Chapter 45 — The Divination Pact
The city never truly slept. Even when the lights dimmed and the wind swept through the silent avenues of Liberty City, there were always whispers — deals, lies, and shadows moving beneath the moonlight.
But lately, those whispers had fallen silent.
It began one night when the first mafia lord disappeared. The next week, another. Then another. No bodies. No clues. Only silence and fear.
Every gang, every underground empire — all crumbling as if swallowed by the darkness itself.
The news called it divine justice.
The police called it a miracle.
But the people of Liberty City whispered a single name under their breath:
H.I.M.
---
The Man in the Fog
Three years had passed since the night of Jack Stellman's death — the night that split H.I.M's soul in two.
Now he walked through the empty streets like a ghost dressed in black, his long coat fluttering with the cold wind. The city lights flickered on the puddles as his boots stepped through them.
His eyes were dim — not the sharp, calculating eyes of the strategist he once was, but the hollow reflection of a man who had lost everything that tethered him to peace.
Everywhere he went, the wicked fell.
Every man who dealt in blood money.
Every syndicate boss who ruined families.
Every smuggler who sold pain for profit.
They all met the same silent fate — and Liberty City began to change.
The crime rate dropped to near zero. People walked without fear at night. Children played again in alleys once ruled by killers.
It was as if evil itself feared to breathe within those walls.
But the cost of that peace… was one man's soul.
---
H.I.M sat on a rooftop, his silhouette framed by the glowing full moon. His hands were stained — not only with blood but with regret that never dried.
He looked down at the streets he had "cleansed."
> "They smile now," he muttered, voice soft but trembling. "They think it's justice… but it's not. I'm just doing what God refused to do."
The wind howled in reply.
He stood, staring at the city skyline — skyscrapers glinting under the moonlight, the world below him seemingly calm.
But inside him, the storm raged louder than ever.
His mind was a labyrinth of memories and whispers. The voice — that voice — never left him. The same mocking tone that first appeared the night his world burned.
> The Devil's voice: "You've done well, my vessel. You see? Without divine hands, you've brought peace. A better peace. The kind that bleeds."
> H.I.M: "No… I'm not your vessel. I did this for them… for my family."
> The Devil: "Your family? They're gone. What's left is you — and me."
He clenched his fists as the voice laughed — a laugh that echoed not around him, but inside him. The fog of his mind thickened, pressing down on his sanity like an ocean's weight.
He wanted silence.
He wanted peace.
But every time he closed his eyes, he saw their faces — his wife, his child, Jack, all fading into fire.
And so he hunted again.
---
Justice or Damnation
That night, a convoy of luxury cars sped through the financial district — a drug syndicate leader's private security detail. They never reached their destination.
By dawn, the vehicles were empty, the men gone. On a wall nearby, scrawled in faint red, were the words:
"If God won't bring justice, I will burn the world until He looks down."
The world took notice.
News anchors, politicians, even religious leaders — all baffled by the sudden wave of justice.
The United Nations released a statement calling the mysterious vigilante "a divine hand of correction." Churches called him "the Angel of Vengeance."
No one knew his name.
But those who once thrived on chaos whispered it in fear — H.I.M.
From New York to Berlin, from Tokyo to Nairobi, criminal empires fell. Ships sank, accounts vanished, men disappeared without a trace.
It wasn't random. It was systematic. Precise. Purposeful.
And as the world celebrated a strange new peace, one man walked deeper into his own darkness.
---
The Mountain of Stillness
Far away from the shining cities, in the frozen silence of the Himalayas, another man sought peace of a different kind.
John Stellman sat cross-legged upon a smooth rock at the edge of a monastery. His sword lay before him, its blade reflecting the rising sun.
The monks moved quietly around him, carrying prayer wheels and whispering chants that echoed softly in the cold air.
John's eyes were closed. His mind was steady — almost. Yet deep inside him, the storm that had begun the day Jack died still stirred.
The old monk, Master Rinpo, approached him, robes flowing like mist.
> Rinpo: "You have held that sword for too long, young warrior. The blade is sharp, but so is the grief within you."
John: "The man who killed my brother still breathes. As long as he lives, my heart will not rest."
Rinpo: "And if you kill him… will your brother return?"
John opened his eyes. The question struck him harder than any sword ever could. He looked at the horizon — clouds rolling over the snowy peaks.
> John: "No. But maybe… I'll finally forgive myself for not saving him."
