[SUBQUEST]

SUBJUGATION: SWORDWIND'S ROGUES

Earlier this morning, a group of rogues had assaulted a refugee center and stole much needed supplies from the populace, resulting in countless injuries alongside a couple deaths. Perhaps they were desperate, but their crimes are unforgivable.

DIFFICULTY

C

VICTORY CONDITION

ALL ROGUES ARE DEFEATED

DEFEAT CONDITION

THE ROGUES ESCAPE CAPTURE OR DEATH

REWARDS

50,000 STANDARDS

ORDO TELEPORT SCROLL

"Hold it!” cried one sergeant, taking cover behind a hummer. A few squads had the entrance surrounded in an audience of iron-sights.

Slayer Team Alba had accompanied a large force from 4th Infantry to provide an extra reassurance against Swordwind's Rogues. The criminals—currently designated as a domestic threat—tucked themselves inside a ruined smithery, which was unfortunately where they had obtained gear and later used to raid the smaller, loosely-guarded refugee centers.

They were a group of nine Pseudo-Slayers (barring their leader) ranging from F-Ranks to E, like Alba. Despite their low ranks, having the capability of using skills meant their natural combat prowess easily exceeded the average person’s. They seemed to be rather put-together as well, having fended off several monster attacks with little losses.

A special consideration was made to their leader, Jonathan Nam, an Ordoian-Korean student belonging to Sovereignty College down in Flares (considered third-best in Ordo), a junior Slayer in the Combative Program there. Used to be anyhow, before he dropped out three months ago. Was said to be disruptive, neurotic, and was a “ticking timebomb”; he had some skill though, coming at a low-C. His attitude? Not so much. That was an F.

Jonathan, or Swordwind, was a spellblade. Meaning he was generally proficient in channeling magick and swordsmanship, though according to Sovereignty College, he considered himself to be a murim-in like Leona (a cultivator but with Korean origins).

The man was bold, arrogant, cocky, basically Victor Victor but without the charm and half the attractiveness. And the talent. And everything else. From one good look at him, you knew his confidence was a lie. That he was generally unsatisfied with life and didn’t hesitate to take his frustrations out on others, the sort of shitbag that’d make a little kid cry so he didn’t have to feel miserable alone.

That hadn’t changed when the Ordo Disaster happened. While he was lounging on a bench outside the smithery's entrance, acting cool and all, his mentality had infected eight poor bastards and pushed them over the point of no return. Things were bad now, with abuse and poverty being at the top of the list. It was a good reason—a great reason—to be desperate, and that was usually when these bastards struck, infecting others with the promise of self-indulgence.

In summary, Jonathan Nam was a piece of shit.

He bounced onto his feet, donning fresh enchanted leather armor that he probably stole, and looked back. Five of the Pseudos were tucked away at the entrance—two swords, one spear, one ax, one tome—with three at the windows with ranged weapons: left bow, middle gun, right crossbow.

He smirked, seemingly satisfied as the king of the castle. He stared at the troops, looking at the man who had spoken, sifting a hand through his hair and breaking knots. “They really sent you guys after us, huh? They’re pretty shameless to ask for our surrender at gunpoint.”

The sergeant opened his mouth to fire a retort but his shoulder was tapped a few times. He grumbled and gave way, conceding the floor. They had discussed this before: the Dawn Baptists had more clout than some platoon, not to mean any disrespect to them. But society nowadays were in love with Slayers, turned them into cultural icons, superheroes.

A man stepped out behind the hummer and right into the open; if this was heroism, then shit, he didn’t feel like a cape at all. He felt naked, because he had no nearby cover if "negotiations" fell through. To the delight of Jonathan Nam, he was at their mercy, his head square in the crosshairs of the three Pseudos manning the windows. They glanced at one another, focused their sights on him in an uncoordinated, unconfident fashion.

He raised his arms, shook his hands a little bit to mock them. “Not just at gunpoint,” he said straightforwardly. “Swordpoint too.”

Jonathan’s expression darkened; so had the rest of his gang’s. A chuckle came out, a feeble attempt to regain the composure he just lost. He backed away towards the rest of his men on the ground. “H-Huh, I didn’t expect this. Shit, shouldn’t you be hunting the Sungrazers, Baptist?”

