HFfC: CH 14: The Butler's Retribution

The single, sharp crack of a breaking neck plunged the factory into a split second of stunned silence. Then, chaos erupted.

"He's behind us!" one of the thugs screamed, and the entire gang turned, firing their runic guns recklessly into the shadows from which Sebas had struck. Magical bolts and lead slugs chewed through rusted metal and shattered what little glass remained in the high windows.

But their target was already gone.

Sebas moved through the cavernous, darkened factory like a phantom. He was a whisper of motion, a blur of black and white against the grimy backdrop of forgotten machinery. A thug spun around, his pistol raised, only to have his wrist seized in an unbreakable grip. A sharp twist, a scream of pain, and a precise chop to the back of the neck sent him crumpling to the floor, unconscious.

Another group of three tried to corner him between two massive, defunct engine presses. They unleashed a volley of fire, the muzzle flashes illuminating nothing but empty space. From the darkness above them, Sebas descended. He landed as silently as a falling leaf, his movements economical and utterly lethal. A palm strike to the first man's chest sent him flying backward, his breath driven from his lungs. A sweeping leg kick shattered the second man's kneecaps. The third turned to flee but was stopped by a single, gentle finger-poke to a nerve cluster at the base of his skull, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed in a heap.

The massacre was a quiet, brutally efficient affair. Sebas flowed through the hail of gunfire, the bullets seeming to pass through where he had been a fraction of a second before. He didn't waste a single movement. Each step, each strike, had a purpose: to neutralize, to dismantle, to break.

Soon, the panicked gunfire sputtered and died. The remaining gang members, seeing their comrades fall one by one to the silent, ghostly butler, finally lost their will to fight. Guns clattered to the concrete floor as hands were raised in surrender.

Sebas came to a stop in the center of the room, not a single speck of dust on his immaculate suit, not a single hair out of place. He straightened his tie. "Good," he said, his voice calm and even. "Tie yourselves up, would you?"

Terrified, the remaining thugs scrambled to obey, using their own belts and strips of cloth to bind each other.

Sebas then walked toward the makeshift throne where the gang's leader, along with the other lieutenants, were already groveling on the ground, their faces pale with terror. Orimys and Eroan were among them, trembling uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" the big boss blubbered, prostrating himself on the grimy floor. "I don't know which of my subordinates offended your master, but I assure you, whatever it is, I will make it right!" In his mind, there was only one explanation: this butler was a hidden enforcer for a Duke, or someone even more powerful.

"I will deal with you later," Sebas said dismissively. "For now, be good boys and sit over there." He pointed to an empty corner of the factory. The boss and the other lieutenants scrambled to obey, but as they did, Sebas's hand shot out and grabbed the collars of Orimys and Eroan, holding them fast.

"Ah, ah," he said, a cold, serene smile on his face. "Not you two."

The two thugs began to beg, tears and snot streaming down their faces as they realized their fate was to be different from the others. Sebas smiled, then grabbed both their heads and, with a single, powerful motion, slammed them face-first into the concrete floor.

CRACK.

"Hmmm," Sebas mused, looking down at their broken, bleeding forms. "If I remember correctly, one of you slammed my master's head into a table. Two times." He looked over at the other thugs, who were watching in horror. "You there," he called out. "Bring me tables."

"T-tables, sir?" one of them stammered. "How many?"

"All of them," Sebas replied simply.

The thugs ran, desperate to obey, searching the factory's old offices and break rooms for any furniture they could find. Sebas looked down at Orimys and Eroan, who were already bleeding profusely. "This won't do," he said with a sigh. "We have a whole night to spend together."

He knelt down, placing a gloved hand on each of their heads. A faint, white light glowed from his palms as he used a minor healing Ki technique. The bleeding slowed, and their groans became more coherent. He smiled down at them, a gentle, almost kindly expression that was the most terrifying thing they had ever seen.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "I will heal you. So we can spend much more time together."

