Traditionem occidi-LXXXIV
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DATE:17th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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I offered to take Alice to a nicer restaurant nearby, a small gesture to ease the tension of the day. But we barely made it to the bottom of the stairs before the phone in her pocket buzzed. Her expression shifted as she answered the call, her knuckles tightening around the device.
The League HQ had been attacked.
I already knew. Emily had informed me earlier in our room. I hadn't given it much thought—there were plenty of heroes stationed there to handle it. My business here was personal, tied to something far older than Ultraman's legacy.
But Alice's news wasn't about the League as a whole.
"The part of the HQ where my mother is," she said breathlessly, her voice trembling. "It's been attacked."
Her terror was palpable, her face pale as she turned toward the airport.
"Alice—wait," I said, following her into the street. "Calm down. Emily can book your flight back."
"I know," she replied quickly, barely breaking her stride. "I told them I'd come right away."
"Should I... come with you?" The words felt foreign on my tongue, hesitant.
She stopped, turning to face me, her eyes flickering between fear and resolve. "No. You've been putting off your trip to Ventia for too long. You need to do this. I'll handle my mother."
Before I could argue, she leaned in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "I'll be fine," she assured me, though her voice wavered.
I watched as she rushed into the airport, her figure disappearing into the crowd.
For a moment, I just stood there, the noise of the terminal swirling around me.
Sadness crept in.
Was I sad that she was leaving, or was it something else? The feeling was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and I didn't like it. As I turned to walk back to the hotel, I felt the weight of eyes on me.
Glancing subtly toward the street corner, I saw them—men camouflaged as locals, lingering with practiced ease. I knew their patterns, their routines. After all, I was once one of them. They were part of the Balmundi Syndicate.
My hand brushed the knife hidden in my jacket, a reflex. But fighting them now would be reckless. I had no weapons other than the blade, and even if I took one of them down, more would follow.
So I did what they wouldn't expect.
I walked back to the hotel as if I hadn't seen them, my steps steady and unhurried. The room felt colder without Alice in it. I dropped onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as exhaustion settled over me.
Emily's voice broke the silence. "They're still watching," she said quietly.
"I know."
"You're not going to confront them?"
"Not yet," I muttered, closing my eyes. "It's not worth it."
She didn't respond, but I could sense her unease.
The weight of everything pressed heavier on my chest—the dream, Alice's departure, the watchful figures outside. I felt hollow, as though the energy to act had been drained from me.
For the first time in a long while, I let myself admit it.
"I'm tired," I said softly.
Emily's voice softened. "I know."
The static silence of the room returned.
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DATE:18th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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I woke early, my body tense, my mind half-expecting someone to be standing in the shadows, blade ready, a final message from the Syndicate.
But the room was empty. The world was quiet. And I was alone.
I sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair as the weight of the morning pressed down on me. The noose around my neck tightened with every breath.
Mithras.
His name burned in my mind, as it had every morning for years. The light of dawn that poured through the window was his mockery, his punishment—a reminder of the oaths I had sworn in his name and the chains that still bound me.
If men had already been sent after me, then it was time I greeted them.
Not with submission, but with defiance.
It was time to truly leave the Syndicate.
---
Even after all these years, I was still theirs. Not in body—I bore none of their tattoos, the marks of loyalty etched into others like brands—but in soul.
The Syndicate had claimed that part of me years ago, when I swore my faithfulness on Mithras, the god of light. I still remembered the words, the weight of them in my mouth as I repeated them back to the old man who had inducted me. We prayed to Mithras and Saturn, the gods of Ventian tradition. Even the crooked, the mercenaries and gangsters, clung to those rituals like lifeboats in a storm.
But I only felt their grip as a noose.
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Saturnalia.
The image of it played in my mind—the intricate tradition, the harvest of the dead. Saturn, with his scythe, gathering the lingering souls of the earth.
They called him a god, but what god devoured the dead like that? He was a demon.
And Mithras was no better. Every morning, the sun returned to mock me, his light a cruel reminder of the oath I had sworn to follow the Syndicate until my death.