Alexander shrugged, kept his hands raised. “Alba happened to be in the area so we decided to lend a hand. Thought we could wrap this up real quick and head on our merry way.”

“Hey, you’re treating us pretty lightly,” Jonathan said, glaring viciously like a pup to a bulldog. Although he was at a low C-Rank, thus vastly outranking Alexander, he couldn’t hide his fear. Not caused by Alexander himself, of course not—he was no high-ranker—but who he represented.

“Yeah,” Alexander replied unceremoniously and glanced briefly at the Pseudos stationed above. The middle guy was anxious, shaking like a drunk man at darts, so Alexander allowed himself a smile prouder than what he’d usually give, in a hope to convey some of Seraph’s power, and he dropped his arms. He told, “And I have the pleasure of being your negotiator, given the ROEs.”

While getting rid of these men was the swiftest play, things weren't bureaucratically simple because of course they weren't. No one could say what these rogues were: criminals that had broken the law, enemy combatants in a war, Apocalyptics who want to see the world burn, or somewhere in-between these designations. The Global Guards, according to Seraph, did not establish a clear definition for these people even after Hangzhou. And no matter how you dealt with them, they will give you shit regardless, including people within the city itself. So it was better to be safe than sorry.

Jonathan scoffed indignantly, snuck glances with his lackeys and crossed his arms, moving his head too flippantly for a calm and charismatic leader. “Oh, fuck off. You think we’ll be talked down by some fake, rotting away in some cell while the real criminals behind you are prancing ‘round the city doing whatever the hell they want.”

“Because the military’s being abusive, I know,” Alexander recalled. There’d been widespread abuse across Ordo recently, mainly perpetrated by the Army. Hoarding supplies, assaulting civilians, and other heinous acts. Obedience was slipping by the day. The Slayers held, but the Army maintained order. “Like the other day in Vesper, some guys got busted for soliciting women for sex in exchange for food. Fucked up shit, right?”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jonathan said with a half-smile. “It’s all one big fucking joke now that an outbreak actually happened. All the hype about the military and the guilds protecting Ordo went to shit, and they showed us who the true monsters are. Hoarding food and water, medical, kicking old ladies on the ground, putting you at the other end of the barrel—what sense does that fucking make?! And all the guilds too, every one of those Fabel fucks, they haven’t changed. Monopolizing expeditions, trading, ruling Ordo from their ivory towers looking down on us like we’re fucking trash! Thinking they’re so better and mighty just ‘cause they got an S to their name! Maybe two!

“Archknell kicking the bucket early is the best thing that happened to this fucking city since its founding! Glory Guild might actually come down after this shit is over! All that time hearing those pretentious shits on TV raving about Glory, about Royals or Martials or Angels or Kosmos was like nailing me in the head with a hammer over and over! So finally! Finally they’re getting fucked by their own cocks! And when they lash out, we’ll be here protecting ourselves! That’s it, protecting ourselves from them!”

Jonathan was breathing heavily now, taking a rest after that long-winded rant. Alexander checked behind him; the soldiers were antsy, but they could wait a little longer.

So he met the same half-smile with his own, but for an entirely different reason. “Protecting yourselves, yeah? Come on, tell me more. You protected yourselves early this morning, haven’t you?”

Jonathan laughed and nodded. Although he was out of breath, he continued, “They deserved it. All those fuckers deserved it for what they’ve done to this city. It’s justice! It’s fucking justice and don’t act like it’s anything else other than that! We had to survive in this shithole like rats while you people got everything!

“Especially you, Shen! You’re apart of the club now, the elite! You’re the 'badass hero' who braved the Sungrazers to rescue these pieces of shit! Unlike us, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing! Not a single fucking thing! Food, water, aid, all given without question! You got a clear shot towards the top! I hate motherfuckers like you, you know that?! Who gets everything handed to them and act like the’yre right all the time! You fuckers were always the worst—!”

