Rem’s philosophy on fortune best represented as intertwining strings. A blessing arrived after a disaster. If anyone asked him, REM would say his alternate-self had the worst luck of mankind, but Rem wouldn’t care. A little bitch who slept 16 hours a day didn’t concern him.

Ignoring the above, Rem must admit his current luck was shit given the rundown bookstore before him is his last hope.

The entire afternoon saw him crawling after straws. It started when he discovered Millian’s public library burnt down three years ago. Local stores were hot on magical beast rearing, spell-casting, and alchemy; something as useful as tapeworm. It appeared cultural history was a jinxed subject for Millian's economy.

In the end, this leaking book shop was his only hope.

...

The old dwarf behind the main desk woke at the sound of the first visitor he had in years. Well, it was technically six-months since the last visitor, but the dwarf refused to acknowledge a burglar as a guest. He rubbed his pure white bushy beard with fascination.

Interesting.

Grey button-up shirt, black jacket, and pant, the boy either loved black or hated doing laundry. The dwarf wagered on the later. Brown hair speckled with a patch of white, and a golden octopus sat on his head.

He was strange, but that smile was familiar.

“Hello,” said the boy. “I am looking for the book on Cultural History linking Millian to the Forbidden Zone. Other bookstore said you might have something like that here. May I look, please?”

“I am Obi-wan,” the old dwarf told Rem the blatantly fake name.

“You copy that from Star War.”

“A good movie, just watched it yesterday,” Obi-wan winked. “I think you Earthling are busily dealing with Demonic Continent. So what brings you this far to Millian, Earth-boy?”

Rem cursed. One screw-up and his cover were in pieces.

“Well, Obi-wan, I am Dream,” Rem said. “Got Lost during the transmigration. Now I am doing odd-job to find a way back home. So do you have the book, I kinda need it.”

“Half-truth?” Obi-wan sagely called out. “Young man, I fought in battles that we make you crap your pant. I faced a monster that give your daddy nightmares.”

Rem didn’t doubt the last part. His dad was an arrogant ass.

“Once in a blue moon, I will see your type,” Obi-wan said. “The type who smiles to comfort scare children. Martyrs who barely remembers happiness, but tried to smile despite a breath from dying on their feet. Truth is you are empty, but instead of bemoaning fate, you forged that overwhelming despair into a weapon. Ignite yourself as an unsung hero, so the kiddies don’t have to feel your despair. Your type is not the one hitting book for research. Your folks pick the book to hack your opponent to pieces.”

Rem’s smile slowly faded, revealing a tired and depressed face.

“Now, what do you want, Dream?” Obi-wan said.

“I discovered a rumor of a dragon underneath Millian,” Rem explained, looking at the table like a man reading his death-sentence. “I need information. Folklore, legend, anything that clues me about how to beat this. I don’t have the money now, but I promise I will get some tomorrow.”

“Forget the money,” Obi-wan jumped from the modified chair and waved at the shop. “The shop is yours.”

“What?” Rem blinked.

“Kid,” Obi-wan rolled the rug and opened a chest beneath it. “Let me tell you the truth. I’m looking after this graveyard for an idiot who got speared through his anus. For the last ten years, I dream of shoving these stupid books to someone else. So congrats, this dump is yours.”

Obi-wan took his travel bag from the chest and flipped a button near one bookcase. He glanced back at the boy with weary eyes.

“Wish you luck, kid,” the dwarf waved. “I honestly do. The like of you always die unrewarded for the cause. But I have a feeling fate has something different for you. Just remember you owe me a drink for today's favor.”

“You must be joking!” Rem looked around. “You can’t just throw a shop at me like this.”

“Of course I can,” Obi-wan replied, leaving through the front door. “You better hurry. I’ve flipped the switch. You have 24-hours to move everything until the self-destruction kick in.”

Rem stared in disbelief.

“Dream, I am not joking,” Obi-wan winked. “May the Force be with you, kid.”

The dwarf ran away speed that shouldn’t be possible for a 0.8 meters tall elderly.

Rem didn’t even have time to complain.

“Za Wa! Open the bloody [Storage]!” Rem yelled. “We have to clear the place in five hours!”

…

A campsite stood kilometers away from Millian.

Let be honest here. It wasn’t a campsite, but a miniature fortress. Yes, the tent inside those high-wall were standard issue. The clay hut and the shoddy test-range was normal for the two craftswomen inhibiting the camp. Even the Green campfire ranked as a common artifact founded in Alchemist’s workshop.

The departure from the mundane came at the moat. It was a joint project. Cytortia, sporting new haircut after fiery incident, cooked the gooey soup of acid to fill the trench. In the ditch, the camp members dug without complaint except for the complaining elf.

“What the fuck,” Rem looked at the scene.

“Yeah, scold them, Rem!” Luxinna threw down her shovel.

“Illma Zoldia Road is here at Milian,” Ebony yelled. “We have to prepare the defense!”

Rem’s mouth hung open.

“Who?”

...