Just then, the other thugs returned, carrying a heavy wooden desk. "There are more tables still being carried, sir!" one of them called out, eager to please.

"Good," Sebas said. He then grabbed Orimys by the hair, dragged his face over the newly arrived desk, and began.

…

Erwin stood in the cold shadows of the industrial district, a silent sentinel watching the abandoned factory. He moved from time to time, shifting his position, his eyes scanning the perimeter, but he never strayed far. He was waiting for Sebas to be done. He knew, logically, that the butler would be fine, that his power far outstripped that of a common street gang. But Sebas's last words before entering the factory echoed in his mind: "Do not come in before I tell you to, Young Master."

Erwin could sense the cold, righteous vengeance boiling just beneath the butler's placid surface. In a way, he understood it perfectly. At the moment of their creation, they were born with all of Zero's memories. The humiliation, the pain of his head being slammed into the bar—that wasn't a second-hand story they had heard; it was a memory they possessed as their own. This wasn't just a mission; it was personal.

Erwin sighed, a small puff of white in the chilly night air. "I guess I'll be spending the night in the cold, then," he muttered to himself. He might as well make use of the time. He needed to observe the city's nightlife, if such a thing even existed.

He left the industrial sector behind, moving through the quiet, lamp-lit streets. Taverns spilled dim light and muffled laughter onto the cobblestones, and the occasional carriage rattled by.

Then, he found it. One district, tucked away behind the main commercial thoroughfare, was particularly busy. Music, louder and more raucous than in the taverns, drifted from brightly lit doorways. As he walked up the street, he was immediately flanked by two beautiful elven women, their clothing loose and artfully revealing, their smiles predatory and practiced.

Erwin felt the urge to facepalm. Of course. A red-light district. Even in another world, some things were universal constants.

"Looking for a good time, handsome?" one of them purred, linking her arm through his.

"New in town?" the other added, her hand resting lightly on his chest. "We can show you things you've only dreamed of."

Erwin didn't even flinch. "Not tonight," he said, his voice calm and steady, cutting through their seductive patter. "I just arrived in this city, and what I truly need is a tour. An honest guide. So, would one of you be willing to lend me an hour of your time for just that?"

The two elves stopped, completely thrown by the bizarre request. They looked at each other, then back at the handsome man with the strange, compelling accent. Their minds raced. He was clearly loaded, his clothes were well-made, and he had an air of authority about him. And it was an easy job—just walk around and talk. Who would turn that down?

"I can do it!" the first one said immediately.

"No, I will!" the second countered.

"Now, now, ladies," Erwin said with a charming, disarming smile. "Sort it out amongst yourselves. I'm not going anywhere. I don't even know the way, haha."

The elves saw it then. He was charming, too. They wouldn't mind giving him more than just a tour. After a brief, whispered argument that seemed to involve a complex game of rock-paper-scissors, one of them emerged victorious.

"There is no bad blood with her, I hope?" Erwin asked the winner.

The elf laughed, a bright, musical sound. "Of course not! I won the challenge, fair and square. So I'll be your guide for the night."

"It is my pleasure, my lady...?" Erwin prompted.

The elf chuckled again. "Lady? I'm no lady, handsome. I'm Ayda."

"Alright then, Lady Ayda," Erwin said, offering her his arm with a gentlemanly flourish. "Lead the way."

…

The first, tentative rays of dawn pierced through the grimy, high windows of the factory floor, cutting sharp lines of light through the stale, metallic air. The huddled rows of thugs, along with their boss and lieutenants, flinched as the light touched them. They hadn't made a sound all night. They hadn't dared. Their eyes, wide and hollow, were fixed on the center of the room, where the butler had been working.

True to his word, Sebas had spent the entire night slamming Orimys and Eroan into the tables. When the last of the solid furniture had been reduced to splinters, he had simply continued, using the jagged pile of rubble as his new anvil. The gang had been forced to watch, a captive audience to a symphony of sickening crunches, agonized screams, and the butler's periodic, gentle healing, which only served to prolong the ordeal.

