Armand awoke with a start, jolting upright in bed. He sat on the edge, drenched in sweat, head bowed as he struggled to steady his breathing after the nightmare.
Or rather, a brief reprieve from a nightmarish reality.
He shook his cold, clammy hands. The last image lingering from his sleep was Mu Sicheng—bleeding, lying on the ground, his pupils dilated and lifeless. The man's blood spread slowly across the floor, merging with the dark pool beneath him.
Armand sat numbly on the edge of the bed, thinking about the dream he had just had—or rather, his past life.
His older brother, Georgia, was the head captain of the Heretic Authority's Zone 3. For as long as Armand could remember, Georgia had been busy. His work was dangerous, and because of that, he was excessively protective of Armand. Georgia had a strict plan for his every move.
For example, Georgia strictly forbade Armand from entering the Heretics Bureau or taking on any work related to heretics.
But Armand refused to accept that. The more Georgia denied him, the more determined he became. Working at the Heretics Bureau was his dream—his childish fantasy of saving the world.
As a child, Armand idolized his brother and grew increasingly fascinated with the Heretics Council. By adolescence, rebellion had taken root in him, and he marched straight into the Heretics' training camp.
That led to their first serious argument. Armand made a scene and eventually got his way.
Georgia had said coldly, "Armand, you are cowardly and soft-hearted. You are not capable of cruelty toward your enemies. If that remains true, fate will punish you severely."
Now that he thought about it, Georgia had been right. Georgia was always right.
At the time, Armand had not yet been punished by fate. He still harbored naïve and unrealistic beliefs in its mercy.
He entered the Heretics Bureau full of innocence, only to be placed by Georgia in charge of paperwork in the safest heretic-control department.
Depressed, Armand counted files of various heretics day after day, always searching for a chance to get assigned to the most dangerous front lines. Yet each time, Georgia noticed and tightened the leash, keeping him firmly within Zone 3 headquarters.
Armand felt an indescribable emptiness.
While growing up, he had lived within the high protective wall Georgia built to shield him from heretics. Inside that wall, there was nothing but himself. Even Georgia remained carefully outside it, once even eating through a plastic cover to avoid "contaminating" him.
And so Armand grew up inside those walls, without anyone to talk to.
Until one day, someone appeared.
Zone 3, under Georgia's supervision, was a storage area for high-risk heretics—the most dangerous and valuable ones. Its strongholds were hidden in secret locations that few could ever discover.
But there was one exception: Zone 3's natural enemy, Mu Sicheng.
Mu Sicheng was District Three's greatest headache. The arrogant thief made chaos every time he appeared. The players in District Three practically racked their brains trying to analyze his every move, desperate to uncover his weaknesses and finally capture him.
Their research dragged on endlessly—yet yielded little more than scraps.
Armand rolled his eyes as he stuffed bread into his mouth, listening for the thousandth time as his teammates discussed Mu Sicheng's background.
"Mu Sicheng… his best friend died… since then, he can't work with anyone. He's withdrawn and solitary…"
"He cares about it a lot. He loses control when it's mentioned. We could use that…"
Armand interrupted through a mouthful of bread, his voice muffled. "How can a dead friend be considered a weakness?"
He patted his own back playfully. "Unless you turn into his living friend—that would be a weakness. Maybe I should volunteer as a spy and become this thief's friend."
Knowing he was the captain's younger brother, the team laughed and teased him.
"Do you even know how that friend died?"
Armand shook his head honestly.
They leaned in and whispered dramatically, "Mu Sicheng killed him himself. If you became his friend, you might end up dead too."
Armand froze, choking on the bread he had just swallowed.
That night, the red alert blared throughout Zone 3.
Armand woke in a daze to Georgia's solemn voice blaring over the radio:
"All districts on alert! Mu Sicheng was shot in the waist by me after stealing three Level Two Red Heretics. He is now incapacitated and fleeing within the Authority! All teams, search the area!"
A brief pause followed.
"—And shoot on sight if necessary!"
The teams searched room by room for the wounded thief. Their faces were lit with barely concealed excitement—so much so that when Armand secretly slipped into the search party, they noticed him and simply pretended not to.
Armand followed eagerly, but after only two rounds of searching, Georgia spotted him. He was sternly reprimanded and sent back to his room in shame.
