That glove had taken years to acquire. It was a demigod-level Beyonder item from a Thief Pathway, and with it, he could dominate virtually anyone at his own Sequence in a fight.
And it was simply gone.
From the moment he'd left his lodgings to the moment he'd blanked out — not a trace of anything unusual. No sense of anyone near him. Nothing.
So whoever had reached into his existence and taken the glove from him without leaving a single impression — what level of power were they?
And why had they only taken the glove, rather than dealing with him entirely?
Suspicion, anxiety, dread, and fear crashed together inside this demigod, leaving him paralysed. All he could feel was the sensation of unseen, dangerous, undetectable enemies lurking behind every shadow.
He had no desire whatsoever to go help some subordinate. Keeping himself alive was the only thing that mattered.
A sudden gust roared in from the distance, rattling the buildings along the street, sweeping dust and debris into small storms. Then, with silver-white lightning flashing through the air, a figure came blazing in from the far end of the road — robes of the Storm Church, hair that was a startling shade of blue, standing up in sharp spikes.
Satzven's face drained. He'd only recently arrived in Backlund, but the reputation of this particular "Ocean Songster" — famously short-tempered, famously brutal — had reached him long before.
Up against that one, nothing was going to end well.
Without another thought about whoever had taken the glove or what they might do next, Satzven flickered into Wraith form and ducked into the nearest mirror — a glass window in the building beside him. He leapt from mirror to mirror in rapid succession, retreating at speed in the direction he'd come from.
The Ocean Songster who streaked overhead never noticed Satzven at all. He blazed straight past toward the dock district.
When the wind died and the lightning faded into the distance, a figure stepped out of the dark.
Stephen.
Or rather — Amon wearing Stephen's face, right eye gleaming behind a crystalline monocle. The corners of his mouth were hooked up in something small and knowing. In his hand: a black glove.
"Well. That works out nicely for you."
He smiled mildly and slipped the glove onto his own hand. "You'll be able to use Thief-level abilities after this too. Not bad, yes?"
"I can't thank you enough," Stephen said flatly.
"Don't mention it. I've been using your body rent-free for a while now — consider this payment."
"..."
Stephen didn't believe for a single instant that this mischief-loving Angel had done anything out of goodwill. He simply gave a cold, quiet exhale.
Amon — in Stephen's form — tilted his head sideways and looked toward the dark to one side. "Not coming out yet?"
A few seconds of quiet. Then a woman appeared — as if brushed into existence stroke by stroke — wearing a black dress threaded with points of light like stars scattered across it. Her expression was composed, refined, carrying almost no emotion.
"The girl from a couple of days ago was yours, wasn't she?"
Amon crossed one arm over his chest and adjusted his monocle. "I cooperated with her perfectly well. Why come looking for me now? You're not here to run me out of Backlund, are you?"
The woman in black asked evenly: "Why did you choose this person to parasitise?"
Amon pressed a hand to his forehead and smiled. "Do I need a reason to parasitise someone?"
"No reason needed to parasitise. But keeping him alive for this long doesn't quite match your usual pattern."
"You've badly misread me."
He grinned. "I do everything by one rule: I feel like it. If I feel like parasitising someone, I parasitise them. If I feel like killing someone, I kill them. If I feel like playing games with someone, I play games with them."
"My dear niece — you're overthinking."
The woman in black studied him for a long, still moment. "Where is he?"
"Who?"
"My father."
The smile on Amon's face diminished. His eyes went distant, cool. "That's a very good question."
He raised one hand and slowly ran a finger along the edge of the monocle. "After all — I've been looking for Him for a very, very long time."
The crimson moonlight spilled down over them both, washing them in the same shade of blood-red.
...
The next morning.
Vincent was jolted awake by a prayer arriving from the Nation of Disorder. He rolled over, stretched, and muttered with zero enthusiasm: "Who is it? It's first thing in the morning."
"It's nearly 9," Bernadette said flatly. "That's early?"
"Depends when I went to sleep."
Vincent sat up, yawned at length, then flopped back against the headboard and stared at the ceiling with vacant eyes for a solid while, waiting for the drowsiness to drain away. Then he roused himself and stepped into the Nation of Disorder.
He settled into the stone chair, crossed his legs, and fed spirituality into the Scale, letting the golden mist rise. The figure that took shape was unexpected.
Stephen.
That was strange. Stephen had originally recited the Lord of Chaos's honorific at Bernadette's request — purely as a means of adding weight to the Scale through a deal. He'd never been someone who'd initiate contact on his own.
So why now?
Vincent thought for a moment, raised his hand, increased the flow of spirituality, and opened the link.
"Good day, great Lord of Chaos."
Stephen gave a deep bow.
Vincent looked at him from within the golden mist, tilted his head slightly, rested the back of one hand under his chin, and waited.
"I'd like to know — what would I need to offer for the great presence to answer a question?"
Stephen forced the prickling unease down and said, getting straight to the point, the exact words Amon had compelled him to speak.
"What question?" Vincent said lightly.
What kind of question would make Stephen pray to the Lord of Chaos directly, without checking with Bernadette first?
"Have you ever heard of something called… the 'Son of Chaos'?"
The Son of Chaos.
Vincent paused.
Son of Chaos — Lord of Chaos. The names are similar enough that someone might make assumptions.
If I'm remembering correctly, the Son of Chaos has another, better-known identity: the genie inside the Magic Wishing Lamp.
Not long ago, Bernadette had retrieved the Magic Wishing Lamp from the priest called Adam — but when they'd examined it, the genie was gone. The lamp that should theoretically be capable of granting wishes had become nothing more than a very impressively durable kettle. No matter how hard Bernadette had tried, she hadn't managed to leave a scratch on it.
As for the "genie" itself — its true identity was apparently far more significant than it appeared. Vincent hadn't read far enough in the original novel to know much beyond its name.
Son of Chaos, Lord of Chaos — was there genuinely a connection? Or was someone simply following the trail of a similar name?
"Where did you hear the name 'Son of Chaos'?"
Vincent straightened slightly in the chair, hands laced together under his chin.
"From… a senior member of my family."
Stephen's pause wasn't hesitation — it was the exact moment Amon reached in and plucked the intended word "Amon" out of his mind before it could be spoken.
"A senior family member?"
Stephen's family elders — Bernadette was one, in a sense. And the old monocled butler of the Glinros household. Bernadette couldn't possibly be the one. The old butler, though — he'd never seemed like someone who would know about the Son of Chaos.
"Why would you ask me about the Son of Chaos?"
"Because my elder has been searching for Him for a very long time. And when they heard that you bear the honorific 'Lord of Chaos,' certain… suspicions arose."
"The suspicion that I might be this Son of Chaos?"
Vincent gave a small, quiet smile. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but I have no connection whatsoever to the 'Son of Chaos.'"
Stephen bowed his head. "Understood. Thank you, great presence."
"I've answered your question — would you be willing to answer one of mine?"
"Please, ask."
"Why is your elder searching for the Son of Chaos?"
"That… I genuinely don't know."
Vincent held his gaze on Stephen in calm silence. Stephen kept his head down. He felt profoundly sorry for himself — what had he done to deserve being squeezed between a god and an Angel, caught in whatever dispute they were having?
After half a minute, Vincent raised one hand. "In that case — you may go."
He cut the link, immediately returned to reality, and relayed everything to Bernadette: "Something's off with Stephen."
To be continued...
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