Faust stood before the towering window of the Flamesworth estate, his hands clasped behind his back. The sprawling city of Steelgate stretched out before him, its streets teeming with life—life he intended to control. His orange eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, reflecting the city's chaos like embers in a dying fire.
"Command all the enforcers to go to the pinpointed locations I ordered," he said, his voice calm but laced with authority. "Capture any civilian who is suspicious enough. This Phantom… will be dealt with."
His assistant, a wiry man with a nervous demeanor, bowed deeply. "At once, Master Faust."
As the assistant scurried away, Faust's gaze lingered on the city. His expression was unreadable, but his mind was a storm of calculations. The Phantom's movements had been precise, methodical—too precise to be the work of an ordinary rebel. But Faust was no ordinary opponent. He would crush this rebellion, piece by piece, until nothing remained but ash.
Meanwhile, in the slums beneath the clock tower, news of the enforcers' crackdown spread like wildfire. Prometheus stood among his comrades, his crimson mask glinting in the faint light. Annie approached him, her expression grim.
"It's him," she said, her voice low. "Sylvain's father. He's tightening his grip on the city."
Prometheus didn't respond immediately. Instead, he turned and began climbing the spiral staircase to the roof of the clock tower. The others followed, their footsteps echoing in the hollow structure. When he reached the top, he stepped out into the open air, the city sprawling before him like a battlefield waiting to ignite.
The slums were alive with activity—people huddled in alleys, whispering in fear, their faces etched with desperation. Prometheus took a deep breath, his chest swelling with determination. He raised his hands, and the crowd below fell silent, their eyes turning to him.
"Hear me well, free people of Pilturia!" he called, his voice carrying over the rooftops. "At first, I thought that hope was the key to not giving up…" He paused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I'm ashamed to say that I was wrong."
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, breaking the tension. Even some of the Pit and Pendulum members chuckled beneath their masks. Prometheus's smile widened, but his eyes burned with intensity.
"The key to never giving up, to going through this period of pain, is to find the finish line!" he declared, his voice rising with each word. "Some of us linger on the past. Some of us live in the distant future. But what we need is not to dwell on our lives backward, nor is it to daydream. What we need is to set our goal and only move forward!"
The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices blending into a roar of defiance. Prometheus raised his fist, his crimson mask catching the light like a beacon.
"So, free people of Pilturia, go on and free this nation! We will fight, fall, and crawl fighting! We will riot and rebel! We will maintain hope, but most importantly, we will move forward to our next goal—to finish the reign of the houses!"
The crowd's roar grew deafening, their emotions fixed, their spirits heightened. That day, the slums erupted into chaos. People donned homemade crimson masks, dyed their hair crimson, and took to the streets in a wave of rebellion. The city was soon engulfed in red smoke, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and the cries of the oppressed.
The enforcers, overwhelmed by the sheer number of rioters, struggled to maintain control. They couldn't capture every civilian—not when the entire city seemed to rise against them.
Prometheus watched the chaos from the clock tower, his expression unreadable beneath his mask. He turned to his men, his voice steady but urgent.
"The distraction of the riots will lessen the security of the spots Faust decided to guard. This is our chance. Follow me—we're heading to the military weapons warehouse."
The group moved swiftly, their crimson masks blending into the chaos as they slipped through the streets. The city burned around them, but their eyes were fixed on the prize.
Back at the Flamesworth estate, Faust stood at the window, his gaze fixed on the red smoke rising from the city. The faint sounds of riots reached his ears, but his expression remained impassive.
"Well," he murmured, his voice cold and measured, "it seems the Phantom isn't the only one I should be cautious of…"
His assistant, standing nearby, hesitated. "It's not the Phantom, Master Faust?"
Faust's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "No. That is not his style of moving. If it were him, I would be sure they wouldn't have done anything so… clumsy." He turned to his assistant, his orange eyes glowing with a sinister light. "Regardless, it is still a threat. Order the enforcers to the central weapon facility. If my hunch is correct, the player I'm clashing with is likely going for a location that is near the riots—and strategic for further resources."
The assistant bowed. "Yes, Master Faust."
As the assistant hurried away, Faust returned his gaze to the city. The red smoke billowed into the sky, a symbol of defiance against his rule. But Faust was not a man easily shaken. He would crush this rebellion, no matter the cost.
The riots in Steelgate grew more chaotic by the minute. The streets were a sea of crimson—homemade masks, dyed hair, and the smoke of rebellion filling the air. Amid the chaos, the members of the Pit and Pendulum moved like shadows, their crimson masks blending seamlessly with the crowd. This was Prometheus's plan: to use the people's defiance as both a shield and a weapon. The enforcers, overwhelmed by the sheer number of rioters, couldn't distinguish friend from foe. The tight security Faust had ordered was crumbling under the weight of the uprising.