Yet the moment Armand stepped inside his dormitory, he sensed something was wrong.
He had left the door unlocked. The room looked untouched, everything in place—but something couldn't be hidden.
The smell.
A thick, metallic scent of blood.
His heart began to pound.
Knowing he couldn't possibly subdue whoever was inside, Armand forced himself to act natural and turned to leave, intending to report it.
The instant he moved, a sharp claw hooked around his throat. A tall man leaned against him, breathing heavily, a malicious laugh brushing against his ear.
"Sharp nose," the man rasped. "You smelled my blood, didn't you?"
Armand's heart nearly leapt from his chest. He raised both hands in surrender—but before he could speak, the weight against him suddenly slid downward.
He turned in a daze.
A young man about his age lay collapsed in a spreading pool of blood, monkey-ear headphones still perched on his head. He was gasping, breaths shallow and ragged.
Shock from blood loss, Armand realized immediately.
He stared at Mu Sicheng, mind echoing with all the intelligence reports he had heard about the murderous thief.
No friends. Alone. Withdrawn.
Everything he did was to please the mysterious person behind the scenes and gain their approval.
Armand had imagined that manipulator to be some terrifying middle-aged man.
He hadn't expected someone so young.
Blood pooled beneath Mu Sicheng's body. Even in his near-unconscious state, he didn't bother covering his wound. Instead, he clutched the three stolen heretical boxes tightly against his abdomen, shielding them.
Armand's lips pressed into a thin line. He gripped the pistol at his waist, teeth clenched, and aimed it at Mu Sicheng's head.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull the trigger.
Georgia had been right.
He couldn't shoot a living person—not like this. Even knowing Mu Sicheng was dangerous, he saw in those fading eyes the same longing he carried himself: the desperate desire to live, to be understood, to be acknowledged.
A knock suddenly sounded at his door.
Startled, Armand hurriedly dragged Mu Sicheng beneath the bed. He wiped the floor clean, sprayed excessive amounts of air freshener, then threw himself onto the mattress and shut his eyes.
The door opened.
"Have you seen any suspicious individuals?" someone asked.
Armand replied quickly, perhaps too quickly, "No! The air freshener is because I just… had a really bad stomachache. It smelled awful."
"…You don't need to share that," the visitor muttered.
Fortunately, no one suspected the captain's younger brother. Pinching his nose against the overwhelming scent, the visitor left.
Armand collapsed back onto the bed. After a long hesitation, he slid a bottle of potent healing agent and a roll of bandages under the frame.
A long time passed.
Then a pair of monkey-like hands reached out and swiftly dragged them away.
Armand hugged his knees, half-crouched on the bed, staring blankly ahead.
Why was he doing this?
Before he could find an answer, a slightly strengthened but teasing voice drifted from beneath the bed.
"Hey. What's your name?"
"…Armand."
A snort. "Terrible name. You look exactly like the guy who shot me. Who is he?"
"…My brother."
That only deepened Armand's gloom.
Why had he saved the enemy his brother had shot?
Silence stretched for a long time.
Then the same question he had been asking himself came softly from below.
"Why did you… save me?"
Armand sighed long and helplessly. "I don't know. I just couldn't save you."
A string of mocking laughter erupted from beneath the bed, interrupted by coughing.
"Stupid," Mu Sicheng muttered with a faint laugh.
Armand: "…"
Even if it was stupid, was it really his place to say so?
When Armand woke early the next morning, Mu Sicheng was gone.
He felt relieved—yet at the same time, he wondered if he had imagined everything. Had he been so desperate to prove himself that he dreamed the whole thing?
But if it was a dream, why had he saved Mu Sicheng… and then let him go?
Puzzled, Armand eventually forced himself to stop thinking about it.
Soon after, however, the notorious thief visited the Heretics Authority again. This time, Mu Sicheng didn't take anything.
Instead, he left something behind.
Like every flamboyant and arrogant thief in history, he sent a calling card in advance—an audacious teaser naming Zone 3 as his target.
I'll be coming on Wednesday to steal something. Haven't decided what yet—depends on what catches my eye.
Tell your captain's brother—the one with the ugly name—to wash up and wait for me at the door!
Georgia tossed the card onto Armand's desk and lifted his eyes coldly.
"Explain why Mu Sicheng has started targeting you."
