Den of Malice
Reaper sat at the table, his chair slightly angled back, fingers idly curled against the wooden surface.
"Has it really changed?"
Feral, perched on the counter, her scaled arms crossed loosely over her chest, tilted her head slightly. Her lizard-like tail flicked once against the surface before curling around the edge.
"Yeah," she said, her tone casual but sure. "You used to talk like this."
Reaper’s expression didn’t shift, but his fingers tapped lightly against the table once.
Drekus, who had been sitting on a reinforced crate nearby, lifted his broad frame up slightly, rolling his shoulders before leaning forward. His thick arms rested against his knees.
"Boss's eyes. Also different."
Reaper didn’t react at first. His gaze flicked toward Drekus, then toward Feral, before he exhaled quietly through his nose.
Without a word, he reached for the small mirror propped against the nearby shelf, tilting it toward himself.
His own reflection stared back.
Clouded white irises. Swirling.
For a long second, he just looked, and then he set the mirror back down with a soft click.
"Well, it doesn’t matter," he said. Reaper straightened slightly, "Tonight is a big night, come on."
Dark tendrils of space coiled outward as Reaper extended his hand guiding the formation of the portal. The swirling void widened, jagged at the edges, like something forcefully carved open rather than smoothly created.
Feral and Drekus stood at his sides.
Reaper’s body felt off.
There was a weight in his chest, a strange hollowness, like something pressing against the inside of his ribs. He exhaled slowly through his nose, ignoring it, pushing his focus toward the meeting ahead.
The underworld was a stage, that’s what Desolator had always told him.
He had seen it firsthand. The lights. The actors. The audience. Everything had its place.
And tonight, he would step into the spotlight.
He should have been focused. Sharp. But instead, something felt wrong.
The stage felt small, like he was about to step into something that didn’t quite fit anymore.
His fingers twitched at his side.
He ignored it.
Instead, he stepped forward.
The sanctuary was older than most records could place.
It had no name, no official location, no history that could be traced in modern archives.
It had been a place of worship, discipline, and isolation, a self-sustaining temple far from the reach of civilization, where monks had once dedicated their lives to silence and asceticism.
But long before Kyoto grew into the city it was today, the sanctuary was abandoned.
The reasons were uncertain. Some claimed it was due to it becoming isolated during the warlord era, and how famine or sickness caused the isolated monks to wither away in their search for enlightenment, leaving only empty halls behind.
What was certain was this:
No one came looking for it anymore.
The sanctuary stood deep in the mountains, tucked within a region too rugged for proper roads, too steep for casual travel.
Even in an era where drones and satellites mapped the entire world, this place remained a blind spot, just another mark of forgotten land, long since abandoned.
The path leading up to it was barely a path at all.
Overgrown with twisted roots, scattered with fallen stones, it was clear that nature had been reclaiming the sanctuary for decades. The monastery stood alone, hidden within the mountains outside Kyoto, surrounded by nothing but endless forest and mist-covered cliffs. It had been abandoned for decades, long since forgotten by those who had once sought enlightenment within its walls.
The main courtyard, once a space of meditation and reflection, was now a gathering ground for some of the most dangerous figures in the criminal world.
Some stood in clusters, speaking in low tones. Others lingered at the edges, watching, waiting.
The great prayer hall, where monks had once sat in silent contemplation, had been transformed into the central chamber of the summit.
The old wooden pillars, scarred by time, still held up the cavernous ceiling, though cracks ran through them like veins, marking the weight of the years.
At the far end of the hall, a massive statue of a bodhisattva loomed, its face serene, its hands raised in an eternal gesture of peace.
The villains took their places, some seated on the long wooden benches, others standing against the walls.
Seated at a large wooden table near the center of the hall, Midas radiated the kind of effortless confidence that came from knowing he was untouchable here.
Most people, outsiders, civilians, the uninformed, would have thought a villain summit sounded ridiculous. Like some kind of cartoonish gathering of criminals in masks and capes, sitting around discussing their evil plans.
That wasn’t what this was.
This was a meeting of power.
A summit of those who ran the underworld. Not the reckless killers. Not the self-indulgent lunatics who thought leaving a trail of bodies in their wake meant they had control.
The real players. The ones who shaped things from behind the scenes. The ones who made the underworld run.
The ones who were too big to ignore.
Karma was clearly enjoying herself, a lazy grin across her face as she leaned into her seat. Her chameleon tail curled behind her, swaying in small, restless motions.
"This is great," she murmured, eyes scanning the room. "Everyone trying to look important. Feels like a school reunion for psychopaths."
Across from her, Greenfinger scoffed.