Finally, the meeting begun. The gang stood around the glow of the green campfires to tell ghost stories under the defense of wall, acid moat and drawbridge.

“So you waste valuable time building an obsolete medieval defense, because one woman got sighted in our vicinity,” Rem said; hand clasped, fingers crossed, and his face sinisterly framed by shadow. “You are S-rank goddess, for heaven's sake. What could this woman do that scare you this much?”

“I agree with Rem,” Luxinna nodded and ate her marshmallow. “The moat idea come out of nowhere.”

Instead of Scathach, it was Cytortia who answered.

“Scathach can’t do anything against Zoldia,” Cytortia tossed away her burnt marshmallow. “Zoldia held a special status. She is an Untouchable.”

“Can she bleed?” Rem’s eyes shone like the sunglass of one amoral scientist hellbent to unite with his wife's soul trapped in a giant robot.

Melody sighed

“You don’t get it,” the demoness explained. “To manage the World Enemy crisis and the god’s detached response to it, several nations joined force and created a Special Responder status to support potential special asset against World Enemy. We call them the Untouchable.”

Rem knew this couldn’t be good. It was a power play. He never got the status type. Why chase after something so pointless when death is inevitable?

“This status grants Illma Zoldia Road diplomatic immunity in the region controls by Seven Continental Alliance.” Scathach tossed more logs into the flame. “This is on top of the fact that you have to be sponsored by at least three gods to become an Untouchable.”

Luxinna looked into the flame. She was new to power play, but having that kind of immunity was transparently disastrous. Her father was the prime example.

“So you are telling me these people are immune to the law?” Luxinna said, sparks running down her hair. “They can hurt someone and get away with it?”

“Yes,” Melody nodded with depression. “They can’t be prosecuted with anything. Unless the Alliances unanimously agree to oust them, but that rarely happens.”

Opposite of Rem, Ebony sipped her third bottle of rum and went on a drunken triad.

“Great job, Scathach,” she mocked the warrior maid. “You idiots created a system where jackasses with Inherited Skill got to play god. At least where I come from, the jackass has to fight for the throne. Your jackasses only need to be liked by three of your perpetual man-children and pay GDP of a small nation to be a god-king. Pathetic.”

“The requirement is Aurorin’s idea.”

“Good job!” Ebony slammed. “And what did it accomplish? You make a monster an Untouchable.”

Luxinna looked at her teacher, begging for an explanation. Scathach replied with silent. Cytortia sat next to the elf, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Meanwhile, Rem cut to the chase.

“Why is Illma Zoldia Road such a threat?”

“Why?” Ebony ranted, downing another drink. “Because of her fucking father, Gregory-fucking-Road took my biomechanical research during my IK’s day and turned it into a bloody weapon project. Then he downloaded the control right into his unrepenting sadist daughter’s fucking brain.” Ebony cursed the unpresented man in pent-up outrage. “Thank for the blood, Greg! Yeah, sent your bloody offspring on the murder spree! If you are still alive, I hope you die in a fire! Shame on you, you motherfucker!”

Melody watched the development; horrify.

“Ma, you help create the X-cution?! Why?!”

...

One more house burned down. How many was it? Five, ten, or maybe a hundred; he no longer counted. What did he get by counting?

Nothing.

Why would he count it? Why would he want to count the number of microchips in his body, the wiring sewn into his muscle, the cuts the doctor-blade drove into his skin? Yes, nothing was gained from counting the pain. The suffering will go away if he followed the sweet, sweet voices.

“You monster!”

Monster?

Where was the monster? He robotically turned toward the man charging in with a spear of wind. The man was bleeding. Good, the bleeding one was the easiest to squeeze. The red color was so pretty. The chunky bit was so fun to play with. He reached out with a hand, a grotesque creation of metal, and squeezed. Strange, the spear broke faster than tissue papers. It barely hurt; nothing compared to the cane or the whip. What should he do next? The man in his grip looked so in pain he felt sorry for him.

‘Kill.’

He squeezed.

The man burst open like a balloon of blood. He must be in less pain now. Why should he be worried? Life was simple. He followed the voice and the pain would go away.

What was wrong with that? The voice never lied.

“Good job, children,” said a pretty voice. “We are nearly done wiping the garbage in this slum now. Let move on to the next one, shall we?”

That’s right; the angel had spoken. He must move as the angel commanded. Every fiber of his being was an offering to her.

He moved his lumbering body after the angel of his dream.

...

Ebony downed another bottle of liquor.

“The X-cution’s is the most advanced robotically enhanced militia unit in Phantasia,” Ebony garbled. “I originally designed those robotics as a biomechanical marvel. A prosthetic that will bring disabled soldiers back to the fight.” She sobbed. “Navy, Airforce, ground troop, I designed it to help the war-veteran. Then that son of bitch cannibalized my work for those things.”

“What things?” Luxinna sipped her third orange juices. She had a bad feeling about this. Beside her, Cytortia grabbed her notebook.