"…I don't know either," Armand said weakly, nearly in tears. He truly regretted everything.
Georgia stared at him for a long moment before speaking.
"Whatever happened between you and Mu Sicheng, remember this: that man is a demon. If you aren't careful, he will destroy you."
A pause.
"But if you need to see that reality for yourself, I'll give you the chance."
Georgia examined the pale, anxious Armand. "Take a gun. Join us in the siege on Wednesday."
On Wednesday, Armand stood at the front lines, gun in hand, tense and alert.
Soon enough, the thief arrived.
It was Armand's first time seeing Mu Sicheng in action.
He was as swift as the wind—free, reckless, laughing. Before Armand could even react, Mu Sicheng brushed past him at a speed nearly invisible to the eye, then suddenly grabbed his wrist and dragged him along.
Gunfire erupted. Shouts filled the air.
Amid chaos, Mu Sicheng and Armand bolted through the corridors like two children fleeing the scene of a prank.
Armand tried to wrench his hand free, but Mu Sicheng only raised an eyebrow and glanced back at him with a mischievous grin.
"Fun, isn't it? Watching them fail to catch us?"
Stunned, Armand looked over his shoulder. The team members chasing them wore furious, contorted expressions—almost comical against Mu Sicheng's effortless speed.
It was a little funny.
Before he knew it, Armand laughed.
They ran faster and faster.
The dangerous heretics' artifacts Armand had cataloged and organized so carefully were tossed around in Mu Sicheng's hands as if they were toys. This wasn't theft—it felt like a game.
Mu Sicheng tossed one box toward Armand. "Do you know what this one does?"
"Number 8035…" Armand strained to recall the file. "It releases… wind-element butterflies. It can generate hurricane-level gusts—"
"Then open it," Mu Sicheng interrupted impatiently.
Before Armand could protest, Mu Sicheng flipped the box open.
A swarm of dazzling, multicolored butterflies burst forth. Wind spiraled violently from their patterned tails, whipping through the enclosed chamber with ferocious force. Hair flattened. Debris scattered.
Armand was blown off his feet instantly.
Mu Sicheng grabbed his ankle, anchoring him in place, laughing.
"You've guarded this place so long—your brother never even let you try this, did he?"
"Is this a game?!" Armand shouted hoarsely. "Stop it! This could cause severe atmospheric instability!"
"No," Mu Sicheng replied lightly, balancing effortlessly in the wind as he floated just above Armand. He steadied Armand's shoulders and chuckled. "Your brother just never taught you properly."
He reached down and guided Armand's fingers toward one butterfly's tail.
"Every heretic has a weakness," Mu Sicheng murmured close to his ear. "Once you control its weakness… it becomes your toy."
Armand hesitated—but as his fingers pinched the butterfly's tail, it suddenly stopped flapping and rested obediently at his fingertips.
His eyes widened.
Mu Sicheng grinned triumphantly. "See?"
Then, with deliberate mischief, Mu Sicheng flicked the butterfly's tail.
The wind exploded again.
"Hey—!"
Before Armand could react, Mu Sicheng grabbed him by the back of the collar and dashed backward through the hurricane, laughing wildly as the pursuing team struggled against the storm.
He flashed a careless two-finger salute over his shoulder.
"I'll borrow your captain's brother for a while!"
And just like that, the two of them vanished into the roaring wind without a trace.
The wind did not carry them far before Mu Sicheng suddenly came to a stop.
His communicator buzzed. Armand couldn't hear the other side of the call, but Mu Sicheng's expression shifted instantly. The wild, jubilant grin vanished, replaced by calm composure. Even his tone changed—steady, restrained.
"…Got it. I'll bring the goods back. No issues on this side of the smuggling line."
When the call ended, Mu Sicheng turned around, looked at Armand, and then burst out laughing.
Armand's face looked almost identical to Georgia's—ninety-nine percent alike. But unlike his stern brother, Armand had just experienced his first reckless chase. His brown hair was blown into a chaotic bird's nest, and his expression was one of stunned bewilderment.
He was on all fours.
Not because he wanted to be—but because he had never been inside a hurricane before, and he felt horribly wind-sick.
Mu Sicheng crouched halfway down in front of him and grinned. "I thought the big lunatic's brother would at least be a little lunatic. Didn't expect you to be this dumb."
