"Damn, Otto!" Lucian whistled.
Otto stood in front of the mirror in a sharply tailored black suit—one of Lucian own. And for a moment, Lucian barely recognized him.
He had assumed Otto was smaller, weaker. Maybe it was the way he spoke, or the way he carried himself like a background character who apologized when bumped into.
But now? Now Otto stood nearly six feet tall, lean but muscular from years of merchant work, with a frame that carried the suit like it was made for him.
He looked… powerful. Like someone who belonged in a boardroom—or a war room.
"This is my first time wearing anything like this," Otto muttered, shifting awkwardly in front of the mirror. "Feels weird."
The illusion shattered.
There went the cool points.
Leo groaned. "At least stay cool for three seconds, man."
Otto blushed.
"Anyway," Lucian said, brushing it off. "It'll do for now. After lunch, we'll go buy you something that fits properly."
Otto nodded. "Understood."
Lucian led the way downstairs.
Their place was a two-story corner building, part warehouse, part living space. The lower floor was a dusty general store Leo occasionally opened for fun. The upper floor held his bedroom, office, and bath.
By day, it was a quiet storefront.
By night, the real business happened—through a small back window facing a narrow alley. That's where the real clients came, the kind who paid in diamonds, not dollars.
Today, Lucian had errands in Manhattan. Essentials for Otto. So he strolled to the back exit, reaching for the door's deadbolt.
Click. Twist.
He barely cracked the door open before—
MEEEOWWW!
A stray cat's yowl echoed from the alley.
Otto's face went pale. "Lucian! Behind you!"
Before Lucian could react, Otto lunged forward and shoved him aside.
Clink.
A small, round object bounced through the crack in the door.
BOOM!
A blinding white light swallowed the room. Lucian eyes went white-hot. His ears rang like a siren.
Flashbang.
Lucian instincts kicked in. "Ambush," he muttered, shielding his face. Who the hell's coming after me?
Kingpin? Hydra? SHIELD?
No time to think.
CRASH!
The front door exploded inward.
Eight fully geared operatives in matte-black armor stormed in. Faces masked, weapons raised, movements precise.
"Eight enemies," Otto's voice whispered from behind the couch. "Fully armed."
Then sharply— "Close your eyes."
Lucian didn't hesitate.
A grenade materialized in his palm—summoned from his system's inventory.
Pull. Prime. Toss.
The movement was fluid. Practiced.
The grenade skittered across the floor toward the incoming operatives.
The lead attacker saw it too late.
BOOM!
Fire and shrapnel tore through the entryway.
Three agents were caught in the blast, flung backwards like broken mannequins. The rest dove for cover, struggling to realign.
Lucian vision was still distorted—shadows and ghost images from the flashbang still danced across his retinas. But he knew this house. He knew the alley. He didn't need to see to fight.
He drew his Nichirin Blade, its black metal glinting with a crimson hue, and charged.
But the remaining agents, despite the chaos, moved with cold discipline.
"Suppressing fire! Go loud!"
RATATATATATA!!
They opened fire in a blind sweep, laying down a blanket of lead across the hallway. Lucian had to retreat, cursing under his breath.
Smart. Well-trained. Not your average goons.
But they had made one mistake.
They had forgotten about Otto.
While Lucian was pinned down, Otto crouched behind the wall, eyes closed, hands on the ground.
Mana surged through him.
"El Dena…!"
The words rolled off his tongue—not English, not Latin, but the language of his world.
A Level-Two Earth Spell.
The floor beneath the attackers trembled.
Suddenly the hardwood buckled, warping like a wave. The intruders stumbled, their footing thrown off. One toppled into another, guns clattering.
Lucian felt it.
His moment.
He surged forward.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
Each strike was surgical—hamstring, wrist tendon, then arteries.
Blood sprayed across the walls, pooling in grotesque puddles.
But Lucian didn't kill them. Not yet.
He cut tendons to cripple. He severed arteries to bleed them out.
Just enough to send a message.
A Nichirin blade slammed into the floor, an inch from one attacker's skull. Lucian stood over him, blade dripping.
"You've got about three minutes left to live," he said calmly. "That's how long it'll take before you bleed out."
He leaned in, eyes cold.
"Answer my questions, and maybe I stop the bleeding."
The man spat blood and grit his teeth. "I'll never talk."
Lucian didn't look surprised. He turned to the others.
"Anyone else?"
Silence.
Cold, unyielding silence.
It was answer enough.
Lucian smiled.
"I respect that."
One stroke. Clean. Instant.
Each one died with a gasp.
He wiped the blade clean and turned back toward the house.
Otto stood in the doorway, watching.
His expression was cold. His voice colder.
"Looks like we're not going shopping today."
Lucian sighed. "Yeah. Looks like it."
He paused, looking Otto over.
The man was different now.
The nervous energy was gone. His shoulders were straighter. His voice, once timid, now calm and sharp.
"Guess I'll leave the cleanup to you."
"Yes, sir."
Lucian raised an eyebrow.
That tone…
That wasn't Otto.
That was someone else. Something else.
The boy who once stammered through conversation now spoke like a man who had buried bodies.
Lucian said nothing.
After all, Otto wasn't just a summoned assistant. He was a puppet. A living, breathing replica of a fictional soul. Everything that made Otto who he was—the trauma, the growth, the moral compass—it was all there.
But loyalty came first.
And when that loyalty clashed with morality…
Morality lost.
Lucian remembered Otto's alternate fate in the "Arrogance Route" of his original series. A broken merchant turned into a slave, then a killer. A man who'd earned the name "Merchant of Death."
And now, that same shadow clung to this version of Otto.
Maybe it's for the best, Lucian thought. This world doesn't need saints. It needs survivors.
Out loud, he chuckled. "Drop the 'sir.' Call me 'Boss.'"
Otto blinked, then nodded. "Understood, Boss."
Even colder now.
That voice belonged to someone who could trade lives like currency.
Lucian gave him one last glance, then disappeared into the house to clean up.
Outside, the blood still steamed on the pavement.
Inside, Otto prepared to bury the dead.