In the VIP box, a sanctuary of calm and strategy, the director and Professor Lizy watched with keen eyes the fight between Yuki and Thomas, a clash that promised to be the climax of a tournament full of surprises. However, even with the tension of the confrontation reaching its peak, their attention is diverted by an unexpected interruption.
"Sorry to intrude. I have news," announces a man in a suit, bringing with him the weight of an unforeseen event. The seriousness in his voice and the gravity of his immediate entrance suggest that what he has to say transcends the importance of any exhibition fight.
Lizy and the director, with the synchrony of those accustomed to dealing with crises, turn to face the messenger. "What happened?" they inquire, clear expectation in their voices, prepared for yet another wave of challenges.
"Our institution's hospital is destroyed. There are no signs of who did it, but all the individuals inside it have disappeared," reveals the messenger, his words painting a picture of chaos and mystery. The news, though grave, does not seem to shake the foundations of Lizy and the director. They remain calm, a response that speaks volumes about the depth of their experience and the complexity of the world in which they operate.
The director's speculation, "Dean Carleone was there, wasn't he?" shifts the focus to a name that, until now, has been a question mark for both allies and adversaries. Lizy, with a simple nod, confirms Dean's presence, a detail that adds another layer of intrigue to the already complicated puzzle that is the underworld of powers, alliances, and conflicts.
---
There I was, in the middle of a field that could easily be the backdrop of a low-budget drama movie, with a sky so cloudy even the sun seemed to have taken a day off. The wind, in a Herculean effort, tried to arrange my black hair in a style that could only be described as "chic natural disaster."
Before me, like two figures straight out of a somewhat twisted fairy tale, stood they: Alva and Nívea. With gazes so piercing I almost felt compelled to apologize for existing. "So, has the reconsideration of my judgment been granted?" I asked, with optimism that even I knew was faker than a three-dollar bill.
"Dean Carleone, son of Italians and of the high court and a deserter. The high court gave you enough time to comply with the assassination of Alice del Ferraro, but you failed," Alva began, with a seriousness that would make anyone reconsider their life choices. Ah, nothing like being reminded of your failures on a beautiful cloudy day.
"The consequence of this is that now, the world knows we want her dead," Nívea completed, as if the situation wasn't bad enough already. You know, it's in these moments that you really start to question your career. "Failed assassin" definitely wasn't what I had envisioned for my resume.
And there I was, caught between two judges with the ability to turn my bad day into an absolute nightmare, trying to find a way out that didn't involve my permanent disappearance. Maybe it was time to consider a career change... Something less lethal, perhaps gardening? Or maybe baking? Ah, the possibilities are endless when you're on the brink of being erased from existence.
"Yeah, I guess I really did fail," I murmured, offering the surrounding landscape a look that might have been seeking some form of consolation. Who would have thought, in moments of existential crisis, even an empty field has more to offer than expected?
"So tell us, why should you not die?" Nívea threw out the question with the casualness of someone inquiring about coffee preferences, but with a weight that could crush mountains.
Why should I not die? Talk about putting someone on the spot... I found myself plunged into thought, navigating through a storm of philosophical reflections. "Death is something all men fear so much that they seek to repel it at all costs. Asking someone the reason not to kill them opens the door to all possible answers." Ah, the irony of pondering the vastness of mortality when you're in the front line to be expelled from existence.
But, oh, if I had to choose an answer, a final statement worthy of being carved in stone (or at least on a cool t-shirt), it would be this: "Because I am strong." I told them, with a seriousness I hoped would make up for the lack of dramatic background music.
Yes, that was my bet, my ace in a game where I clearly hadn't read the rules. "I am strong" – because, in the end, what else does a condemned man have besides his own conviction? And even if their expression didn't change, at least I could say I faced the end with something akin to dignity. Or, at the very least, with the stubbornness of someone who refuses to leave the stage without dropping one last catchy line.
"Strong, you say?" She murmured, her voice carrying a mix of surprise and skepticism, as if the idea of strength was as distant a concept as the possibility of a sunny day in this field. "If you were strong, why didn't you complete your mission?"
Ah, the old "if" and "but," a classic dilemma that follows me more faithfully than my own shadow. "Because it was foolishness to do so. Killing Alice automatically condemns the person. The strongest hero in the world might even be the worst father in the world, but clearly, he would seek revenge. For someone like me, with so much potential, to be reduced to ashes over a murder is foolishness." There I was, trying to explain the logic behind my "failure," as if rationality had any weight in a court that judges based on rules written in the stars.
Actually, my reluctance to go through with the plan wasn't just a matter of self-preservation (though the idea of not being turned to ashes by a vengeful father does have its appeal, I admit). It was more about not wanting to be the villain of the story, the kind of character children learn to fear and adults mention in whispers full of disdain. Who would have thought, Dean Carleone, a man of principles? Sounds almost as convincing as a politician during election season.