Armand shot him a glare. "You're insulting me again."
Mu Sicheng chuckled, stood up with his hands in his pockets, and casually pulled several heretic boxes from inside his coat. He tossed them back to Armand.
"Well, I've had enough fun for today. See you next time."
He turned stylishly to leave.
Armand stared at the boxes—and suddenly froze.
Not only had Mu Sicheng returned what he stole today, but the three heavy-tier Red Heretics from the last time—the ones Armand had secretly saved him over—were there too.
"Mu Sicheng—" Armand called out after him. "You returned the ones you stole last time as well."
Mu Sicheng raised an eyebrow and pivoted on one heel. "What? Is returning them not good enough for you?"
Armand answered honestly. "You came for fun today. The ones you took were only light Tier-One Reds. But these three are heavy Tier-Three Reds—they should have been your real targets. It's… generous of you to return them. I'm just worried you'll steal them again next time."
"They were my targets," Mu Sicheng admitted with a crooked smile. "But last time I got caught by you. That means the theft failed. And what isn't successfully stolen doesn't count as my loot."
He waved lazily and walked away without turning back, laughter lingering in his voice.
"Of course I'll steal again. Try to catch me if you don't want to lose, Armand."
Armand stood there for a long time, staring at the three boxes.
Because he had recovered the stolen goods, he was finally allowed onto the front lines.
After that, Mu Sicheng sent teaser letters from time to time. And Armand seemed to grow up overnight.
He became calmer, sharper—chasing Mu Sicheng with relentless focus.
Whenever Mu Sicheng appeared, Armand was the fastest to respond, nearly matching his speed.
But he never shot him.
Gradually, Armand became the most successful officer in the department at recovering stolen goods from Mu Sicheng.
As he chased him, Armand matured—becoming steadier, more responsible, more capable. Eventually, he rose to become Georgia's second-in-command: vice-captain.
One evening, after dinner, Armand returned to his dormitory to log the day's heretic records.
A teaser letter lay beside his bed.
Lieutenant. No more chase games. Want a drink?
A faint smile touched Armand's lips.
After confirming that Georgia was elsewhere, he slipped quietly out the back entrance of the Heretics Authority.
He headed to the clearing where Mu Sicheng had once swept him away in a storm. They met there occasionally now. It was unclear how it had begun—two men from opposing sides sharing quiet drinks—but somehow, it had become an unspoken agreement between them.
The clearing was barren, but above it stretched a brilliant night sky.
When Armand arrived, Mu Sicheng was already seated on a small rise, gazing at the stars.
"You're late," Mu Sicheng greeted lazily, tossing him a bottle of wine.
Armand caught it with practiced ease—then paused.
Something felt different.
Mu Sicheng wasn't in his usual mood tonight.
"What's wrong?" Armand asked as he sat beside him.
Mu Sicheng tilted his head back and took a long drink before exhaling slowly.
"That one's given me full authority over the smuggling line," he said flatly. "No more stealing."
There was a brief silence.
Then he continued lightly, as though it didn't matter.
"Next time we meet, we'll both be shooting for real. So replace that fake, unloaded gun of yours."
Armand fell silent.
The night sky above them remained vast and bright—but neither of them spoke again.
If it had only been theft, it could have remained a game.
But once it escalated into smuggling—something that could endanger countless lives—it was no longer a private contest between them.
It became a matter of life and death.
Armand rarely drank, but that night he took a long swallow, wiped his mouth, and said quietly, "I will."
"I've played many games," Mu Sicheng murmured, gazing up at the stars. "Gruesome ones. Terrifying ones. And one…" He paused. "One I'll never forget."
He lowered his head. "But this has been the most fun I've had in a long time."
Without looking at Armand, he held out his hand.
"Thanks. For sparing me. And for keeping me company."
Armand took his hand firmly. "It's fine. We're friends."
Mu Sicheng stilled.
After a long silence, he snorted softly. "Do you know how my last friend died?"
"You killed him yourself," Armand answered steadily. His dark brown eyes held unwavering determination. "But I believe you won't kill me. Or rather—I'll become strong enough that you can't. I'll do everything I can so neither of us has to die."
He clenched his fist. "I'll be strong enough to stop you."
