceuticals to mess with Nevil Pharmaceuticals. At the same time, on the other front, he was securing vaccine victim witnesses to stab Miller in the back.
Even in a world where law and common sense didn't always hold sway, rounding up about a hundred witnesses and filing a joint lawsuit with the company as their backer could deal a serious blow. It meant the law functioned like a cudgel, if not a full iron fist.
As time wore on, Nevil Pharmaceuticals' raids grew fiercer. Miller Pharmaceuticals had caught on to their victims vanishing one by one and was sending silencers—assassins—to shut it down. In response, Sonia mainly handled the former, while Amon took care of the latter.
"I'll be back."
"See you."
With Sonia's send-off, Amon stepped out of the house. They were currently at the home of the 54th victim of illegal vaccine trials. Normally, he'd load the man and his family into a car and head straight to the airport. Once they were on a flight to America, the simple mission would be complete.
But starting from the 40th victim, Miller had begun dispatching assassins, shifting Amon's role to arriving first and providing protection.
Thanks to Kashi's precognition, this is a breeze.
Amazed by Kashi's knack for pinpointing the assassins' plans, Amon slipped out of the house. He headed to the garage first, checking the protectee's vehicle. Sure enough, a bomb was rigged.
The kind that triggered a small blast on ignition, causing the car to surge forward uncontrollably, then a second explosion on impact with a wall or whatever, vaporizing the driver's seat.
Amon dismantled it with practiced ease. After disposing of the bomb, he scaled the building by stepping on window sills and the air itself. A chuckle escaped him at his habitual grab for the high ground whenever possible, but he prepared for what needed doing.
He reached into his coat pocket. The grip of a crossbow filled his hand from the subspatial pouch. His eyes swiftly scanned the street crowd.
Seven assassins. Six real threats, excluding one meaningless hacker.
Amon memorized their positions and sightlines, then moved. He descended, planted a bomb on a random car, and returned. Targeting the one directly below him and two nearby, he leaped from the building and fired twice mid-air.
Thwuck! Thwuck!
Bolts pierced both temples. He thought it every time, but the crossbow was excellent. Quieter than his pistol, yet far more powerful—cleanly penetrating the bulletproof skin of assassins' skulls.
If only the magazine held more than two shots.
Its sole flaw: only two bolts per load. Without that, it might fully replace his pistol. Increasing capacity meant sacrificing power, which was regrettable.
Lost in such idle thoughts, Amon let gravity take him. One assassin noticed two down and went on alert—oblivious to the perpetrator dropping right above.
Without even a rustle, Amon descended silently and slashed the man's throat with a reverse grip on his sword.
Three down. Three left, plus the scrub.
He kicked off the wall, flinging himself around the corner. A thrown dagger nailed an assassin in the head before he could react—right by the remembered trash bin.
Two.
Drawing his sword openly, he charged the last pair. They spotted him and drew guns.
"Skull?! It's that guy! Call HQ—"
But Amon's blade pierced his throat before he finished. It didn't stop, claiming the other too.
Only the meaningless hacker remained. Panicking, the hacker turned the car's ignition while radioing HQ.
"HQ! It's the Gray Ghost! The Gray Ghost has app—"
The engine roared to life with a small blast, launching the car forward. It smashed into the wall, crumpling—then erupted in a massive explosion.
The skull-masked figure stared blankly at the crackling flames.
Too flashy, maybe...
Scratching his head sheepishly at the wreckage, Amon's reflection was brief.
Whatever. Face wasn't exposed anyway.
The skull mask and robe were already known. Getting caught off-guard wasn't the issue. In a world of CCTV, drones, and machine eyes, perfect ghosting without hacks was impossible. Amon had compromised here; exposure itself wasn't a big problem—as long as it didn't link back to him behind the mask.
Alibi's solid too.
Records showed "Amon" skiing with Sonia—on the opposite side of France from here. Perfect cover.
Miller must be burning inside.
With clear signs someone was gearing up against them, witnesses kept slipping away. They might even suspect Amon and Sonia. But grilling them was impossible. Recetio was backing Miller in the cold war with Nevil. Poking too hard could sour things, leading to a breakup—or worse, Recetio flipping to Nevil.