But if I had truly died, as I now believed I had, then it was time to take back my freedom.
I clenched my fists, the tension curling through my body like a spring wound too tight. This wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about liberation—from Mithras, Saturn, the Syndicate. All of it.
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I stood, pulling on my jacket with deliberate care.
Emily buzzed to life, her voice cutting through the silence. "What's the plan?"
"I'm going to meet them," I said simply.
"And then?"
A slight smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. "Then we see if Mithras is still paying attention."
She didn't respond, but I could feel her unease.
I pushed the door open, stepping into the cold morning air. The sun was rising, its weak light stretching over the empty streets.
Mithras was watching.
But today, I didn't care.
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It didn't take long to catch their attention.
Genova's crooked roads felt like a perfect trap, their narrow, winding paths leading to countless dead ends. I chose one deliberately, a forgotten alley lined with peeling walls and discarded crates, the kind of place no one walked unless they wanted trouble.
Minutes later, they appeared.
Seven men. Sabers glinting under the faint morning light, their hands resting on the hilts with practiced ease. They probably had pistols concealed beneath their jackets; it was Ventia, after all.
Carrying a blade no longer than 60 centimeters was perfectly legal here. Fathers were expected to teach their sons knifework, a tradition passed down through generations.
Not mine, of course. But I picked it up quickly enough.
Still, I wasn't here to fight. Killing every man in the Syndicate would take more than a lifetime, and it wouldn't change anything. No, I needed to sever my ties in a way they'd accept.
To leave the Syndicate, you didn't just walk away. You needed to see a priest of Mithras.
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The leader of the group, distinguishable only by his slightly more tailored coat, pointed his saber at the ground in front of me.
"I'm not a foreigner," I said evenly, holding my hands where they could see them.
He smirked. "We know."
"I'll follow you," I continued, my voice calm. "As a colleague. But if you're here to take me hostage, you'll leave this street dead."
They hesitated, exchanging glances. For a moment, the tension hung thick in the air, their hands tightening on their sabers. Then, wordlessly, they sheathed their blades.
Smart choice.
The Syndicate's ranks were unpredictable by design. You never knew if the man in front of you was a lowly grunt or an elite killer. It was a strategy meant to keep outsiders guessing and ensure every interaction carried the weight of uncertainty.
I followed them through the streets without a word.
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The base was in Ventri, a winery hidden in plain sight.
Outwardly unassuming, its true purpose revealed itself the moment we stepped inside. The tang of blood hit me first, sharp and overwhelming, followed by the faint metallic hum of machinery.
The Syndicate used this place for organ harvesting and human trafficking. It wasn't where I trained, but I'd been stationed here for a time after my induction.
The commander who ran it... he was family, in the way Ventians understood family. A cousin of a cousin of an uncle, or something equally convoluted. Bloodlines here were a tangled mess, woven together by tradition and necessity.
He had a reputation for invention—cruel, grotesque invention. His favorite game? Men who owed debts to his loan sharks were given three choices: sell their wives to settle the debt, lose both hands, or play him in chess.
No one ever "won" with the third option.
I remembered his voice, rasping and smug, as he leaned over his board. "Your father deserved his end," he'd told me once. "You were just to do what you did."
Just. I wouldn't go that far.
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The men escorting me led me through halls slick with blood, the floor wet and sticky beneath my boots. I can't imagine how many people die in these places if just the blood of the thugs walking around
In some twisted Ventian traditions, drinking human blood was believed to extend one's lifespan. The commander had capitalized on this superstition, turning blood into a commodity. Civilians bought it in packets for cooking, believing it carried some ancient power.
No one here was innocent.
No one here deserved absolution.
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We stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, its surface scarred with deep grooves. One of the men knocked seven times—a tradition that sent a shiver down my spine even now.
The door creaked open.
His office smelled of blood. Not fresh, but old blood—cloying and metallic, seeping into the walls like a sickness that couldn't be scrubbed away.
The room was a shrine to death, adorned with heads of deer and the fur of foxes and bears stretched across the furniture. My relative—if you could call him that—was a hunter. He liked to tell stories of prey he'd stalked, the precision of the kill.