The monk smiled faintly, as though he had heard the same words many times before.
> Rinpo: "Vengeance is a circle, John Stellman. Walk too long upon it, and it will lead you back to where you began. You cannot break the cycle with hate."
John: "Then what do I do?"
Rinpo: "You find balance. You learn to wield your pain as light, not fire."
John took a deep breath, watching the snowflakes swirl in the wind. For years, he had trained his body — perfecting his swordsmanship, meditation, and will. But he now realized that his greatest battle would not be fought with steel, but with himself.
---
The Skyscraper and the Moon
Back in Liberty City, beneath a glowing silver full moon, H.I.M stood before a towering skyscraper — one of the few remaining symbols of the old world's corruption. The building's glass mirrored the night sky, and in that reflection, he saw not a man, but something else entirely.
His coat whipped violently in the wind as thunder rumbled overhead.
> H.I.M: "Three years… and nothing has changed. The innocent still suffer. The wicked still hide behind thrones and paper crowns."
His voice rose, filled with frustration and grief.
> H.I.M: "If heaven won't bring justice — then I will!"
The clouds twisted above him, the moon half-swallowed by shadow. A sound like distant glass cracking echoed through the air — the sound of the sky itself fracturing.
Lightning burst across the skyline, reflecting in his eyes like shards of fate.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his head as the voice returned — louder, closer, crueler.
> The Devil: "There is no God listening. There never was. Only you and I, shaping the world in blood and silence."
H.I.M: "You're wrong. I'm doing this for them!"
The Devil: "Then look — they are gone. They cannot hear you. They cannot see you."
His breath came in ragged gasps. His heart pounded. He looked at the moon, glowing so brightly it almost hurt.
He whispered, voice breaking:
> "They can't come back… can they?"
There was no answer — only the hollow laughter that seemed to echo through the heavens.
He screamed — a cry so raw it pierced the night. The air around him warped, rippling like disturbed water. The skyscraper windows shattered one by one, raining down glass that sparkled in the moonlight like falling stars.
For a moment, the world itself seemed to bend beneath the force of his anguish.
And then — silence.
---
The Pact
In that silence, something stirred. Not in the air, but deep within him — a flicker of something ancient. A whisper beneath the laughter.
> Unknown voice: "You wish to end the pain? To bring balance to what's broken?"
H.I.M froze. The devil's mocking tone faded. This voice was different — calm, deep, resonant, like the sound of time itself breathing.
> H.I.M: "Who are you?"
Voice: "I am what lies between your despair and your purpose. Call me… Divination."
A light appeared before him — faint, gold, and warm, swirling like a small sun in his palm. It was the first light he had seen in years that did not come from fire.
> Divination: "You have walked the path of vengeance long enough. Now, choose. Burn the world and become its shadow, or bear its wounds and restore it."
He stared at the light, trembling. For years, all he had known was destruction. But something in that voice — in that warmth — called to the last part of him that still remembered who he used to be.
He knelt, pressing his hand to his chest.
> H.I.M: "If I must bear it… then let the pain end here."
The light sank into his body. His heartbeat steadied. The winds calmed. The devil's voice screamed — fading like smoke.
And for the first time in years, H.I.M felt quiet.
Not peace — not yet — but quiet.
He stood again beneath the cracked sky, the moon now clear and bright.
> H.I.M: "I've lost everything. But maybe… I can still change what comes next."
---
Three Years Later — The Dawn
High in the Himalayas, the sun rose over the white peaks. John Stellman, now older, wiser, and calmer, knelt before the monastery gates.
The monk Rinpo placed his hand on John's shoulder.
> Rinpo: "Your spirit is still burdened, but lighter than when you arrived. You are ready."
John: "Ready for what?"
Rinpo: "To face what you've been running from."
John opened his eyes. Somewhere beyond those mountains, far beyond the clouds, was Liberty City — and the man who had once been his friend, his rival, and now his curse.
He stood, tightening the strap of his sword across his back.
Snow swirled around him as he looked to the east.
> John: "H.I.M… your storm is coming. And this time, I'll be the one to end it."
He began his descent, leaving behind the calm silence of the monks for the chaos of the world below.
And far away, beneath the same sky, H.I.M opened his eyes to the rising sun — the first sunrise he had allowed himself to see in years.
He exhaled slowly.
The war inside him was far from over, but for the first time, he could feel the light breaking through the cracks.
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