“I know,” answered Alexander calmly, having an eerie expression on him. Purposefully. “You did the right thing, stabbing that private to death. And having your men shoot and kill a corporal, left the center a mess and injured countless civilians. Yeah, they all deserved it. I understand your definition of justice very well.”

That was the common issue with power, Alexander had experienced back in Hangzhou.

Everyone loved doing that: speaking ill of despots and tyrants, men who ruled from the iron throne justified through divine rights and mandates from heaven, from a place of isolated morality, with an inherent implication that given the opportunity, they, the common people, would better wield power. That they wouldn’t fall to the same temptations because they knew what it was like being on the ground.

They weren’t wrong. Far from it. Alexander agreed even. But he also saw that the worst monsters and the smallest rat were both humans above all else. That everyone was susceptible to corruption. Power. Lust. You could tell the character of a man by the way he fought his battles: by instances or by days.

But that was no matter. These men had lost theirs, too far gone. Alexander felt pity for them and a small grief for himself. All that was left was to punish them accordingly, as the rule of law still applied here regardless of rain or shine.

And if necessary, send them to Hell himself.

“You mocking me?” growled Jonathan, hunched over slightly. He gripped his sheathed blade, caused both sides to flinch, just a single movement away from absolute chaos. Neither side bit. Not yet. Jonathan began laughing like a madman, eyes darting between Alexander and the soldiers like how a Slayer would: methodical, seeing who were the easiest targets.

Alexander nodded. “You caught me. I just wanted to talk you up for a surrender but you’re way too smart for me. Look at you now, out-of-breath, pissed; there’s no way I could win against a C-Rank. Not you.”

Jonathan gritted his teeth. “Don’t fuck with me—!”

“I’m not.” And the people behind the rogues were ready. “Here’s a tip: don’t bring all of your men to the front next time.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, reminding everyone that he was, in fact, a drop-out of Sovereignty College. He should’ve suspected that something was off. Since they were Slayers, the average man was like an ant to them; however, with enough bodies, the difference shrunk. Anyone in Systemic Works had to study military protocols. One was this: the manpower neccessary to take down a single Slayer. There were ratios. How many men did it take to dispatch a C-Rank? More than what was present.

Realizing this, Jonathan’s expression contorted, and his mouth opened.

Deafening pops came after alongside intensely bright white flashes, followed by yelling and hollering. They were Slayers, yes, but they could still be affected by everyday things. Such as pepper spray, stun guns, and most of all, flashbangs. Within a few seconds, the entire gang was seized upon and apprehended.

Slayers often engaged in sparring for the heck of it. Combat was distinctly embedded in their culture; that was the fatal mistake Jonathan had made: thinking this was a confrontation between Slayers and not as enemy combatants. He had brought his men to the entrance and consequently neglected to guard the back of the smithery.

As a result, the soldiers had thrown multiple flashbangs to disorientate them and converged. When the initial chaos had subsided, most of the rogues had found themselves disarmed and forced belly-down onto the ground, their wrists quickly restrained with high-strength and magically-infused zip-ties. For the three Slayers at the windows, the same was said for them, seeing as the soldiers were standing where they were once stationed.

The soldiers began taking out syringes, injecting them the Pseudos’ bloodstream: contra-system, oftentimes referred to as “virus” or “bug”. About fifty years ago, contra-system was developed as a drug to disable Slayers by shutting down the mana nervous system, allowing two things to occur: preventing magic use and nullifying their stats. Meaning, they’d return to being a regular human for a short while. The latter needed time to take effect, with the time increasing as the ranks did.

The effects were temporary, long enough for the Slayer to be apprehended without risk. (Although, scientists were currently developing a permanent version despite being met with ethical concerns.) Since contra-system’s invention, crimes committed by Slayers dropped dramatically where, today, any instance would make front pages. However, determined criminals had a litany of countermeasures, none of which were immediately available to a gang of Pseudo-Slayers and their leader.

Alexander watched the takedown. The Pseudos struggled against the soldiers, yelling and shouting profanities as their powers were taken away one-by-one, rendering them powerless. One Pseudo, however, refused to be captured so easily. It was the rightmost man from the windows, the one with the crossbow. He somehow managed to break free and literally jumped out, hands tied.