A large, corpulent man, his sheer bulk barely contained by the reinforced chair he occupied. His hands, large enough to break someone’s skull like an egg, remained folded in front of him, unmoving.
"Well look at you, all eager for the summit to the point where you even got a new suit for the ocassion!" said the chameleon thief.
Greenfinger’s eyes narrowed. "I would appreciate if you didn’t compare my sense of refinement to this—" he gestured vaguely across the room "—circus."
At that, Tatarimokke let out a quiet, sharp breath.
A laugh. Or something close to one.
"Oh please do not talk about clothes right now." he said, ""This gathering truly is a tragedy of fabric."
"Oh come on, it isn't that bad." said Karma.
Tatarimokke's beak parted slightly.
"That one in the corner? Wearing what appears to be the remnants of his last three meals?" He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "A crime against both the law and taste."
Karma let out a short laugh. "At least you can have fun laughing at them, Tatarimokke."
The owl-headed man folded his hands in front of him, his posture as composed as ever.
"I would not call it ‘fun.’ But one must find something to focus on when surrounded by… this."
On the far end of the hall, away from the central gathering, Desolator stood in silence. His face, as always, was stern, unreadable.
He wasn’t here to socialize.
That was why he had sent others.
Across the room, Nox moved through the crowd. She had gotten used to the flow of the summit with relative ease, and now maneuvered through different groups, exchanging brief words, gauging responses.
Near her, Mercury was far less composed.
The younger, wiry member of the Five was loud, rowdy, far too eager, gesturing animatedly as he spoke to someone who seemed halfway between interested and deeply annoyed.
There were those who had come in groups, organizations, factions, teams, and then there were those who moved alone.
Kodoku was one of the latter.
She sat near the edge of the gathering, perched on a wooden railing that overlooked part of the hall, her long, straight black hair falling like silk over her shoulders. She was still, unnaturally still, like a statue carved out of shadow. On her outstretched finger, a spider crawled.
It moved slowly, its tiny legs tracing careful paths over her pale skin. She watched it with mild interest but her eyes never truly left the room.
Not far from the center of the room, another man sat with the kind of presence that was neither too weak nor too strong.
Imamu.
Better known as Red Eyes Oni.
He was massive, wrapped in flowing black robes, his face hidden behind a crimson oni mask. To most, he was just another crime lord, a man who controlled his own network of smuggling and human trafficking.
HIn truth, he was a believer, yet, in this room he played the part of a pragmatist. He was remarkable in all the right ways, unremarkable in all the necessary ones. Enough presence to be considered a force, not enough to invite unwanted scrutiny.
Here, he was a businessman.
His concerns were profit and stability. The smuggling operation with the Night Parade was a critical piece of that.
Midas exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he pushed himself up from the table.
For now, Midas had another person to bother. His eyes flicked across the ancient hall, past the slow ebb and flow of whispered deals, past the gathering of villains clinging to their own fragile sense of importance.
And there, at the far end, standing like a goddamn statue, was Desolator.
The world’s most dangerous assassin.
A man who, despite his lack of a quirk, had carved a name so deep into the underworld that it would never be forgotten.
Midas smirked.
Well. He couldn’t let the guy just stand there all night.
Desolator didn’t react as Midas approached.
He had seen him coming from the moment he started moving, had already calculated whatever nonsense he was about to say, and had decided in advance how much of it was worth acknowledging.
Midas, however, had never been one for subtlety.
“Now there’s a sight,” he grinned, coming to a slow stop beside him. “The great Desolator, standing all alone. You’re not feeling left out, are you?”
Desolator didn’t move.
“No.”
His gaze swept across the room, taking in the players, the pawns, the ones who thought they were kings.
Then he smirked.
“Looks like your student is running a bit late.”
For the first time, Desolator moved. Just slightly. His head turned, just enough to glance at Midas.
“I’m not a teacher.”
Midas grinned, flashing gold, “Ah, yes. Advisor.”
There was a beat of silence, and in the distance, the portal began to open.
The air was cold.
The wind cut through the trees in long, hollow howls, bending the thin branches above, shaking loose leaves that had already begun to wither.
A small figure moved through the undergrowth, feet sinking into damp earth.
Each step was slow, dragging.
They had been walking for too long.
The trees stretched high, swallowing the sky. The world felt too big, too empty.
The jagged dark portal opened, its edges crackling slightly before stabilizing, spilling out three figures onto the cold stone floor.
Reaper stepped forward first, unhurried. Behind him, Feral and Drekus followed at their own respective paces. Feral breathed in deep, her sharp eyes flicking around the hall, scanning for familiar faces. Drekus rolled his shoulders once and exhaled through his nose. The moment their feet were fully planted, they split off.