Military threats were off the table too, after losing their security chief to Amon, limiting their forces.
With such tangled circumstances, interrogating on suspicion alone was too risky a gamble. Miller's play was maintaining the cold war with Nevil while diverting resources to unmask the ghost.
Thus, this level of explosion was within tolerance. Identity safe— all good.
Rationalizing it that way, Amon sheathed his sword and rejoined Sonia and the protectees inside.
"All clear. Time to move."
The man and his family nodded.
"Use our car, just in case."
The bomb was gone, but who knew what else they'd tampered with? They boarded a parked vehicle a short distance away.
The kids feared the skull-masked Amon, but their parents soothed them into quiet compliance.
Once loaded, Amon and Sonia opened the driver's and passenger doors.
But before gripping the wheel, Amon slammed his door shut, shouting.
"So—!"
Before the word finished, his sword sparked.
Kiiing!
A massive steel projectile screamed as it split in two.
A shell?!
Amon gaped at what his sword had cleaved. Recoilless rifle? Anti-tank rocket? Too fast to identify.
One thing was certain: the sensation from the shell screamed high-explosive, not just dumb metal.
Fuck!
Amon cursed inwardly, flashing to a mad gorilla. Then the blast engulfed him.
Boom!
"Kyaaah!!"
The kids screamed in unison. Luckily, the car only cracked its windows and rocked. Amon had mitigated the shock, the vehicle was sturdy, and Sonia had thrown up a barrier in that instant.
Factors aligned—no harm to the protectees.
Sonia leaned through the open passenger door, slamming the wheel.
"Sebas! Combat mode—go, go, go!"
> Understood, Ms. Sonia.
> Awaiting at designated destination.
The car peeled out with the inorganic AI voice. Another shell fired at the departing vehicle.
From the blast-born dust cloud, Amon burst forth, bisecting it again.
Kaboom!
The second explosion swallowed him. He tumbled away, rolling across the ground.
Sonia rushed over frantically.
"Amon!"
"I'm fine!"
He replied instantly. Incredibly, he looked intact for surviving two HE blasts—some singed skin, frizzed hair, but limbs whole.
"Feels like a hairline rib fracture," Amon told Sonia.
"Healing now."
Warm light from her hand enveloped him. Wounds knit shut in seconds. She skimmed the burns lightly, skipping superficial cuts—they'd regen in combat, unlike bone. Already mending, in fact.
She wanted full heals, but with unknown divine power needs ahead, conservation was key.
"Thanks."
Post-triage, Amon rolled his shoulders, checking. Sonia spotted his empty hand.
"Sword?"
"Wrecked."
"Any left?"
"Four still."
Three originals, one fresh dwarf-forged. He drew two familiars.
Sonia unholstered her gun, aiming toward the attack origin.
Even on France's outskirts, that direction was unnaturally dark. No glow from streetlights or building illuminations.
Amon and Sonia locked eyes on the void beyond.
Soon, voices echoed from the darkness.
"Told you. They'd show anyway."
A pink-haired woman shouldering a rocket launcher.
"Come on, logically—who thinks a human slices HE shells with a sword and walks it off? Not even divine power users pull that."
A gaunt man in a full suit and center-part hat, right face scarred.
Amon and Sonia's eyes widened at the pair. They wore paladin and nun vestments—unmistakably Vatican.
Divine power emanated from them. Alien, but unmistakable.
Above all, their chest emblems weren't crosses.
An inverted pentagram. The devil's mark.
From the dark, the man greeted with glowing red eyes.
"Greetings, Amon."
"You know me?"
"I know everything. Past, future."
"..."
"You're famous among us, to begin with."
The smirking man opened his mouth to introduce himself.
"My name is Bala—"
But before he finished, Amon vanished.
Ching!!!
The man's hat sheared off; a horn beneath blocked Amon's sword. Spotting the horn twisted Amon's glare darker.
The man grumbled at his abrupt attacker.
"Sigh... Even so, introductions fir—"
Amon ignored him, roaring.
"Mother demands it!!! To hurl you into the fiery furnace!!!"
Caught off-guard by the killing intent, the man dropped decorum.
"Hey, the Goddess doesn't care?!"
"Eeeeeemaaaah!!!"
His words didn't reach Amon. Battle erupted.