“Gregory Road has a connection with the slave market,” Ebony drunk the stomach poison without looking away from the fire of repentance. “My guess is he bought children from a war-infested area and psychologically destroyed them. Probably with a combination of torture or pain transmitting cybernetic implant.”

Ebony shivered.

“That is pretty much all I can say for sure; the rest is guesswork. But somehow that bastard successfully augmented at least 87% of the children's body with my cybernetic. Fitting that many robotics into children shouldn’t be possible unless he sewed antenna right into their central nervous system and replaced their nerve with connecting wires. He also bio-engineered their blood, given the cybernetic’s mana requirement. God knows what he did to their brain, but he reprogrammed the kid’s broken shell into killing machines.”

“Bucket of dopamine will do that,” Rem exhaled. Everyone felt the pressure dropped with that wrathful calmness. “So Gregory’s daughter, Illma, uses daddy’s cyborg-orphans to wipe out anything that doesn’t go her way. And no one can do anything because she is an Untouchable, am I right?”

Cytortia noted that down while Rem posed the final question.

“Why not use artificial intelligence?” Rem said dismissively. “Fine. I agree Gregory Road has no soul. And from your expression, I guess Illma have a pile of bodies under her name.”

“Mutilated bodies,” Cytortia added, and Melody nodded in agreement. “Mutilated gore of man, woman, and babies. She’s infamous for being set-off by almost anything.”

Rem mentally chalked Illma Zoldia Road on his beyond-saving-list before continuing.

“But why go to the effort of modifying a living human? AI is much cheaper.”

“That because an only a living-brain can use magic,” Melody answered that question. “It’s basic Magic Engineering. But Ma, why do you ever go near that project?”

“Welcome to family’s shame club,” Luxinna couldn’t help but verbally kicked Melody. “But seriously, why the hell did you go anywhere near that project?”

Face with a united front of her daughter and said daughter’s nemesis, Ebony threw her alcohol away and cried.

“Don’t look at Mom that way,” Ebony sobbed. “Who would know a collaboration project will go that wrong? The money made from that collaboration practically funded the Demonic Continent for half a decade.”

“Who paid for it?” Rem said.

“Enma Enterprise,” Ebony wanted to drown herself with her answer.

“Of course, it is the mega-corp,” Rem groaned and cursed Hollywood. “Keep this up, and I have to send a naked man back in time.”

The gang ignored that joke.

“Rem’s joke aside,” Luxinna asked the collective, “How did someone like Illma even become an Untouchable?”

Everyone turned toward Scathach the Accused.

“What!?” Scathach felt attacked. “What this got to do with me?”

“Buddy,” Ebony glared at the woman in punk clothes. “You only got yourself to blame for this one. So start explaining why your kind made Illma above the law.”

“You know what,” Cytortia said. “Lux, get me a recorder. I am mailing the confession to Marley.”

That ticked Scathach off.

“Screw all of you,” Scathach yelled. “Leave Marley out of this. It is Gregory’s and Ah Punch’s fault Illma’s application got approved. The project might be amoral, but X-cution is an excellent method to develop quick shock troops against the World Enemy. Gregory downloaded all his research note into Illma’s brain and destroyed every copy. We have to protect that loose canon because she is the only being who knows how to reproduce the X-cution!”

“Trash,” Luxinna responded.

“Garbage,” Melody added.

“Scum,” Ebony spat.

“Scathach, only pieces of shit will use that excuse,” Cytortia politely noted and finished recording. “I will mail the entire thing to Marley.”

“Anyway!” Scathach tried to divert the negative PR. “Illma and her X-cution was spotted in Millian. My source said she left Aurorin in one of Heavenly Daughter of Fire’s Pheonix Ship.”

Cytortia facepalmed.

“Dammit, Chuang won’t give a ship to a normal Untouchable,” the goddess said. “This pretty much confirms their alliance. But it doesn’t make sense. Chuang is gathering her forces to tackle Tie Hua. She won’t spare Zoldia unless...”

Cytortia turned silent.

“Unless what?” Luxinna asked, dreading the answer.

“Unless it is for a rare creature,” Cytortia looked traumatized. “Chuang love catching rare monsters and turning it into war puppet.”

Everyone turned silent. Everything clicked.

“Chuang… Illma… they know about the dragon,” Luxinna whispered. “They are planning to turn it into a weapon.”

Rem stood up, commanding the room's presence."

“Comrades,” he spoke. “Hear me out. I know we have our difference. I know two of you hate my gut.”

“Understatement of the year,” Melody snorted but failed to stump Rem’s momentum.

“Regardless of how you feel, a crossroad is upon us. We have many reasons for being here, but we have one purpose. Our enemy stands above the law of man. She can’t be reasoned or prosecuted. But that isn’t true.”

Rem announced to the world.

“The gods may put made her Untouchable, but we are not crowned by god. We are appointed by good incarnate. We are the line. It is time we will remind the world why you don’t cross the line. Screw the dragon, screw Illma, and screw the Untouchables. We are taking the stand.”

Scathach inched back while everyone rallied forward.

“Gather your knowledge, your magic, and your blades. Tomorrow we prepare for war.”