Feral’s eyes landed on Karma, who was already grinning, standing near the edge of the hall with a lazy hand on her hip. The second Feral caught her gaze, her expression softened slightly, warmer, more familiar.
Drekus was already moving, his heavy steps shaking the ground just enough to be noticed.
“Drekus has arrived.”
“Yeah, I can see that, big guy,” Karma snorted.
Reaper didn’t watch them go. For the slightest second, his expression shifted to a flicker of annoyance.
However, it was gone as fast as it came, and his usual confidence returned.
He let his gaze pass over the crowd before turning toward Desolator and Midas. Some villains were already staring at him.
“Well, look at you,” Midas said. “About time, kid.”
Reaper exhaled softly. Didn’t answer.
Midas chuckled.
“A bit rude, ain’t it? I roll out the red carpet, throw a big event, and you don’t even look impressed?”
Reaper shrugged. “You want me to be impressed?”
“Nah,” Midas grinned, clapping a heavy gold-ringed hand against his shoulder. “I’d probably worry if you were.”
Reaper’s eyes flicked toward Desolator. The older man acknowledged his presence with a simple nod but didn’t speak.
Midas didn’t miss a beat.
“Well, come on then,” he gestured outward dramatically. “Let me show you around. Not every day the young blood gets to walk among legends, huh?”
His tone was half-mocking, half-something else.
Reaper let himself be steered along, walking beside him.
Desolator followed. Not quite part of the conversation, but there if needed.
Midas gestured broadly to the gathering.
"So, here’s how this works, kid. Neutral ground. That’s the most important part."
Reaper raised an eyebrow. “And people actually follow that?”
Midas chuckled. “They better.”
His fingers tapped against the rings on his other hand.
“See, the summit isn’t about playing nice. It’s about control. You get all these types in one place, all these egos, all these ambitions... you think that’s sustainable?”
Reaper didn’t answer.
Midas grinned.
“Course not. That’s why there’s rules. No fighting, no killing, no pointless posturing. Not here. This isn’t a battlefield, it’s a negotiation table.”
He gestured outward again, motioning toward the different groups.
“Some think it’s a waste of time,” he continued. “Bringing all these people together just to talk. But the real players? They know better.”
Reaper’s gaze flicked across the hall again. “Because they don’t have to fight to win.”
Midas snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”
They kept walking.
Desolator finally spoke, his voice low, steady.
“It’s about ensuring stability. The wrong kind of war is bad for business.”
Midas smirked. “See? You’re catching on.”
Reaper rolled his shoulders slightly. "So what's your angle, then?"
Midas laughed.
“You think I do this out of kindness?” He gestured to himself, to the event, to everything.
“This? This keeps me at the center of everything. You think deals go through here without my name attached? You think anything big happens without my blessing?”
His gold teeth flashed in the dim light.
“That’s the game, kid. You wanna run the world? You don’t do it by swinging a sword. You do it by making sure every move on the board passes through you first.”
Reaper walked alongside Midas, taking everything in, absorbing details, listening without seeming to.
At a glance, it looked like he was just being led around, indulging Midas’s need to play host.
「Reveal」
The moment he focused on someone, the quirk peeled them open.
It started small. Their presence. Their physical state. Their posture, their movements. Their quirk.
Then it deepened.
Details surfaced. Names. Deeper mental state. Things that weren’t obvious.
There was movement.
A sleek, feline figure approached.
Tomi.
The panther, one of the trusted members of the Night Parade, arrived at Midas’s side.
“Tch,” Midas exhaled, glancing down at him. “That was fast.”
Tomi’s golden eyes didn’t waver.
“There’s a request for your presence,” he said, voice low, smooth.
Midas let out a dramatic sigh, adjusting his cuffs.
“Already?”
Tomi simply stared at him.
Midas smirked. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Lead the way.”
He glanced at Reaper and Desolator one last time, his grin sharp.
“Try not to kill anyone while I’m gone. I'll find you later kid.”
And then, just like that, he was gone.
The young man’s white hair a spiky mess, but his lab coat was pristine, as if he had walked in from a sterile, untouched world, completely removed from the grime of the underworld.
His cheerful demeanor remained unwavering, unsettling in its purity.
“I offer more than just memory adjustment,” he said, his voice light, pleasant.
Midas exhaled, amused. “Oh yeah?”
Shinji nodded enthusiastically.
“I can implant skills. Muscle memory. Reflexes. Years of practice, condensed.”
Midas tilted his head, intrigued.
“Lemme guess. You take a fighter, someone trained, someone good, pull their skill out and put it into some rich asshole who doesn’t wanna train?”
