Crossover: Monthly Character Templates in the Multiverse Chat Group — Chapter 77

Chapter 77: Hunting Time

Frez stood before the war map, absorbing Duq’arael’s open contempt for the geopolitical mess before them.

Before Siracusa carved out its independence, it had been an inseparable chunk of Leithanien territory. Their sudden secession had caught the Leithanian nobility completely off guard—especially since the mafiosos had the sheer audacity to declare independence during the tyrannical reign of the Witch King, Herkomer von Hohenlohe.

Siracusa’s departure had fractured the Golden Melody. The Witch King had been forced to manually rewrite the grand Originium Arts that governed his empire, violently excising the dissonant notes of Siracusa just to keep the underlying structure from collapsing—like a programmer desperately patching spaghetti code. This grand spell wasn’t merely the law of Leithanien; it dictated the aesthetics, morality, and very identity of its people.

Because the modified Golden Melody could no longer accommodate the independent Siracusan frequencies, Leithanien was effectively barred from reclaiming the territory. But if Kazdel marched in and occupied it, planting Sarkaz banners directly on Leithanien’s borders? War with the golden spires would be highly likely.

Then there was Laterano.

As the most pervasive religious authority on Terra, the Laterano Church held deep roots in Siracusa. If the wolf-lords cried out to the south for salvation, the Pope’s gun-knights might march. Sankta and Sarkaz were bound by an ancient, bloody feud; there was no telling if the angels would use Siracusa as an excuse to open fire.

“Theresis’s concerns are entirely justified,” Frez said, his tone mild, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. He glanced at the Blood Demon King. “Calm down, Duq’arael. Siracusa itself has never been the threat. The real trouble lies with Laterano and Leithanien. You are not joining this vanguard.”

Duq’arael’s crimson eyes narrowed.

“Stay behind with the Blood Demon Court,” Frez instructed. “If Laterano’s halos decide to cross the border, you take the absolute lead in slaughtering them.”

Sitting on the bench chafed at Duq’arael’s pride, but the prospect of tearing into Sankta traitors smoothed his ruffled feathers. He gave a curt, stiff nod.

Frez turned his attention to the shifting, amorphous figure in the corner. “Shapeshifter. How close is your nearest clone to Signora Sicilia? If you have eyes in Montloup, assassinate her tonight. If not, I’ll handle it myself.”

“My closest iteration is in Sette Colli,” the Shapeshifter’s overlapping voices echoed. “The intelligence I gathered on her is several years out of date.”

Frez adjusted his dark sunglasses. “Then I’ll make the trip tonight.”

Orders cascaded down the chain of command. Niezlei and Theresis immediately began mobilizing the Royal Court Army. Flush with fresh capital from their recent asset seizures, the Kazdel forces didn’t have to pinch pennies for the deployment, easily contracting several elite mercenary companies to bolster their ranks. Duq’arael gathered his aristocratic clansmen, anchoring them in southern Kazdel to intercept any unforeseen holy crusaders.

In the heart of Montloup, the undisputed ruler of Siracusa returned to her sanctuary.

Signora Sicilia stepped out of the rain and into the opulent halls of the Sicily Family Manor, surrounded by a phalanx of elite bodyguards. The echoes of the evening’s opera still lingered in her mind. Through her absolute monopoly on violence, she had dragged Siracusa back from the brink of mutual annihilation time and time again. She allowed the mafias their petty squabbles, keeping the bloodshed within strictly defined parameters, ruthlessly crushing any feud that threatened to burn the nation to ash.

Decades of bearing that colossal weight had turned her hair snow-white, yet her posture remained iron-straight. The sharp, decisive beauty of her youth still commanded absolute authority.

Tonight had been a rare indulgence—a trip to the grand theater. The lead soprano was a brilliant young girl, a rising star Sicilia fully intended to patronize.

Leaving her guards in the corridor, the elderly don pushed open her heavy oak bedroom door.

She stopped.

Sitting casually at her antique dressing table was an unfamiliar young man in dark sunglasses. He was idly spinning a heavy hand cannon around his index finger—the exact weapon she kept hidden in the false bottom of her vanity drawer.

He stopped spinning the gun and turned the chair to face her.