As the morning sunbeam hit the side of his face, Sebas paused. Orimys and Eroan, now little more than blood-soaked sacks of broken bones, lay twitching at his feet. The butler looked down at them, his serene expression unchanged.

"I will not be healing you for this one," he said, his voice calm and final.

He then grabbed both of their heads one last time and brought them down onto the hard concrete floor with a final, sickening crunch. Their bodies went still.

Sebas stood, his arms bloodied to the elbows, as if he had simply been dipping them in a vat of red paint. He turned his gaze to the terrified gang leader.

"Straighten yourself up," Sebas commanded. "I want to know everything about your so-called gang."

The boss, confused and terrified, scrambled to his feet. "Y-you want to take over, sir?" he stammered, his mind latching onto the only logic he understood.

"Just do as I told you," Sebas said, his voice dangerously soft. "Who knows? With the right leadership, perhaps we can absorb other territories. Make the whole of the Hudson Reach, maybe even all of Evercrest, under us."

The boss's eyes widened at the audacious ambition, and the subtle shift in language. "Us... sir?"

Sebas's serene smile returned, but it was utterly devoid of warmth. "Do you want me to kill you," he asked politely, "and say 'me' instead?"

The boss bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the grimy floor. "No, sir!" he choked out. "I will give you a full, detailed report of my entire organization! Everything! You'll have it by tonight!"

"Good," Sebas said. "I will come by to collect it."

Then, without another word, he turned and walked calmly out of the factory, his blood-soaked arms swinging gently at his sides, leaving the shattered remains of the Viper gang to contemplate their new, terrifying management.

…

Far to the south, in a land of sun-baked earth and vast, rolling grasslands, the Archduchy of the Scorched Plains was a world away from the grimy alleys of the Hudson Reach. Here, in a sun-drenched solar within the Brenford family's ancestral keep, Archduke Alastair Brenford was not a formidable political power, but simply a father.

He held his infant son, Alec, aloft in his arms, the month-old baby gurgling with delight. Alastair made a series of funny faces, his usually stern, handsome features softening into an expression of pure, doting love. "And who's the strongest boy in the whole Archduchy?" he cooed, bouncing the baby gently. "Is it you? Yes, it is!"

A soft, polite knock came from the heavy oak door.

Alastair's smile tightened. "Do we have to do this now, Julian?" he asked, not taking his eyes off his son.

His head butler, a tall, impeccably dressed man with silver hair, stepped silently into the room. "It is not a matter of immediate urgency, Your Grace," Julian said, his voice calm and discreet. "It can wait, for now."

But Alastair knew that tone. It was the butler's polite way of saying it was, in fact, incredibly important. He sighed, the weight of his station settling back onto his shoulders. "Maid," he called out.

A young woman in a crisp uniform entered and curtsied. Alastair carefully handed Alec over to her, his expression melting back into that of a doting father. "Be good for Nana, little one," he said in a soft baby voice. "And we'll play again later, okay?"

The maid left with the baby. As the door clicked shut, the warmth vanished from Alastair's face, replaced by the cool, calculating mask of the Archduke. He turned to his butler.

"So," he said, his voice now hard as steel. "What is it?"

"There is movement regarding the Watchers, Your Grace," Julian reported.

Alastair's eyes narrowed. "The Chief?"

"Yes, Your Grace. The current Chief is being pressured into retirement."

Alastair took a sip of his tea, his expression thoughtful. "It was about time. Though his... simple nature... has been a great boon to our various business enterprises."

"That is the problem, Your Grace," the butler continued. "The new leading contender for the position is a man wholly loyal to the First Prince's faction."

Alastair paused, the teacup hovering halfway to his lips. The implication was clear. A competent, politically motivated Chief of the Watchers, loyal to his primary rival, would be a disaster for his operations in the north.

"Let's hasten the plan, then," Alastair said, his voice quiet but filled with a sudden, chilling decisiveness.