Shinji grinned. “Essentially, yes! Though I can’t just make someone an expert overnight. There’s a limit to how much the body can handle at once. A person has to adjust.”
His entire presence exuded a strange, unsettling cheer. There was no caution in his expression. No wariness.
And beside him, silent but present, was De Jais.
A Frenchman wrapped in dark clothing, his round sunglasses hiding his expression, his black beanie pulled low over his forehead.
Midas leaned forward slightly, tapping his gold rings against the table. He grinned, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “Gotta say, I like you.”
Mr. Therapist beamed. “Really? That’s wonderful to hear! I do try my best to make a good first impression.”
Midas exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “No, see, most people in your line of work? They try too hard to act serious. Real 'dark and brooding' types. But you?”
He gestured at him, amused.
“You talk like you’re running a goddamn family practice.”
Mr. Therapist laughed. “Well, in a way, I am! A good doctor makes their patients feel comfortable, after all. The mind is just like the body—it needs regular care.”
Midas chuckled. “You have a point.”
“So,” he exhaled, reclining slightly. “What’s your deal right now? What’s your setup?”
Mr. Therapist sighed, waving a hand. “Well, I’m currently in the process of setting up a new clinic. Had some… complications recently.”
Midas raised an eyebrow. "Complications?"
Mr. Therapist nodded, his expression bright, cheerful, too cheerful.
“Well, the details are a bit fuzzy, but you know how it is! Stuff getting in the way, a few patients making a mess, some unfortunate misunderstandings. The usual!”
His smile remained untouched.
It was impossible to tell if he was joking.
“Nothing I can’t handle, gotta have a strong mind for the sake of my patients!” he continued, waving off his own words as if it were nothing. “Just some delays. But once everything is set, I’ll be back to work as usual, no problem.”
Midas studied him for a moment.
Then grinned. “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?”
Mr. Therapist laughed brightly.
“I do try!”
Reaper’s attention had soon moved elsewhere. His gaze drifted, focusing again.
The layers peeled back.
The hall, the figures, the shapes, everything was shifting and shifting until-
There.
Under the folds of thick black robes, beneath the carefully constructed poise of a man who stood exactly where he was meant to stand.
A tail. Not just a tail, but a scorpion’s tail.
Reaper’s eyes sharpened.
The Red Eyes Oni.
For the first time since he had stepped into the room, Reaper's mind sharpened to a single point.
He didn’t just see the tail.
He felt something else.
A thread. A pattern. A connection. Information being uncovered by 「Reveal」
The tiny, seemingly insignificant ripples in his operations.
The interference. The delays. The pieces that hadn’t quite added up.
And now, they did. It was him. Red Eyes Oni had been interfering with the Wild Hunt.
Reaper kept walking, his stride never changed, his expression never shifted.
But his next words were quiet, calm.
“I found him.”
Desolator didn’t need to ask who, he already knew. Instead, he asked the only question that mattered.
“What are you going to do?”
Reaper let the question sit in the air for a second. “What?” he said. “You think I’ll just go kill him right now?”
Desolator didn’t answer, just looked at him.
The kind of look that was impossible to tell whether it was evaluating, warning, or both.
Reaper exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
“Relax,” he muttered. “I don’t feel like doing it. But maybe in a bit.”
Desolator’s glare intensified just slightly.
Reaper chuckled.
“I’m kidding,” he said, raising one gloved hand lazily. “I know that wouldn’t be the right way to deal with this.”
Luccione sat among the Night Parade, perfectly at ease. Resting beside him, curled, was Avarice. A gold dragon, its serpentine body coiled loosely around the bench, its eyes mere slits of glimmering molten light.
Tatarimokke, as always, was composed. The avian head atop his refined attire barely moved, except for the occasional tilt when something displeased him.
“This gathering,” he remarked, his voice smooth yet detached, “has all the grace of a badly staged play.”
Tomi, returning form calling Midas, let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “They come here to communicate their intentions,” he said. “Not because they respect the Night Parade for claiming this territory, or for keeping it all these years.”
“They just want to get it over with,” Tatarimokke finished, his tone carrying a faint note of disdain.
Luccione smiled slightly, running his gold-ringed fingers down Avarice’s spine.
“I expected as much,” he murmured.
Tatarimokke glanced at him. “Oh?”
“It’s not about everyone wanting a piece.”
Luccione let out a slow exhale. The air around him shimmered faintly, unseen to those without his perception. His quirk enabled him to perceive greed. And here, in this place? There was no shortage of it.
Smugglers. Assassins. Arms dealers. Kingpins.