But here I was, defending my "strong" decision not to become a hired assassin, hoping that logic would be enough to save me from certain death. After all, who needs a sword when you have a solid argument, right? Right?
Nívea and Alva, the judges with a penchant for ethical dilemmas as complex as any conspiracy theory, paused to consider my revelation. Then, Alva, with that air of someone who found a loophole in my argument, shot back: "So, you only thought about the possibility of the world's strongest hero becoming your mortal enemy, but you didn't consider the possibility of him being the mortal enemy of the high court?"
Damn, who knew judges could be so insightful? "Well, it's not my fault, you're the ones who want her dead. Now you find it bad that he wants to kill you too?" I retorted, trying to navigate this sea of morality with the grace of an elephant in a china shop.
"Sister, let's just kill him," Nívea said, clearly losing patience with my convoluted logic and ready to turn me into human confetti as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Hey! I thought in a trial you're supposed to tell the truth!" I protested, raising my hands in a universal gesture of "hold on, we can talk about this." Because, of course, when you're standing in front of two judges with power over life and death, what do you do? You invoke the basic principles of justice, hoping they didn't skip that part of the "How to Be a Judge 101" manual.
The irony of the situation didn't escape me; here I was, a guy who probably should be on a "wanted" poster somewhere, appealing to morality and justice. If that's not the definition of desperation, I don't know what is. But who knows? Maybe appealing to the good old sense of justice was exactly the magic trick I needed to get out of this alive. Or, at the very least, earn me a spot in the hall of fame of the most audacious condemned.
Alva, with the expression of someone about to solve an ancient riddle, pondered my fate with the seriousness of a chess player analyzing their next move. "His innate ability is something peculiar and powerful. Surely he has tremendous potential. But... Who's to say he will continue to obey the high court as our pet?"
Well, that's flattering and concerning in equal measure. I always knew I had a certain charm, but to be compared to a powerful and potentially disobedient pet? That's new.
"So, what's it going to be?" I interrupted, impatient with the conversation that seemed to be going in circles. "Are you going to kill me? Your excellence..." My voice faded under the weight of Nívea's cold gaze. Nothing like the scrutiny of a judge to make you reconsider your choice of words.
Then, as if announcing the result of a reality show, Alva declared: "Considering that you have demonstrated your strength and usefulness, in the future for the high court. I, the judge, decree you: restored to the position of servant of the high court."
Nívea, on the other hand, looked like she had swallowed a lemon, her sullen expression saying more than a thousand words. And who could blame her? One moment I'm on the chopping block, ready to be turned into garden decoration, and the next, I'm readmitted with all rights and privileges. Ah, the ups and downs of being a servant of the high court.
"All services have been restored to you," Alva continued, as if she was doing me a monumental favor, and not just returning what was already mine by right.
Well, it seems I live to serve (and possibly to disobey) another day. The world of the high court truly is a carousel of surprises, where one moment you're a target, and the next, a precious asset. The moral of the story? Never underestimate the power of a good argument... or of being an exceptionally useful "pet." Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a high court servant reputation to polish (and maybe some rules to bend, when no one is looking).
"Thank you," I offered with a bow that had more sarcasm than respect. Ah, the gratitude in times of coercion has a flavor all its own, doesn't it? "So, can you remove this seal you've placed on me? Intriguing, by the way, a soul seal. Were the requirements to know how to do it finding out the name of my innate ability?"
Alva, with the patience of a monk and the indifference of an aristocratic cat, decided my attempts at small talk were not worthy of her attention. She approached with the determination of someone who knows exactly what they're doing, placed her hand over my chest, and said, "Release." And that's how I experienced the sensation of being vanilla ice cream in the middle of summer – a chill that made me question my existence.
The tattoo on my back, which until then had been a mark of my condemnation (and a rather questionable fashion accessory), began to fade away. "Thank you, again. So, can you guys---" My words were cut off faster than a newbie in a teleportation room. Speaking of teleportation...
Before I could even blink, I was teleported into a room and fell face-first onto the floor. My head collided with the unexpected solidity of the floor and bounced because, of course, why just fall when you can make an entrance worthy of a cartoon?
There I was, Dean Carleone, a restored servant of the high court, lying on the floor, pondering how exactly my life had gotten to this point. Between being a fugitive, facing judges with superhuman powers, and now being thrown into rooms as if I were an expendable card, I definitely needed to reconsider some life choices.
But hey, at least the soul seal was removed, right? Small victories. Now, if I could manage to stand up without looking like a giraffe calf learning to walk, I'd be on the right track to, perhaps, rediscover what it means to be Dean Carleone, servant of the high court and, apparently, a true master at attracting trouble.