I remembered him joking once that he'd retire to a cabin in the woods if his father hadn't forced this base upon him. Perhaps that's why he never condemned me for killing my own father.
But that didn't make him moral.
Nothing about this man—this thing—was moral.
His face told the story of his life, a tapestry of scars carved by animals, by war, by women who fought back, by gang fights, by his own hand in ritualistic fervor. There was barely a patch of skin left untouched. In Ventian society, a soldier's scars were honorable, but the scars of a man running a "winery" like this were undeniable proof of his criminal history.
Despite this, the police rarely troubled him. It wasn't just the Syndicate's payroll—it was the quiet understanding between families, the unspoken acknowledgment of hardship. In Ventia, crime wasn't an aberration. It was a way of life.
I stepped inside, and the door closed behind me with a hollow thud.
There he was, grinning from one corner of his mouth to the other, the same as I remembered. He sat behind the large desk, the edges cluttered with papers stained by fingerprints of blood.
"Ten years," he said casually, his grin widening. "Maybe more. Sit down."
I didn't acknowledge the chair. "If you wanted to see me," I said, "you probably already know how I'm doing."
The grin faltered, his jaw tightening as he reached for something on the desk. A photograph.
He slid it across the table toward me.
I picked it up. It was slightly crumpled, but the image was unmistakable. Me, in my suit as Aionis, back at the mall where I defused the bomb.
"See anything wrong with this?" he asked, his voice low.
I shrugged, placing the photo back on the desk.
His expression darkened. "Why are you pretending to be a hero?" he snapped. "You know I hate them. Especially that bastard Ultraman."
"I'm free to do what I want," I replied evenly.
A vein bulged on his temple as he rose from his chair, his hands pressing hard against the desk. "You're free to do whatever you want as long as it benefits the Syndicate."
He jabbed a finger at the photo. "This doesn't benefit us! Do you have any idea how this looks?" His voice was rising now, the calm facade cracking. "You've been out there, roaming the world, acting like you're untouchable. But to become the face of the heroes in the media?"
I didn't flinch, my voice calm. "Then stop wasting your time pressuring me. My contract ended."
His mouth opened, but no words came out. For the first time, I saw hesitation in his eyes.
"You don't believe me?" I leaned forward slightly. "I was brought back to life. My contract ended with my first life."
"That's impossible," he spat, though there was an edge of doubt in his tone.
"Then call a priest," I said, leaning back in the chair. "Have him check my connection to Mithras. That's how this works, doesn't it?"
For a long moment, he just stared at me, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with anger, disbelief, and something else—fear, perhaps. I wonder how much he actually knows about me. If the organization spied on what I was doing, then they should have overheard what I am referred to, right?
Finally, he sat down heavily, the chair creaking under his weight. Reaching for the fixed phone on his desk, he muttered something under his breath before dialing. The commander didn't say much after hanging up the phone. The priest was one of his friends, which made sense; they all kept the same circles, steeped in tradition and corruption.
He rang a small brass bell, and the thugs outside the office filed in.
"Escort him to the temple," the commander said curtly, lighting a cigar as he waved me away. I glanced back and saw he was trying to suppress his worries. In the first place, I don't remember him being a smoker.
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The walk to the temple was cold and silent, the air heavy with the weight of unsaid things.
Ventri's temple was smaller than the grander one in central Genova, but this one was dedicated solely to Mithras, free from Saturn's patronage. Still, my escort didn't lead me through the proper entrance. We took a covered tunnel hidden within the stone walls behind the temple, its damp air thick with the scent of incense and mildew.
Inside, the air grew heavier, the flickering candlelight casting jagged shadows across the stone.
I was led into a small, candlelit chamber beneath the main temple. A man in pompous red robes stood at the center, his wrinkled hands carefully arranging sticks of incense. He didn't look up until the thugs had left, the heavy wooden door groaning shut behind them.
The priest turned to face me, his expression twisting into one of disdain.
"I feel sick just looking at you," he said sharply, his voice dripping with contempt. "Men like you don't retire."