Each of them carried avarice like a weight in their bones. His eyes flicked across the monastery, his gaze cutting through the gathered figures, skimming over warlords, mercenaries, killers, and schemers.
Then, finally, it landed on Reaper.
“It’s about everyone wanting the biggest piece.”
Desolator’s voice barely rose above the murmurs of the hall, but Reaper heard it all the same.
"Looks like you got yourself an admirer."
Reaper, who had been half-lost in his own thoughts, blinked once, pulling himself back to the moment. Desolator’s posture hadn’t changed. But his head tilted ever so slightly in a direction across the hall.
Reaper followed his gaze. His eyes landed on Luccione.
And Luccione, rather than looking away, held his gaze.
A second passed.
Then another.
Reaper exhaled softly.
“Ah, I'm friends with his brother,” he muttered.
Desolator hummed in acknowledgment, but said nothing more.
The silence was interrupted by the return of the scaled thief of the Night Parade.
“I gotta hand it to you,” she said. “Managing to look like an outsider even among outcasts? That’s a real skill.”
Reaper barely tilted his head in her direction.
“Oh?”
“That’s why I’m here. To introduce you to some people.”
Reaper arched an eyebrow. “You volunteering as my social coordinator?”
Karma shrugged. “I figure you could use the help. You really need it, even my brother and sister are doing better than you right now.”
Right on cue, another voice slid into the conversation.
“Now this is a pairing I wouldn’t have expected. Desolator and the man of the moment. How was it? The Symbol of Death?”
Reaper turned his head. Luccione was walking towards him. He arrived like he belonged everywhere.
And slithering beside him, Avarice moved.
The golden dragon coiled lazily at his feet, its molten gaze flickering across the room, almost as if it was drinking in the greed that surrounded it.
Luccione smiled, slow and easy. “Luccione. A pleasure.”
Reaper studied him, taking his time.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while,” Luccione continued, “Midas seems very satisfied with how things are between the Night Parade and the Wild Hunt."
He was testing the waters.
Feeling out how close he could get.
Reaper rolled his shoulders slightly, exhaling.
"That so?"
"Very much so," Luccione nodded.
And then, he didn’t leave.
Instead, he settled in, matching their pace, subtly worming his way to Reaper’s side.
Luccione thrived in excess, in drawing attention, in being a spectacle within any gathering.
And among all the criminals, killers, and warlords in this monastery, there were few more extravagant than Reaper.
After a while Midas made his grand re-entrance the same way he did everything: loud, unapologetic, and carrying the weight of a man who considered himself above most of the room.
“Look at this,” he grinned as he strolled up, gold teeth flashing. “What’s this, a little boy’s club forming? You making friends, kid?”
Luccione, standing at his side, simply smiled.
“You know me,” he said smoothly. “Always happy to meet new faces.”
Midas snorted. “Yeah, yeah. You collect people like they’re accessories.”
Luccione’s golden dragon, Avarice, flicked its tail at the comment, but Luccione only grinned wider.
"And you," Midas turned toward Reaper, "didn't expect you to be so social. You ain't usually the 'sit and chat' type."
Reaper shrugged, unbothered.
"Guess I'm in a good mood."
At Midas’s side, a young man stood, smiling like they were all long-lost friends.
White hair, no attempt at combing it. A pristine lab coat. And an expression of unsettling, unwavering cheer.
Midas gestured toward him lazily.
“Since we’re all making nice,” he said, tone dripping with mockery, “lemme introduce ya.”
"This is Mr. Therapist. Figured you could use some meds." joked Midas.
Shinji beamed.
“I’m very pleased to meet you all!” he said, his voice light, friendly and completely at odds with the weight of the gathering around them.
Reaper’s gaze drifted over him.
Even without using 「Reveal」, he could feel something off.
Something unnaturally smooth about him.
Not the kind of calculated smoothness you found in liars and manipulators. This was different, like something had been erased.
Mr. Therapist clapped his hands together, seemingly oblivious to the moment of silence.
“I’ve heard so much about you tonight from Karma!” he said, voice bright. “Your work in Kyoto has been quite fascinating, helping people in need that contacts you!”
Reaper raised an eyebrow. "Fascinating, huh?"
Shinji nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, absolutely! I always take an interest in those that try their best for the sake of others in need. Specially if those that isolate themselves! It almost feels like we're colleagues!" he said. Karma probably mentioned the stuff about people using pills to contact him.
Reaper smirked slightly. "Not sure if that's a compliment."
Shinji laughed. “Oh, it is! We’re a rare breed. And don't get me started on that catchphrase of yours, 'The world is yours'. So inspiring!”