He landed feet-first on the ground, hard, ended up banging his ass on the asphalt. The soldiers shouted after him as he scrambled up, running away in a random, careless direction.

Unfortunately for him, he didn’t take more than ten steps.

A light blue energy bolt nailed him in the leg. A medium-power one that put a hole in his side. The man stumbled with a yelp, dragged himself forward a step or two, shrieked as two soldiers struck him from behind with the butt of their rifles, slamming him onto his belly. So much for an escape attempt.

Alexander sighed, disappointed that the guy’d even try it in the first place. He raised a hand high and gave Vernon a thumbs-up. His marksmanship had improved significantly over the past week; the missions made for good training.

Although the Pseudo himself didn’t realize this, Vernon probably saved his life. Had the man taken a few more steps or looked at a soldier wrong, he’d be shot down.

And the rest of the rogues got the message.

Leona and Althea were stationed at the doors, alert, spread out enough that they could guard the perimeter just in case someone else decided to test their luck again. They shared a nod with Alexander.

Alexander watched Jonathan especially, who was on his belly, zip-tied. The bastard was afraid. He knew very well what’d happen to him once he was arrested: a speedy trial, put away behind bars serving a life sentence. Frantically, they lingered on his comrades’ capture, watching as they all kicked and screamed as they bugged him.

He was next.

The men around him had a look that said: Try it. His sword was knocked away, no other weapons nearby, and he had a shitton of men to fight through if he managed to escape.

Jonathan then looked at Alexander, face contorting from fear to sheer hatred, like he had killed his dog or something. “Shen!” cried Jonathan through tense teeth, “go fucking off yourself, fucking bastard!”

Alexander tuned out the rest, instead enjoying the sight. Jonathan was bugged; immediately, his voice went weak, his energy sapped, but he continued to snarl and bark and curse. Only for someone to say “Shut up.” and taped his mouth.

Everyone had the virus. That was that. It’d take a little while before Jonathan was safe for transport.

Alexander let out a relieved sigh and cracked his neck, still watching the poor bastard just in case he tried something (a bad decision).

The System alerted him.

Vernon Hugo:

all done?

Alexander Shen:

All done

Be on guard though just in case anything happens

We’re moving when they start loading them in the truck

Vernon Hugo:

alright

Vernon was becoming more responsible, but… Well, the past week exhausted him greatly. Exhausted everyone really.

As Alexander began recalling recent events, he was approached by the two women in Alba: Miss Ahn and the other one.

“These guys were stubborn, huh?” commented Leona, making passing glances at Jonathan.

“Eh, they’ll learn the meaning of consequences once they’re in the can.” Althea shrugged, indifferent. “Or they die. I don’t care.”

Alexander clicked his tongue. “Don’t say that.”

Althea huffed. “Why not? I know you agree with me. These guys are fucking awful, they killed people, they don’t get my sympathy.”

“Easy, sweetheart,” chimed Leona.

“I’m just saying,” Althea defended herself.

“Yeah, they won’t have my sympathy ever. But we need to keep our heads straight about this. We’re Pseudos too, just like them,” reminded Alexander while Althea was looking away.

“Yeah yeah, I get it. So we can be better than them.”

“Exactly the opposite. We will destroy them if we have to, and we will treat them humanely otherwise. Not because we are better, but because we can be much worse.”

Althea went to interject but stopped. Her lips creased. “Alright fine, boy scout.”

Alexander sighed. “Brat.”

“Whatever.” Althea didn’t seem to be interested in continuing the conversation.

Leona stepped closer, tugging on his arm. “You made her upset,” she whispered.

“I know,” he replied. “You agree with me, right?”

“I do, but I’m not as disciplined or responsible as you are. You’re the best of us,” Leona told him with a sad smile, knowing the price he had to pay to achieve it.

“Yeah.” He watched his little sister. She quietly fumed. She was smart; she understood why he did these things, but it didn’t mean she accepted it.

Quest complete though. Thank goodness for that. All that was left was the clean-up and the mission report to Seraph.

~

[QUEST COMPLETE]