Prometheus led his team through the chaos, their movements swift and deliberate. They reached the outskirts of the military weapons warehouse, a heavily fortified structure that Faust had deemed a priority. A few enforcers stood guard at the entrance, their rifles at the ready. But they were no match for the Pit and Pendulum. With precise, silent strikes, the rebels eliminated the guards and slipped inside.
The warehouse was vast, its shelves lined with crates of weapons and ammunition. The air was thick with the scent of oil and gunpowder. Prometheus raised a hand, signaling his team to halt. His eyes scanned the room, his instincts on high alert.
"Slow down," he ordered, his voice low but firm. "Don't rush."
The team obeyed, their movements cautious as they fanned out across the warehouse. Minutes passed in tense silence, the only sound the distant echoes of the riots outside. Then, without warning, the doors slammed shut, and the lights flickered on, flooding the warehouse with harsh, artificial light.
From the shadows emerged a large group of enforcers, their rifles trained on Prometheus and his team. The rebels froze, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. But they were outnumbered, surrounded on all sides.
A figure stepped forward from the crowd of enforcers, his smug grin unmistakable. It was Faust's assistant, the wiry man who had scurried away with Faust's orders earlier. He adjusted his glasses, his voice dripping with malice.
"It seems your plan wasn't as successful as you hoped," he sneered. "What a shame. Your little rebellion ends here."
Prometheus didn't flinch. His crimson mask hid his expression, but his posture remained calm, almost relaxed. The assistant continued, his tone mocking.
"Your plan was nice and all… for a casual. But your tough luck placed you against the Flamesworths themselves. There's nowhere to run, Genius Phoenix."
The enforcers chuckled, their rifles steady. Prometheus tilted his head slightly, as if considering the man's words. Then, to everyone's surprise, he laughed—a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the warehouse.
"Run?" he said, his voice laced with amusement. "Who said anything about running? Don't mistake it, the real casuals here are you."
Before the assistant could react, Prometheus raised his hand and snapped his fingers. In an instant, the side windows of the warehouse shattered, and a hail of bullets rained down from above. The enforcers barely had time to scream as they were cut down, their bodies collapsing to the floor in a chaotic heap.
The assistant stumbled back, his face pale with shock. He looked around wildly, trying to make sense of what had just happened. From the shadows of the upper catwalks, members of the Pit and Pendulum emerged, their sniper rifles still smoking. They had been there all along, hidden and waiting for Prometheus's signal.
Prometheus stepped forward, his crimson mask gleaming in the light. He leaned down slightly, his voice calm but menacing. "You thought you had us cornered. But you underestimated us. Tell Faust this: his reign ends here."
The assistant opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Prometheus straightened, turning to his team. "Grab what we came for. We're not done yet."
As the Pit and Pendulum moved to secure the weapons, the assistant collapsed to his knees, his hands trembling. The warehouse, now belonged to the rebellion.
his glasses cracked and his uniform disheveled. He had barely made it out of the warehouse alive, his mind still reeling from the chaos he had witnessed. The enforcers were dead, the warehouse was lost, and the Pit and Pendulum had walked away with enough weapons to arm an army.
He found Faust in the grand hall, standing before the towering window that overlooked Steelgate. The city was still burning, the red smoke rising into the night sky like a beacon of defiance. Faust's hands were clasped behind his back, his posture as rigid and unyielding as ever.
"Master Faust," the assistant croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I… I have news."
Faust didn't turn around. "Speak."
The assistant swallowed hard, his throat dry. "The warehouse… it's gone. The rebels—they were waiting for us. They had snipers hidden in the upper levels. They… they killed everyone."
For a moment, there was silence. The assistant braced himself, expecting anger, perhaps even violence. But what came next was something he could never have anticipated.
Faust laughed.
It was a low, rumbling sound, starting deep in his chest and building into a full, unrestrained laugh. The assistant froze, his blood running cold. In all his years serving Faust, he had never seen the man laugh. Not once. It was unnerving, almost inhuman.
Faust turned to face him, his orange eyes glowing with an intensity that made the assistant's knees buckle. "This Phoenix guy," Faust said, his voice tinged with amusement. "Quite the comedian."
The assistant stared at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "M-Master Faust, I—"
Before he could finish, Faust drew a sleek, silver handgun from his coat and fired. The shot echoed through the grand hall, and the assistant crumpled to the floor, a single bullet hole in his forehead. His lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling, his expression frozen in shock.
Faust holstered the gun, his laughter fading into a soft chuckle. He stepped over the body without a second glance, his gaze returning to the burning city outside.
"I'm glad I chose this mission for myself after all," he murmured, his voice calm but laced with a dangerous edge. "Unfortunately, now that I understand you… playtime has ended."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Faust's orange eyes gleamed with a sinister light as he turned away from the window, his mind already racing with plans. The Phoenix had proven himself a worthy opponent, but Faust was no ordinary adversary. The game was about to change.