Mu Sicheng withdrew his hand and looked away, a faint, restrained smile tugging at his lips.
"…Brat. Don't get cocky just because you've caught me a few times."
Neither of them could have imagined that this would be the last time they ever smiled at one another.
Three months later, Bai Liu (6) arrived to oversee a shipment.
During the handover, Mu Sicheng was spotted by Georgia while on patrol.
After determining that the shipment consisted of high-risk smuggled heretics—dangerous enough to cause catastrophic consequences if released—Georgia immediately launched an assault.
Mu Sicheng, left behind to stall, struggled under the pressure. But Bai Liu (6), who had already departed after delivering the cargo, unexpectedly returned to the port.
With Bai Liu's (6) assistance, Mu Sicheng captured the famed captain of Zone 3 on the spot.
The moment Mu Sicheng realized the captured officer was Georgia, his pupils trembled.
Bai Liu (6), seated calmly, did not miss that subtle reaction. He glanced at Georgia—kneeling expressionlessly before him—then lifted an eyebrow slightly.
"You know this captain?"
Mu Sicheng answered stiffly, "I've stolen heretics from his jurisdiction before."
Bai Liu (6) turned his gaze to Mu Sicheng, voice cool. "I don't like being lied to. And you know I mean more than casual acquaintance."
He studied him carefully. "You have feelings for him?"
"No!" Mu Sicheng denied too quickly.
Bai Liu (6) shifted his attention back to Georgia. "Your reaction when you saw him was unmistakable. But interestingly… it wasn't him you reacted to."
He tilted his head slightly.
"It was someone who looked very much like him."
Mu Sicheng's breathing stalled. His hands clenched into fists.
"His brother," Bai Liu (6) concluded calmly. "A male of similar age. Close enough in appearance to confuse you at first glance."
Silence.
Bai Liu (6) folded his hands together and looked up at Mu Sicheng.
"A bond formed across opposing sides… Was it fun?"
Mu Sicheng's eyes reddened. He exhaled slowly, then bowed his head and dropped to one knee.
"Please… let Georgia go."
His voice was low but steady.
"This time I miscalculated. I'll control myself next time. Killing him now will only force Zone 3 to change leadership and restructure operations—it'll make future investigations harder for us."
He stopped speaking.
Even he seemed to realize how fragile that reasoning sounded.
Receiving no immediate response, Mu Sicheng remained kneeling in silence.
Bai Liu (6) lowered his gaze.
"As a sign of respect for your efforts—and the seriousness of this operation—I can let him live."
"Not next time."
He cast a glance at Georgia.
"But before that, there is something Captain Zone 3 needs to experience. To ensure he does not remember our smuggling routes."
Mu Sicheng let out a breath of relief. "A memory-erasing artifact?"
"No," Bai Liu (6) replied softly.
"I'm going to let him test a new item I've acquired."
He paused.
"Future."
After seeing the object activated, Georgia stood motionless—like a man whose soul had been hollowed out.
Bai Liu (6) left him behind on a barren stretch of wasteland.
It was the same hidden place where Mu Sicheng and Armand used to sit beneath the stars.
Later, Mu Sicheng secretly informed Armand where to find his brother.
Armand arrived in a panic and carried Georgia—who lay dazed and unresponsive—back to headquarters.
From a distance, Mu Sicheng watched.
Helpless.
That was the beginning of all their nightmares.
After a month of Georgia's silence and repeated attempts to take his own life, a desperate Armand finally broke.
He logged into the game.
After barely surviving his way through it, a dying Armand looked up at the giant screen—and for the first time saw another side of the thief named Mu Sicheng.
Mu Sicheng laughed wildly. He slaughtered without hesitation. Human lives were handled as carelessly as toys in his hands. Following behind another man, he was no longer a reckless thief but a sharpened weapon—precise, lethal, made for bloodshed.
Armand stood frozen among the cheering crowd, celebrating Mu Sicheng's brutal victories. He stared up at the screen, at the friend who now seemed like a stranger, his mind completely blank.
So this was the "game" Mu Sicheng had meant.
This… was it?
After winning yet another match, Mu Sicheng casually lifted his shirt to wipe the blood and sweat from his jaw. He waved impatiently at the roaring audience and turned to leave the arena.
As if on a whim, Bai Liu (6) turned to him.
