Chapter 48: The Raid
For the first time in many decades, the world breathed a sigh of relief.
The air felt lighter, the sky brighter, and the streets quieter.
The cities that once never slept were now calm — children played freely, parents smiled without fear, and peace spread across borders like a forgotten fragrance returning to memory.
Newspapers carried bold headlines:
> "CRIME RATE DROPS TO ZERO."
"THE AGE OF JUSTICE."
"THE BEING CALLED H.I.M."
No one knew exactly who — or what — this being was.
But everyone felt it.
A presence that moved unseen but watched all.
Criminals vanished overnight. War financiers, traffickers, and corrupt officials—gone, as though erased by the wind.
And yet… as the world rejoiced, a subtle unease began to grow beneath the celebration.
Because sometimes, even justice can become too sharp a blade.
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The Calm Before the New Storm
Governments feared him but dared not say it aloud.
Presidents delivered speeches praising "the wave of divine cleansing."
People painted murals of H.I.M in golden halos, calling him the Guardian of Light.
But in the quiet corners of political chambers, whispers spread:
> "He's not justice. He's judgment itself."
"No man should hold such power."
"He's rewriting what right and wrong mean."
And yet, for one full year — no wars, no bloodshed, no organized crime.
The poor slept with full bellies.
The skies had no smoke.
And the world, somehow, believed it had reached paradise.
But paradise, as history often warned, never lasts forever.
---
The Fall of Jarapaq
Deep within the heart of the Middle East, the golden empire of Jarapaq prospered.
Its President, Alraq, ruled with a smile that hid a thousand lies.
Behind the marble walls of the Presidential Palace, a meeting was underway.
> "Thirty percent of the Congo's gold reserve," Alraq whispered, his voice cold but calm.
"Ship it under the medical aid seal. No one will notice."
His seven deputies nodded, the greed in their eyes reflecting the shine of the gold bars stacked nearby.
They didn't care that it belonged to another nation struggling to rise.
To them, power meant taking—not earning.
At midnight, their convoy of black armored trucks rolled through the jungle roads of Congo, headlights slicing the darkness.
Guards spoke softly into radios, unaware that silence itself was listening.
---
The Vanishing
The first sign of doom came as a blink.
The driver of the lead truck heard a sound — like a breath beside his ear — and then… nothing.
Static filled the comms. The truck behind them stopped. One man stepped out. Then another.
> "Commander?"
"I can't see them—"
A sharp gust of wind passed.
Then stillness.
Every man in the convoy… gone.
Their rifles clattered to the ground one after another.
In the quiet jungle night, only the hum of cicadas remained — and the faint sound of boots touching earth.
President Alraq, inside the last armored truck, froze.
He looked through the tinted glass, his fingers trembling.
> "Where… are my men?"
No answer.
Only the sound of the wind shifting.
He stepped out, his golden robe fluttering under the pale moonlight.
The air felt heavy — dense, as though something vast and unseen was breathing nearby.
---
The Shadow Appears
Then he saw him.
A tall silhouette standing in the road's center, half cloaked in mist, half lit by the moon.
His coat rippled like storm clouds.
His eyes… steady, unblinking, filled with an ancient fire.
It was H.I.M.
The being who had reshaped the world's sense of fear and hope alike.
The air turned silent — too silent.
The leaves stopped rustling. Even the night animals went mute.
Alraq swallowed hard, trying to speak.
> "You—you are that being. The people call you justice, don't they?"
H.I.M said nothing. He simply walked forward, slow and unhurried, each step echoing against the silent road.
> "I am a ruler!" Alraq stammered, his voice shaking.
"You cannot—"
A flash of light, not of fire but of presence, cut him off.
It wasn't violent. It wasn't cruel. It was something deeper — a quiet realization.
And in that moment, Alraq understood the weight of every name, every child, every life his greed had broken.
His knees gave way.
And then… there was silence.
When the mist cleared, the gold trucks stood empty.
The wind carried the faint echo of a voice — neither angry nor gentle, but solemn.
> "Justice is not mercy. Justice is memory."
And with that, H.I.M vanished into the night once again.
---
A World Unsure of Its Savior
The news broke in hours.
Jarapaq's president and his deputies — missing.
No trace. No signs of struggle. No human explanation.
The gold? Returned mysteriously to Congo's capital, stacked before the national treasury like a gift from heaven.
The world was speechless.
Some wept in joy. Others shivered in fear.
Priests called it divine retribution.
Scholars called it supernatural warfare.
But to the people — it was simply proof that H.I.M still watched.
Children drew his image in classrooms.
Elderly folk lit candles beneath his name.
Governments, though trembling, dared not interfere.
And far away, on a cathedral's highest cross, the moonlight caught a familiar figure.
H.I.M stood there — silent as stone — watching the city below.
Lightning flashed across the horizon, illuminating his face for a brief moment.
There was no joy, no hate — just a weariness that stretched far beyond human time.
He whispered softly to the wind,
> "If this world must burn to learn righteousness… then so be it."
The thunder rolled in answer.
And as the rain began to fall, the legend of H.I.M deepened — half angel, half shadow, all justice.
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