The butler bowed low. "As you command, Your Grace." And with that, he left the room, leaving the Archduke alone with his thoughts and the silent, deadly games of the Great Houses.

The bell above the café door chimed softly, announcing a new arrival. Soma and Zero, who were busy serving the last of their evening customers, looked up. A small boy with oversized glasses and a serious expression walked in, looking around the café with a curious, analytical gaze.

Soma's face split into a wide, mischievous grin. Seizing the opportunity, he walked over to the small figure. "Hello there, little guy," he said in a loud, patronizing voice, ruffling the boy's hair with a rough, brotherly affection.

The child—Erwin in his Conan form—gave a tight, forceful smile. He slowly reached up, his small hand closing around Soma's wrist with a surprising strength, and physically removed the offending hand from his head. "My friends told me this was a good café," Erwin said, his voice a perfect imitation of a polite, inquisitive child, "but seeing the chef, I'm starting to doubt the food is any good."

Soma's grin twitched, genuinely ticked off by the jab. He held his anger in check, playing along with the charade. "Alright, little man," he said through gritted teeth. "Go sit wherever you like. Do you need a booster seat to reach the table?"

Erwin simply took a seat at an empty table, his small legs dangling far from the floor. From behind the bar, Zero, still wearing his veiled hat, smirked, trying to hold back a laugh at the silent, vicious battle of wills unfolding before him.

Time passed. The last of the loyal customers finished their meals, paid their compliments, and headed home into the night. Erwin, who had been subjected to Soma's relentless teasing for the entire evening—being offered milk instead of water, having his food cut into tiny, child-sized pieces—finally had enough. He stomped angrily up the stairs to the living quarters.

"Ahahahaha!" Soma laughed, watching him go. "You have two powerful cards inside you, and you still get mad like a child! Oh, wait," he added, his voice dripping with mock realization, "one of your cards is a child!"

"The only child here is YOU!" Erwin's furious, high-pitched voice shouted from upstairs.

Zero laughed along with Soma, the sound warm and easy in the now-empty café. Just then, the bell above the door chimed one last time.

"Welcome," Soma called out, turning from the stairs.

It was Detective Wolfe and Monet Montallet. They looked utterly exhausted, their uniforms rumpled after a long, difficult shift.

"Hello, Watcher officers," Zero said, his voice calm and welcoming. "What can I get for you tonight?"

Monet slumped onto a stool at the bar, her head resting on the cool, polished wood. "Can you get me something... calming?" she mumbled.

"Coffee," Wolfe grunted, taking the stool beside her. "Black."

Zero smiled at their dynamic. He set about preparing a fragrant, calming herbal tea for Monet and a strong, dark coffee for Wolfe. "I know it's late," Zero said, "and it's usually not recommended to order the last batch of food from a tavern, but I can assure you, my chef is good. He's so good that even his last batch is the best you'll have all week."

"Of course!" Soma's voice called from the kitchen.

Monet lifted her head, her interest piqued. "Yes, please," she said, her voice brightening. "I haven't eaten since noon. Can I see a menu?"

Soma appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on his apron. "We only do one meal a day here," he explained. "And it changes every day."

"Wow," Monet said, impressed. "How long have you been doing this?"

"About a month now," Soma said smugly. "In fact, two days from now is the one-month anniversary of our grand opening."

"That's not a thing," Zero said flatly from behind the bar. "An anniversary is a yearly thing."

"It's a monthly thing if you put your mind to it," Soma retorted, before turning his charming smile back to the two officers. "So, do you want to order the food, too? Tonight, it's Pho."

"Pho?" Monet asked, the name unfamiliar.

"It's a kind of noodle soup," Soma explained, his eyes lighting up with a chef's passion. "Rich bone broth that's been simmering all day, tender slices of beef, fresh herbs... I know this: it will cure you of your tiredness."

"One for me, please," Monet said without a second's hesitation.

"I'll pass," Wolfe grunted. "Just the coffee."