I remained silent as he stepped closer, the red fabric of his robes brushing against the dusty floor.
The Mithraic cult had a complex system of seven grades of initiation, each associated with a planet: I.Corax(Raven) ---II.Nymphus(Male Bride)---III.Miles(Soldier) ---IV.Leo(Lion) ---V.Perses(Persian) ---VI.Heliodromus(Sun-Runner) ---VII.Pater(Father)|
Initiates would progress through these grades, symbolizing their spiritual journey and deepening commitment to the cult. of course, that was only for the civilians. For the vast majority of members that the Syndicate had, they were restricted to the third grade, that of soldier. Their captains could reach the next grade and so on until the leaders with the father grade.
This priest, at his old age of 55 was a Sun-Rider. I never bothered with the ranks and prayers, but I do vividly remember them. The whole religion was a kind of fraternity and we called each other syndexioi or brother. Did I ever see any of them as brothers? Not at all. The whole grade system felt Homo-Erotic in a way, but it wasn't that part especially that I hated. These men are killers who may randomly even get contracts to kill men associated with Balmundi. The very organization they serve. And I am supposed to trust them with my life? There should be no surprise that I became a mercenary.
"To claim you've been reborn?" He spat the words like venom. "Heresy. Only Mithras received the gift of resurrection." I'm not sure that even he did so. From what studies I read that weren't biased by Ventians, Mithras was more so supposed to guide dead people into the afterlife so the idea of him being a Redeemer is vague at best.
Despite his disgust, the priest began preparing the ritual, his movements precise and methodical. Behind him, a large, faded painting of the tauroctony hung on the wall—Mithras, triumphant, slaying the sacred bull. The triumph of light over darkness, they called it.
To me, it was nothing more than another lie.
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The priest approached, holding a dense string in his hands. I recognized it immediately.
He looped it around my neck, its coarse texture irritating against my skin, and positioned it above the flickering flame of a nearby candle.
"You will hear me name your sins," he intoned. "And if the string tightens, it is because Mithras himself binds you to his will. If it does not..." His lips curled into a sneer. "Then perhaps you are what you claim to be."
I didn't reply. This whole ritual was laughable. It wasn't even ancient. It was made up by the mafia to fool the religious gangsters that wanted out of the organization.
I knew the truth. The string wasn't enchanted, no matter how much pomp surrounded the ritual. Inside the string was a thin wire, and as the fire heated it, it tightened automatically.
How did I know? Years ago, I had stumbled across a broken string just like this in the temple stores. The wire was unmistakable.
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As the priest began reciting names, I took a deep breath, the drug in my system activating my ability.
Time slowed to a crawl.
The priest's hand was frozen mid-gesture, the tension in his jaw caught in perfect stillness. I reached behind me, peeling a small square of clear polyester tape from the small of my back. Rolling it in my fingers, I carefully placed it between the flame and the wire.
Time resumed.
The priest's voice echoed in the chamber, the names of the dead falling from his lips in a solemn monotone. He glanced nervously at the string, his brow furrowing as it failed to tighten.
His chanting faltered. He cleared his throat and continued, but by the time he had run out of names, the wire remained slack.
I took another breath, slowing time again.
Sliding the tape away, I returned to my original position as the priest stared at the string in bewilderment.
"This isn't possible," he muttered, his hands trembling as he examined the wire.
I bent the string away from my neck with deliberate calm. "Have you had enough?"
The priest's eyes widened, his face pale. He stumbled backward, falling to his knees. "Reborn," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You are reborn, just as Mithras was."
He reached for my hand, but I stepped back, my gaze cold.
"Finalize my exclusion from the Syndicate," I said sharply. "And inform the commander that I'm done."
The priest nodded frantically, his forehead pressed to the ground in a desperate display of reverence.
Without another word, I turned and strode out of the chamber. Such fools. All of them. Even if he was impressed, to lower himself and revere me? He should be ashamed to call himself a priest if his allegiance is so quick to change.
Outside, I grabbed my bayonet knife from the table where the thugs had left it and walked the way I'd come.-*-*-*-*-*