"What I'm aiming for here is the total annihilation of Heron—not just his life, but everything he clings to. His finances, his influence, his resources… and most importantly, his spirit. That's the real goal. Because men like Heron, they're pests. Roaches. You kill them, and they scatter into fragments that attract even more roaches. That's the worst part—not their survival, but the mess they leave behind. Kill him carelessly, and you'll inherit a swarm of problems.
So, the question becomes: how do I erase him? Not just kill him, but erase him?
Option one: the obvious brute force. I could storm his estate, cut down anyone loyal to him, and leave his house burning in the night. It's straightforward and, frankly, tempting. But Heron's not just some petty criminal—he's entrenched. Killing someone like him openly, without a reason the world buys, will only draw attention. Questions, investigations, alliances forming out of vengeance. No, that method is crude, inefficient, and reckless. It exposes me, and exposure is unacceptable.
Option two: use Jim. A clean, surgical strike. Jim could wipe him and his circle out—whether as a man or as the beast I know he can be. I'd give it an 80% success rate, accounting for variables. In ideal circumstances, it's a 100% kill, no survivors. But even then, the aftermath is the same: a power vacuum. Roaches scuttling to fill the void. New pests, emboldened by the chaos. Killing Heron outright doesn't solve the problem; it perpetuates it.
Option three: destabilization. Create a catastrophe in Heron's town, strike at his resources and holdings indirectly. Economic sabotage, ruin his reputation, break his network. A devastating blow that leaves him scrambling. It's effective, but it doesn't break him. Someone like Heron, no matter how weakened, will find a way to crawl back, clinging to whatever scraps remain. The spirit of a roach doesn't die with its legs.
No. None of these alone will do. What I need is precision—a hybrid. A little deceit, some misdirection, and the current instability working in my favor.."
"Jim, listen carefully. You've got three tasks, and I need them executed with precision—no deviation, no mistakes.
First, infiltrate the town. Map out every key point: where Heron's forces are stationed—military posts, barracks, patrol routes—and where the economic heart of the town beats. I'm talking supply depots, marketplaces, merchant hubs. Everything that keeps the town alive and functioning. Get the layout down to the last detail and inform me.
Second, once you receive my signal, begin. Kill everyone tied to Heron's forces—soldiers, guards, mercenaries, mages, whoever stands in his shadow. I don't care who they are or what role they play; if they hold a weapon or power under his banner, they die.
Third, and this is critical, ensure that every death looks the same. No visible wounds, no signs of a struggle. They need to look as if they've inhaled poison or overdosed on some drug. You can lower the intensity of your decomposition ability—use it as a controlled, ranged weapon. A subtle, invisible killer. Their bodies should remain intact, untouched by violence, so no one suspects anything beyond some unseen sickness or curse.
There must be no trace of you. No monstrous form, no face, no voice, no sound. Silence is your weapon. You're not a creature; you're a shadow—unseen and untouchable. Do the job cleanly, efficiently, and leave nothing that could link this back to us.
Finish it all within an hour. Not a second longer. Efficiency will ensure confusion and fear.
When you reach Heron, contact me immediately through telekinesis. You've still got that ability, right? Good. I'll handle the rest from there. This isn't just about killing—it's about control, about precision. You're not just taking out a pest; you're delivering a message, one that leaves no room for retaliation or recovery. Understood?"
The town of Draemore stood bustling with life—a harbor town of thriving trade, guild activity, and the quiet hum of power held in the hands of those who owned it. The walls encircling it were tall but old, with cracks and weak points that could be exploited by those with enough skill and determination. That's exactly what Shaun and Jim did.
cloaked in darkness, the two slipped past the town's outer defenses. Shaun's calculated guidance and Jim's unnatural precision allowed them to bypass the guards stationed at the southern back gate—a poorly monitored section meant only for minor supply routes. Shaun had already ensured the watch rotation would lag, and as they scaled the crumbling stone and dropped silently onto the cobblestone streets, it was clear the plan had worked.
"Stay quiet. Move as if you're nothing but the wind," Shaun murmured, his voice low but commanding now i will be moving in different direction and setting up thing also don't wear the cape in town you will only be seen as more suspicious .
Jim nodded, his body blending into the shadows as though he were one of them. He moved with a predator's grace, his eyes scanning every movement, every sound.
Their first stop was the harbor—a sprawling expanse of docks, warehouses, and ships moored under the moonlight. Crates and barrels were stacked high, marked with the insignias of merchant houses and guilds. Jim noted the patterns of movement: dockworkers loading and unloading cargo under the watchful eyes of armed guards. The guards themselves seemed tired, their movements sluggish—a result of long shifts and little oversight.
Jim crouched behind a stack of barrels, silently counting heads. Eight guards patrolling the docks. Four stationed near the main warehouse. Gaps in their rotations every seven minutes.