Zero placed the steaming mugs in front of them. "Enjoy," he said.

Soma returned from the kitchen carrying a large, steaming bowl. The aroma that preceded him was intoxicating—a rich, complex scent of star anise, cinnamon, and savory beef broth that seemed to physically push back the exhaustion of the long day. He placed the bowl of Pho in front of Monet. It was a work of art: delicate rice noodles submerged in a crystal-clear, amber broth, topped with paper-thin slices of rare beef, fresh cilantro, and vibrant green onions.

The moment the scent hit her, Monet's hunger intensified tenfold. Wolfe, who had been stoically sipping his black coffee, caught the fragrant steam. He coughed, a gruff, failed attempt to cover the sound of his stomach rumbling. He stared into his coffee cup for a moment, then, without looking at anyone, coolly said, "One for me as well, please."

Monet's tired face broke into a teasing grin. "Awww, you smelled my meal, and now you want one too, sir?"

Wolfe shot her a look that could curdle milk. "Boot."

Monet instinctively straightened her posture, her back going ramrod straight. The teasing rookie was gone, replaced by the attentive officer.

"Two runearm-wielding suspects burst into this café," Wolfe began, his voice low and intense, turning the quiet café into a training room. "They've taken the room. What do you do?"

Monet's mind snapped into focus. "Sir, my first priority would be to establish a perimeter, call for backup, and attempt to de-escalate while assessing the number of hostages and the suspects' intent."

"Wrong," Wolfe said flatly. "Look around. One entrance, one exit, and it opens into a narrow alley. A perfect kill zone. There's no 'perimeter' to establish from the outside without getting shot. You're inside, just like tonight. You're the first responder. What do you do now?"

Monet's eyes darted around the café, seeing it now not as a cozy eatery but as a tactical problem. "I would seek cover, sir. The bar is solid wood. The cash register is a reinforced position. I'd try to position myself to have a clear line of sight on both suspects while minimizing civilian exposure."

"The register is also the target," Wolfe countered, his voice like chipping stone. "They want the money. You take cover there, you put yourself in the center of the conflict. The suspects are positioned here," he gestured to where Orimys and Eroan had stood, "one by the door, one in the center. They control the only exit. The owner is behind the bar, a potential hostage. The chef is in the kitchen, a potential flanking threat, but also a civilian. What's your move?"

"I would wait for an opening, sir," Monet stammered, the pressure mounting. "When their attention is divided, I would attempt to neutralize the closest threat, the one in the center, to create an escape path for the civilians."

"And the one by the door shoots you in the back while you're doing it," Wolfe said coldly. "You're outnumbered. You're outgunned. And you have civilians to protect. Your job isn't to be a hero; it's to make sure everyone else gets to go home."

The relentless questioning continued, a verbal barrage that left Monet feeling more drained than her entire shift had. Wolfe picked apart every textbook answer she gave, forcing her to confront the messy, unpredictable reality of their work. The lesson was brutal but clear: the manual could never prepare you for the chaos of a real fight.

The impromptu exam was only halted when Soma returned from the kitchen, placing a steaming bowl of Pho in front of the detective. The rich, savory aroma filled the space between them, a flag of truce in their tactical war game.

Wolfe finally broke eye contact with Monet and looked down at the food. Monet let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

Soma leaned in conspiratorially toward Monet. "I was about to let him do that for another fifteen minutes," he whispered with a mischievous grin.

Monet could only offer a weak, sad smile in return. She picked up her spoon and took her first taste of the Pho. The broth was a revelation—deep, complex, and so profoundly comforting it felt like it was healing her from the inside out. The noodles were perfect, the beef melted in her mouth, and the fresh herbs cut through the richness. It was too good. It was just too delicious to be eaten sad. And for a few blissful moments, she forgot all about tactics, reports, and the endless, wearying night.