"Which is more fun?" he asked lightly. "This game… or your little friendship game with that Zone Three lieutenant?"
Mu Sicheng's pupils tightened. Excitement flickered in his eyes. His killing intent had not yet faded; bloodlust still lingered in his grin.
"That's obvious," he replied, teeth flashing sharply.
"The games here, of course."
Armand stood like a wooden statue in the crowd.
The giant screen glowed behind him as Bai Liu (6) led his procession forward, cheered on by countless spectators.
Mu Sicheng—top contributor, highest kill count—walked just behind Bai Liu (6). As he passed through the crowd, his hurried stride knocked the weakened Armand to the ground.
He didn't even glance at who he had hit.
Only when Armand failed to move did Mu Sicheng cast a brief, condescending look downward at the mud-streaked player staring up at him.
He snorted softly at the pathetic sight.
Then he walked away without looking back.
From the ground, dazed, Armand saw Bai Liu (6) pause ahead. Bai Liu (6) turned and met his gaze from afar, a faint smile curving his lips.
Armand saw him mouth the words clearly:
"It's just a game." All of it. Just a game.
Armand did not remember how he logged out.
He only knew that he staggered back to his dormitory in the Heretics Bureau.
He retrieved every teaser letter Mu Sicheng had ever sent him and tore them into pieces. He burned them until nothing remained but ash.
He threw away the empty bullets he had secretly used in his gun. He discarded the shared memories—the drinks, the laughter, the playful chases—as if they were contaminated.
If it could be thrown away, he threw it away.
If it could be erased, he tried to erase it.
That night, Armand lay in bed for a long time.
When he closed his eyes, he could still smell blood drifting from beneath the bed. He could still hear that mocking voice calling him stupid. He could still see the boundless starry sky above the wasteland.
But when he opened his eyes again—
There was nothing left in them.
He rose like a puppet.
He replaced the blanks in his pistol with live ammunition.
He contacted Mu Sicheng.
He did not know whether Mu Sicheng would come. He could only hope that Mu Sicheng would have the patience to finish this "friendship game."
Armand waited. Mu Sicheng came.
And so Armand ended it.
With tears streaming down his face and teeth clenched so tightly they hurt, he fired.
The bullet tore through Mu Sicheng's throat.
Moments before collapsing, Mu Sicheng stared at Armand in disbelief—eyes wide, as though unable to comprehend what had just happened.
After falling, he struggled painfully, transforming partially, clawed hands scraping against the ground as he crawled toward Armand.
Thinking he was about to attack, Armand forced himself to fire again.
The second shot struck Mu Sicheng's temple.
With his last strength, Mu Sicheng caught Armand's wrist in his clawed hand.
"—Caught your brother… I'm sorry—"
His hand covered Armand's as though trying to shake it.
Those bright, mischievous eyes—now dim and shadowed—remained fixed on him.
Armand's vision blurred with tears.
He tried to speak.
He wanted to say something—anything.
But no sound came.
He realized then that in the struggle, Mu Sicheng's claws had torn deeply into his throat. His voice would never come out again.
His body grew cold. His heartbeat slowed.
The last thing Armand saw was a pair of leather shoes stepping toward him. A black whip dragged lightly across the ground.
The man knelt beside Mu Sicheng's body. He gently turned Mu Sicheng's head and cradled it in his arms, carefully closing the thief's still-open eyes with gloved fingers.
Then Armand heard him whisper:
"If this was the game you chose… then this is your end."
"But death is only a long sleep. Your soul belongs to me, and we will meet again when you awaken."
"Go to sleep."
The tone was gentle—almost tender. Like a father coaxing a restless child into bed, telling a fairy tale about peaceful dreams.
Armand tried desperately to lift his head and see who had come to collect Mu Sicheng's body.
But no matter how hard he tried, his eyelids grew heavier. His breathing grew fainter under the man's strange, soothing voice.
Before darkness finally claimed him, Armand thought—
If Georgia were here, he would scold him for acting so recklessly. He would probably demand a three-thousand-word self-criticism about fraternizing with his enemy and submit it by tomorrow.
A tear slipped down the corner of Armand's eye.
Like a butterfly caught in a fading storm, his soul drifted quietly into the long sleep called death.
And at last—
The hurricane within the enclosure fell completely still.