As he watched, he noted the harbor master's office—a small, brightly lit building perched near the end of the docks. Two guards stood outside, chatting idly, their attention more on their own boredom than their surroundings.
Jim memorized it all. The supply chain is vulnerable if the warehouse goes down. Take out the harbor, and Heron's resources choke.
Moving like a shadow, Jim followed Shaun's instructions to the guild district. It was a more densely packed area, with wooden signs hanging from iron poles—each marking a different guild. The Mercenary Guild was the largest, its towering stone structure lit by lanterns and filled with the raucous laughter of mercenaries sharing drinks.
Jim observed from the shadows, his gaze narrowing as he assessed their numbers. Dozens of hired blades. Some strong, some drunk. Easily distracted, but a few veterans. Dangerous in a coordinated fight.
Nearby, the Adventurer's Guild was quieter, with a steady stream of people moving in and out—likely freelancers picking up contracts. He didn't linger too long but noted the guard presence.
The bustling streets of the market district were quiet at this hour, save for a few merchants closing up shop. The area was cluttered with stalls, carts, and small stores: clothiers, blacksmiths, and equipment dealers lined the streets. Jim moved silently, weaving through alleyways and keeping to the shadows.
He mapped the streets mentally, noting the positions of guards, the vulnerabilities in patrol routes, and the buildings that could serve as chokepoints or escape routes. A restaurant caught his eye, its warm light spilling onto the street, but he moved past it without a second glance.
At last, Jim reached the military barracks, the heart of Heron's defenses. Unlike the rest of the town, this area was heavily fortified, with tall stone walls and steel gates. Torches lined the perimeter, casting flickering light over the armed soldiers patrolling inside.
Jim positioned himself on a rooftop overlooking the barracks, his eyes cold and calculating as he took in the sight. Dozens of soldiers. Archers on the walls. A mage's tower at the center. Fully armed and organized.
This wasn't an easy target. Heron's forces were prepared for large-scale attacks, but not for subtlety. Jim noted the locations of key buildings within the barracks—the armory, the stables, and the command center. His mind worked through scenarios, calculating the fastest way to dismantle the operation without raising alarms.
Having completed his reconnaissance, Jim found a spot near the outskirts of the town, hidden among the tall grass and shadows. He crouched low, his body still, his breathing measured. The town's lights flickered in the distance, but his attention was on his task.
The signal would come soon. Shaun would give the order, and when it did, Jim would move with the precision of a scalpel, cutting the heart out of Heron's forces before they even realized they were under attack.
He closed his eyes briefly, reaching out telepathically to Shaun. "In position. Everything is mapped. Awaiting your command."
Jim opened his eyes, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. The calm before the storm was always the quietest moment. And Jim was ready to unleash hell.
The tension in the air hung like a heavy mist, the darkened sky pressed low against the town of Draemore. The strange bubbling of the ocean had subsided, but the silence it left behind was only the calm before the storm. The harbor, still disheveled from the unnatural water upheaval, seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy. The ground beneath the docks groaned, as if the very foundations of the earth were shifting.
The night air over Draemore's harbor was thick with the salty scent of the sea, but there was something else too. Something strange that lingered in the atmosphere, unnoticed by most, but not by everyone.
A group of weathered men, some of them drunk on cheap ale, gathered around a low wooden table near the docks. The quiet murmurs of conversation mixed with the creaking of the ships bobbing in the harbor and the occasional shout from the marketplace. They spoke in hushed tones, as if trying not to disturb the night, but an undercurrent of unease hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.
One of the men, a fisherman whose hands were calloused from years of hauling in nets, took a deep drag from his pipe and leaned forward, squinting at the horizon where the sea met the sky. "You feel that?" he muttered, his voice rough and gravelly.
Another man, younger, with a patchy beard and a nervous twitch in his eye, glanced up from his drink, eyebrows furrowed. "Feel what, old man?"
"Something's off with the air," the fisherman replied, tapping his pipe against the edge of the table. "Like the sea's been holding its breath. You know what I mean?"
The younger man scoffed and wiped the condensation off his tankard. "You've been out at sea too long. Probably just the salt or something, getting to your head. Nothing's wrong."
But the fisherman didn't seem convinced. His eyes narrowed, scanning the still water, the gentle sway of the boats. It was peaceful—too peaceful. Even the usual sounds of creaking wood and the distant calls of gulls seemed muted.
A third man, one of the dockhands who had been unloading crates for hours, nodded slowly. He'd been working late into the evening, and his sharp nose twitched as he sniffed the air. "He's right, though," he said, his voice low. "The air's thick. Feels... heavier than usual."
At that, the group fell silent for a moment, each of them inhaling deeply. The salty tang of the ocean, the scent of fish and wood, and something else. Something faint but unmistakable. A chemical sharpness, as though something was burning beneath the surface of the water.
"Smells like..." the dockhand began, but he couldn't quite place it.
