"We will fire..." Armin's eyes widened, but his leadership didn't buckle—not even with the Church standing there.
The old missile specialist gave a curt nod, moving to the launcher and manually inputting the new coordinates—exactly where Mr. Ace and the others were. This time, they wouldn't rely on a single shot. Multiple missiles were prepared.
Armin raised his spyglass again. Through the lens, he saw Mr. Ace still floating mid-air, surrounded below by the Pillars of the Church. The black robe swayed slightly in the wind. He was calm. Too calm.
You won't survive this time... Mr. Ace.
Armin raised his hand.
A few seconds passed.
Then he sliced it down. "FIRE!!"
SUOOO!!
The air ripped open as multiple missiles launched at once, screaming into the sky. The deafening roar returned, louder and heavier than before. This time, the strike would leave nothing behind.
The missiles raced toward Mr. Ace, their speed far greater than before—ten times faster, slicing through the sky with terrifying precision. The distance shrank fast: miles... kilometers... meters.
As they reached a critical range, Sergei's expression changed. He felt them.
He raised his hand toward the heavens. "PILLARS!"
The ten figures behind him lifted their hands in unison. A colossal divine energy circle appeared in the sky above, its size swallowing the clouds. From its center, a gigantic yellowish hand burst forth, its sheer scale dwarfing buildings.
The hand moved with grace and terrifying force, casting a long shadow over the earth as the missiles approached. Below, Ms. Blaze watched in panic, her breath hitching.
What if the destruction happened again?
But Mr. Ace didn't flinch. Calm and focused, he raised his wand and tapped his forehead.
Instantly, some of the incoming missiles froze mid-air. Their systems jammed, malfunctioning, and they fell harmlessly to the ground, inert and silent.
The remaining missiles screamed closer.
The divine hand moved faster.
In one sweeping motion, it snatched them from the sky. Two missiles escaped its grip, but before they could fall, the divine force surged again—pulling them inside the colossal palm.
Then, it happened.
A massive explosion erupted within the divine hand. Blinding light burst outward like a miniature sun—but the ground below remained untouched. No heat, no fire, no shockwave.
Only the light remained—pure, silent, overwhelming.
---
Somewhere in Germany,
After the failed missile strike and the shocking report of the Church's support for the assassin, the mood in Germany's military headquarters grew tense.
In a large, rectangular meeting room, the top military officials sat around a long oak table. The walls were lined with old war flags and detailed maps, and the air smelled faintly of gun oil and tobacco. The light above buzzed softly, casting a pale glow over the brass medals pinned proudly on every uniform. Each officer there wore symbols of honor and rank—stars, stripes, and medals from past victories.
But despite their power and pride, the room was silent.
Every man sat still, deep in thought, eyes sharp but unmoving. Only one chair remained empty. It wasn't just any seat—it stood out with its rich leather, higher backrest, and darker color. It was clear they were waiting for someone important. Someone above all of them.
Suddenly, the heavy steel door swung open with force.
The German Chancellor, Adolf Kriegman, stepped inside.
His presence changed the room instantly. Authority walked with him.
Behind him came two towering men, each dressed in black military gear. They held polished rifles, but their real weapon was their presence. Their bodies were tight with muscle—built like human tanks. Anyone watching could tell: these two didn't need weapons. They looked like they could take down thirty men with raw strength alone.
Kriegman's boots echoed as he walked to the head of the table, his cold eyes scanning every face in the room.
No one spoke.
They didn't need to.
Adolf Kriegman took his seat at the head of the table, the leather chair creaking under his weight. Without a word, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a long, slow breath of smoke.
Then, in a voice so cold it seemed to freeze the air, he asked,
"What's the report?"
Every man in the room tensed.
One officer stood up. "The first missile successfully destroyed a major area of Petrogard... but the follow-up strike failed. The Church intervened and destroyed all remaining missiles."
Adolf nodded slowly, dragging another puff from his cigarette. He scratched the center of his left palm with his right hand—absently, like something irritated him beneath the skin.
Then another general stepped forward. Hesitating.
"There is... one more report, sir."
Adolf didn't even glance at him. "Go on."
The general swallowed. "There's a potential threat at Petrogard. An assassin with assassin ability. His ability is unknown, but extremely dangerous. He eliminated our sent operatives without even laying a hand on them."