Sicilia’s expression didn’t shift a fraction of an inch. “Who are you?” her voice was a calm, gravelly rasp. “Which family sent you?”

She knew the underbosses chafed under her rules. She had survived more assassination attempts than she could count. She had walked away from every single one.

“Good evening, Signora Sicilia,” Frez said, his lips curving into a polite smile. “No family sent me. Siracusa has no right to command me.”

“Then there should be no grudge between us.”

Sicilia walked further into the bedroom, her footsteps measured. She casually drifted toward the massive four-poster bed. Hidden beneath the headboard was a second hand cannon—a masterwork replica gifted to her by an old friend, the Laterano priest Agnello.

True Sankta firearms were bound to the angels’ racial Arts. Everything else sold on Terra was merely a high-end replica churned out by Raythean Industries.

“No grudge at all,” Frez agreed. “But your death yields an incredible return on investment for us. Do you need me to invite your subordinates inside? To serve as witnesses to your death?”

Frez closed his fist.

With a sickening crunch of warping steel, the heavy hand cannon crumpled like wet paper. Metal fragments rained onto the hardwood floor.

Sicilia froze. Her eyes flicked from the ruined gun to the young man’s relaxed posture. She slowly exhaled, abandoning her trajectory toward the bed. She sat down on the velvet bench at the foot of the mattress, folding her hands in her lap.

“Give me a dignified end,” she said quietly.

“Of course,” Frez replied, standing up. “We have no grudge; it’s simply that your death achieves my purpose, Signora.”

“You speak plainly. You must be the leader of some great power or organization, but why come personally?” Sicilia studied him, her gaze piercing.

“Because I need Siracusa to descend into chaos quickly,” Frez answered honestly. “My operatives in Sette Colli wouldn’t be able to arrive in time.”

He didn’t mind letting the old don live a few seconds longer. But only a few seconds.

“You seem to be someone who cares for your subordinates,” Sicilia murmured, closing her eyes. “One last question. Where do you come from?”

Instead of answering, Frez raised his hand. A brilliant, geometric golden cube materialized in his palm—the Void Archives. A scanning beam of golden light swept across the room.

Pop.

A spark flashed from beneath the bedframe, followed by a thin wisp of acrid smoke.

“Wiring a recording device in your own sleeping quarters? Hoping people will know who killed you?” Frez raised an eyebrow, genuinely amused. “Fine, I suppose I can tell you now. I am one of the new Demon Kings of Kazdel. My name is Frez.”

Sicilia let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “To be killed by a Demon King personally… I have no regrets in my defeat.”

Frez stepped lightly onto the thick carpet, moving behind her. “Any last words?”

“It is my regret not to see the prosperity of Siracusa.”

“It will be gone soon.”

A sharp, precise twist. Signora Sicilia’s neck bone snapped.

She was found dead in her home by a servant the following morning.

The news detonated across the streets and alleys of Siracusa like a Catastrophe. The iron chains that had bound the mafia families for decades shattered overnight. The suppressed ambition, the ancient grudges, the sheer greed—it all erupted into the open.

The families went to war, completely disregarding the consequences.

The Signori dei Lupi—the ancient Lords of Wolves lurking in the shadows behind the families—watched with gleaming eyes, happily witnessing their chosen fangs tear each other to pieces to decide the ultimate victor.

Ordinary citizens barricaded their doors, shivering in terror. They had no power to stop the carnage, and even the government institutions Sicilia had painstakingly built ground to a complete halt. Without her terrifying shadow looming over them, the capos grew reckless, rabidly expanding their territories over mountains of corpses.

The perpetual Siracusan rain poured down, entirely insufficient to wash away the thickening filth. Within a single week, the entirety of Siracusa had devolved into a chaotic meat grinder.

And on a night fractured by thunder, a silent tide swept through the wilderness toward the capital.

Lightning slashed across the black sky, illuminating the colossal treads of the mobile city of Montloup. While the mafia families were still busy slaughtering each other block by block, a disciplined, shadow-clad army scaled the city’s outer plating.

Frez stood at the vanguard, the storm raging around him. He had already led his people to the throat of the capital.

“Act according to plan!” his voice cut through the howling wind. “Occupy this mobile city immediately!”

The fangs of the Sarkaz opened wide, biting hard into the throat of the dying nation.

It was hunting time.