"Ain't right," the fisherman finished for him. "Methane. I'm telling you, there's too much of it in the air."
The younger man laughed, though it was nervous, unconvincing. "Methane? You've gone mad. You can't just—"
Before he could finish, another figure emerged from the shadows near the harbor. It was an older man with a cigarette hanging from his lips, his gait slow and deliberate. He had a reputation around these parts, known for his unshakable confidence and his taste for danger.
Without a word, he flicked the cigarette to life, its orange tip glowing brightly in the dim light of the harbor. A few men at the table shifted uneasily, the faint sound of wind suddenly louder than before.
The older man took a long drag from his cigarette, staring out at the sea. A flicker of realization passed over his face, his eyes squinting against the wind. He didn't seem alarmed, but his instincts had served him well over the years. "There's something off about the air," he said, his voice sharp. "And that's a hell of a lot of methane."
One of the younger dockhands, who had been watching the older man with unease, looked up, eyes wide. "You can smell it?"
"Can't miss it," the older man replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Too much of it in the air means something's wrong—could be a leak, or something's pushing it to the surface."
At the mention of a leak, the group fell into a heavy silence, the weight of the words settling over them like a cloud. The smell of methane was subtle, but it wasn't something to ignore. Methane didn't just appear in the air without a reason—it was dangerous, volatile.
A sudden gust of wind whipped through the harbor, lifting the smoke from the older man's cigarette and scattering it into the air. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze—until the young dockhand's eyes widened.
"Shit," he muttered, staring at the harbor's edge. "You think the methane's coming from... there?"
The fisherman didn't say anything, but his eyes had already darted toward the water, where the strange bubbling from earlier had begun again, more pronounced now, more violent. The sea itself seemed to shudder, as if it were alive, reacting to some unseen force.
The older man flicked his cigarette away, watching it skitter across the ground. His expression hardened, the casual demeanor now gone. "If there's too much methane in the air, that fire you just lit? It's dangerous. Real dangerous."
At that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The dockhands stood in frozen silence, looking at each other, and then back at the harbor. And then it happened.
The air shimmered briefly, and from the water, a low, rumbling sound began to rise, too deep to place, too ominous to ignore. The methane, mixed with whatever had disturbed the ocean, had created the perfect storm.
The older man turned, his hand gripping the shoulder of the younger dockhand. "Get back," he ordered sharply. "Now."
The group scrambled, a sudden panic setting in as they realized the gravity of the situation.
The first spark came without warning. A distant flash from the harbor—something catching fire.
It was too late. The harbor, filled with gas, was now a ticking bomb, waiting to ignite.
A flare of bright, violent orange shot up from the depths of the harbor, followed by another. And another. It was as if the very sea had turned into a raging inferno, flames licking the air, dancing across the cracked and broken docks. The fire spread like a living thing, crawling along the waters, as though it were feeding on the very substance of the ocean itself. Ships, once anchored securely, now splintered and exploded into flames. The fire surged across the wooden structures of the harbor like a fever, eating everything in its path.
Chaos erupted in the streets of Draemore. The stench of burning wood, saltwater, and gas filled the air, suffocating those who hadn't already fled. People screamed as they scrambled to escape the spreading inferno. Shops along the dockside caught fire, their windows shattering as the flames pushed forward, consuming their contents with reckless abandon. The guilds nearby, their walls thick and weathered, didn't stand a chance. The fire engulfed them in moments, crackling with unnatural intensity as the town's central heartbeat began to burn to ash.
But it wasn't just the harbor that was falling. The flames began to spread like a plague. The roads leading outward from the harbor, once bustling with merchants, travelers, and guards, now smoldered with the heavy weight of heat and devastation. Buildings, shops, and inns exploded with fiery bursts as gas lines beneath the streets ruptured, spilling their contents into the streets in a cascade of flame.
The air grew thick with smoke, so dense that the moon was barely visible through the blackened sky. The winds, which had been gentle hours ago, now howled with the intensity of a storm, pushing the fire forward, devouring everything it could. Flames leaped up along the outer roads, curling into the surrounding forests, which now crackled with the flames feeding off the dry brush. What was once a vibrant town was now a place of living hell.
From the distance, a sharp crackling sound could be heard as the trees in the outer forest ignited in a roaring blaze. The night was alight with the fiery glow as the firestorm spread rapidly outward, unstoppable and uncontrollable.
Amid the chaos, Jim stood in the shadows, hidden from the view of the fleeing townsfolk. His heart pounded, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but his expression remained cold, detached.
This was the signal. The town was now a chaos of flames and destruction. The perfect cover, the perfect distraction.
Jim knew exactly what to do next.
As the flames roared in the distance and screams echoed through the burning streets, he stepped forward, his mind already calculating his next move with surgical precision. Every corner, every road was engulfed, and every path was obscured by the smoke and chaos.
This town would burn. And with it, the last traces of Heron's influence.
The only thing left was to finish the job.