The room felt heavier with every word.
Adolf finally turned his head. His eyes locked onto the general like a blade pressed to the throat.
"Name?"
"M-Mr. Ace," the general answered, then hesitated again. "He... calls himself The Mad Magician and Tasteless Musician."
Adolf blinked once.
"A tasteless... musician?" he repeated, quietly processing. He raised his hand.
Everyone flinched.
But one of his guards stepped forward calmly, took the cigarette from Adolf's hand, and flicked it aside. Then lit a fresh one for him and placed it back between the chancellor's lips.
A collective breath was released.
Adolf exhaled. "And what did you do in response?"
Silence.
No one spoke. They all glanced at each other, avoiding his eyes. Not a single move had been made. No action taken. Only reports received... and passed along.
Adolf leaned forward, his voice now a sharp whisper of disgust.
"You did nothing."
He stared them down.
"Just sitting here... feeding on rank. Relying on V-201 Blackfire like it's your goddamn guardian angel."
Shame settled like ash over the room.
Then Adolf raised his hand again.
This time, no one flinched.
They assumed it was for another cigarette.
Until they saw the fist close.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The rifles roared.
His two guards—silent shadows at his back—opened fire. Bullet after bullet tore through the generals, blood spraying across the polished table and medals. One by one, the men dropped, lifeless.
Smoke lingered in the air—both from gunpowder and Adolf's cigarette.
He stood up slowly.
"Useless."
Without another glance, he turned and walked out of the room, coat swaying behind him.
"Now... I'll make new command."
---
Back in Petrogard—
After the missile strike failed, V-201 Blackfire received the order to retreat back to Germany. The soldiers moved quickly, packing up their equipment and loading it into military trucks.
Commander Armin sat alone on a large rock, holding a bottle of water. He poured it over his head, letting it drip down his face.
This time we're retreating... but we'll be back, he thought. Mr. Ace... next time we meet, you will die by my hands. I won't let you rise again.
His thoughts were heavy, burning inside his mind—until a soft, clear voice pulled him back.
"Commander," said a woman walking toward him. "All our equipment is packed. We're ready to move out."
She stood tall in uniform—Lina Therese Engel, one of his most trusted officers. Her voice was sweet but firm. She had short, neat blonde hair tucked under her military cap, sharp green eyes that always looked serious, and a face that could be kind—but rarely was. Her build was lean but strong, like someone trained for speed and precision.
Armin nodded slowly, sighing.
"You go ahead. I'll be there soon."
"Okay, sir." She gave a salute and turned back toward the trucks.
But as she walked away, she glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. Armin still hadn't moved.
He's under pressure... deep in something.
I want to help him... but how?
She clenched her fist quietly, then marched forward—leaving her commander alone with his thoughts.
---
Back at the site where Mr. Ace and the others stood—
The smoke still lingered, but the threat had passed. The divine circle overhead faded slowly as Sergei turned around.
"Where are you going?" Mr. Ace asked, gently lowering himself back to the ground.
Sergei didn't stop walking. "Back to save the remaining devotees."
Behind him, the Pillars followed in silence.
Mr. Ace looked around. The destruction was worse than before. Flames had died out, but the aftermath painted a brutal scene. Scattered across the blackened ground were divine circles where people were still alive, trembling, praying, or holding each other.
But not everyone was lucky.
Bodies lay broken. Limbs burned and torn. Severed hands, crushed legs, even heads—thrown like broken dolls across the earth. The scent of charred flesh still hung in the air.
Mr. Ace's eyes narrowed.
"Why didn't you save them?" His voice was cold. Quiet. Piercing.
Sergei didn't turn around.
"You don't need to know, Mr. Ace."
And with that, he walked away—toward the other survivors, leaving silence behind.
"Because they weren't devotees," Ms. Blaze said, looking down, her fist clenched tightly.
Mr. Ace turned his gaze to her. "What does that mean?"
"They only save those who follow their faith. The rest—" she paused, voice heavy, "—they let them die. Kids. Men. Women. Elders. Doesn't matter. If you're not one of them... you're nothing."
Mr. Ace stayed silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a dry, calm tone.
"Quite smart of them."
Ms. Blaze looked up, locking eyes with him—confused, even hurt.
How could he say that?
But then it hit her again.
He was an assassin.
Of course he wouldn't feel sympathy.