…

The lights were off on the café floor, the 'CLOSED' sign a dark silhouette against the streetlamps. In the living quarters above, Zero, Soma, and Erwin sat in a quiet, meditative circle. Miles away, in the cold, dark factory, Sebas stood amidst the wreckage of the Viper gang, his eyes also closed. In an instant, their four consciousnesses converged, their forms solidifying around the familiar round table in the endless void of their shared mind.

Zero looked at the three solid forms of his clones, the feeling of their shared presence still a novel sensation. "It's the first time we're all meeting in the hub like this," he began, opening the meeting.

"Ah!" Soma cut him off, slamming a hand on the table with a dramatic flourish. "Before we start, can we call ourselves 'The Animus Council'? And this place, 'The Animus Hub'?"

Zero blinked. "Why?"

"'Animus' is Latin for soul or mind," Soma explained, a proud, smug grin on his face. "It kind of fits, right? And we're going to grow, get more clones. Can you imagine it? Years from now, some reincarnated saint or whatever is trying to uncover the secret power pulling the strings of the kingdom, and all they find are whispers of a group called 'The Animus Council'? It'll be wild!"

Erwin, who had been listening with a deadpan expression, asked, "Are we plotting to take over the world now?"

"I think it fits," a calm voice said.

They all turned their heads to look at Sebas. The dignified butler, who they expected to be the most reserved, had agreed with Soma's dramatic naming.

"This world is not kind to our Master," Sebas elaborated, his gaze steady. "Sooner or later, you will have to go out into it and not have to wear your veiled hat. To achieve that, a certain level of influence—of power—is required."

"Does your card influence you this much?" Zero asked, a little taken aback by the butler's ambition.

"No. Or perhaps, yes. I do not know," Erwin interjected, his voice quiet but firm. "But I agree with Sebas. We are all you. Every time I walk outside, I see our kind—demons—being kicked, sneered at, and judged simply for existing."

Zero sighed, the weight of their shared experience settling on him. "Let's not talk about that right now. For now... about the gang, Sebas. Can you give us your report?"

Sebas stood. He waved a hand over the table, and the polished wood dissolved, shifting into a shimmering, three-dimensional holographic map of the Evercrest Duchy.

"Whoa, it's the whole duchy," Soma breathed.

"It's not the official map, though," Zero noted, leaning in closer. "Look, the borders are different. A lot different."

"Yes, exactly," Sebas confirmed. "This is the underground map, showing the territories of the various criminal organizations. As you can see, the Viper gang's territory is laughably small." He pointed, and a small, insignificant patch of the map glowed red. "But there is one thing the Vipers had that I need."

"What is it?" Zero asked.

"The red-light district," Sebas stated. "Believe it or not, more than half of their income comes from controlling this single, small area."

Soma looked horrified. "Sebas, what do you need a red-light district for? Sebas, please, there are a lot of STIs out there!"

A serene smile touched the butler's lips. "It is not for that, Young Master Soma. And incidentally, in this world, the prostitutes seem to have regular, mandatory sessions with healers. In turn, the healers are paid to cure them of any... afflictions."

Soma's jaw dropped.

"Sex," Erwin said, his voice cold and analytical. "Not in our past life, nor in this one, has its power diminished. It is a powerful weapon for gathering information."

"I will handle the red-light district for now," Sebas declared. "I will use every resource at my disposal to create an establishment that will rival the Hao Sect from novels on our past life. We can use the waiters, the prostitutes, all the workers who are deemed invisible by the powerful, as our eyes and ears."

He looked at Zero. "All I need is three months. I will come back here to give a full report every week, but other than that, I will not be returning to the café for a while."

"So this is it, then," Zero said, a strange, ironic smile on his face. "I guess this is our first real step toward a 'slow living,' right?"

The four of them looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. Their paths were set.

"...To cook the best dish there is," Soma said, his eyes gleaming with a chef's passion.

"...To control the security of this kingdom," Erwin stated, his voice the calm of a commander.

"...To a world," Sebas concluded, his voice a quiet, unshakeable promise, "that will one day be in our grasp."