Catalyst (I)

"Oh? Looks like that transmission was right on the mark after all. There really is too much going on around here—to think it took me this long to find such an obvious location." Marcel said aloud, stepping through the white cloud of steam drifting up into the air.

He glanced around briefly, taking note of the people he had little more than an iota of interest in—all but one that is. The moment he registered the downed magician gasping from the iron press of Cyril's knee, he smiled and stepped toward him where he lay.

The rain hadn't eased up in the least, and yet, somehow his clothes appeared to be completely dry despite the billions of droplets coming down. Not one had managed to reach him thus far, they evaporated mere inches away from reaching him—poofing into tiny white clouds as though his entire body was made of sintering coals.

"I see. I get what what's going on here." Marcel said, his eyes catching the blue glint reflecting off the pod's transparent glass.

"You, you're from the Phoenix guild, right? Are you here to provide backup?" Watson asked, swallowing hard as he forced the question out.

"Yes, I'm here in response to a call for aid, but that hardly matters anymore—not when I have this in my sights." He turned to face the exposed pod, his face betraying an expression of sheer delight.

"Well, you see, there was transmission relayed by a member of Cocytus and we're expecting their reinforcements to show up here any minute now. Even if you're here by pure chance, it would help us out a lot to have someone as strong as yourself here to back us up."

"No, there won't be any need for that, because...." Marcel slowly clapped his hands together, reverberating a drab, monotonous melody that wasn't even halfway close to anything mirroring a genuine applause.

"...You're all dismissed." he said flatly, dismissing them all with a casual wave of his hand.

"...."

The sound of pouring rain filled the loud silence left behind in the wake of Marcel's declaration. He had made the bold statement loud and clear, and in a manner so direct that even a young child could decipher it, and yet nobody moved.

It wasn't a matter of misinterpretation; they had all registered his words to the letter. The issue wasn't that straightforward—it was a matter of comprehension, a rare reaction reserved for moments when one is given a directive so absurd it defies all logic.

"W-what...did you just say?" Watson pressed again, his tone growing colder this time.

"I said you're dismissed. The Phoenix guild will hereby take possession of the transport pod and him as well..." he pointed to the man being pinned by Cyril's knee. "I hear he's complicit in this whole situation, so I will have him thoroughly questioned."

"Are you serious?" Watson cut him off sharply. "This isn't a dungeon, hunters don't have the authorization to stipulate any orders in real world crises. You're simply hired help, here to assist with putting out the fires and you don't have any claim to the pod either—we're the ones in charge of transporting it in the first place."

"I'm doing this as a precaution. If I recall correctly, your systems were hacked, were they not? On top of that you had your equipment stolen too, the very people you're trying to apprehend are rampaging through the streets with your artillery."

"That still doesn't-"

Marcel waved a hand again, denying Watson's remark.

"The fact of the matter is, the incompetence of your organization is getting people killed at the moment. It's hard for anyone to tell who the real enemies are, and that goes for all of you as well. I don't know who you people are, and I'm not going to waste any time trying to differentiate friend from foe, so if you refuse to leave, I will interpret that as you declaring your ulterior motives. Besides, if there really are more agents from Cocytus on their way here to rescue their second-in command, do you people really think you have the strength to stand up to them on your own—and in that condition, no less?"

Marcel's retort seemed absolute, the kind of argument for which no amount of logic, pleading, or desperation could offer a counter. It wasn't just a statement—it was a verdict.

Sensing his advantage, the hunter continued in a tone of mock benevolence. "If there is anyone here with strength rivaling or—I dare say—greater than that of a B-rank hunter, feel free to step forth. I don't detect anyone possessing that kind of strength among you, so I have no clue by what order of miracle you used to defeat that man, but I can assure you, it won't happen again. I require no such miracles to secure the area on my own."

He let the silence hang, smug and heavy, as his gaze swept the group.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. "Go on," he said, spreading his arms. "Impress me."

No retort came.

Watson's mouth hung loose, he appeared to carry some amount of authority within Longinus' ranks, but that didn't make Marcel's claims any easier to refute. His colleagues must have shared the same sentiment, none stepped forward to challenge the hunter's authority.

In what felt like less than five minutes, the lone flame magician had appeared out of nowhere and was already exerting his influence over those who ought to have outranked him on the matter. That kind of power play was the domain of those born into authority—a luxury reserved for people who moved through positions of power as if they were made for them.

Seconds before Marcel could claim his victory however, someone spoke up—a voice that utterly shattered the deluded look on his face. "Cut the crap. Secure the area? Dismiss us? You must be joking."

"What?" Marcel hissed, his expression slowly morphing into a grimace as he turned to face the boy pinning Victor down. "You...what was that just now?"

"I'm sure you heard me. You must be insane if you think a single B-rank hunter is going to show up here and dismiss all of us simply because they don't feel safe with us around. If you're so scared, you shouldn't have come here."

"Are you daft? When did I ever say anything about being scared? I'm simply suggesting the most efficient way to complete the operation and eliminate any trickery." He said, fixing his narrowing glare firmly onto Cyril's eyes.

The highschooler sighed, releasing a cold trail of condensation from his lips. He raised a hand and pointed it at the exposed pod. "The saint that defeated whatever is inside that thing sent me here to observe the situation, so until she gets here, I'm not going anywhere. If Cocytus' reinforcements arrive before then, you won't have much to worry about, I'm sure they'll know who to shoot at."

Marcel tsked audibly, he took a forceful step forward, powerful enough to send yet another wave of heat rippling through the wet ground, evaporating whatever little moisture had seeped into the cracks in the asphalt.

"You—are you trying to make a fool out of me?"

"Enough with the flames already, I'm offering an optimal solution for all of us." Cyril spat, shooting a piercing glare at his adversary. The situation hadn't turned physical yet, but it was clear that both of them held very different opinions on the matter at hand.

"Cyril, I don't think you should be provoking this guy, especially not right now. I hear he has a particularly nasty reputation even inside the Phoenix guild." Watson attempted to intervene, but as noble as his intentions were, unfortunately they had failed to get through to the two heated youngsters.

"We can put this whole thing behind us if we wait for Alice and the others to show up. If you're as strong as you claim, holding the reinforcements off until then shouldn't be too much of an issue for you, right?"

"Alice?" Marcel muttered to himself. "Ah, you mean that washed up saint—the one that supposedly secured this catch in the last Genesis gate raid."

"What was that?" Cyril spoke up, the wrathful intonation lurking in his tone made the question unquestionably come off as a threat. He had done well to restrain himself up until this point, but Marcel's last remark had pushed him beyond the limits of his patience.

As soon as the young Phoenix took note of the faint traces of rage seeping into Cyril's expression, a vindictive smile returned to his face.

"Oh? What's with that expression all of a sudden?" He remarked, spreading his arms with a jeering grin. "Come to think of it, I've heard rumors that she had taken someone under her wing a while back, a deviant failure who couldn't even rise above D-rank even after being mentored by a literal saint—how pathetic."

He let the heavy words hang, probing the face of his adversary for some kind of reaction. "I'm not one to point fingers, but seeing as you're comfortable addressing her so casually, the one from those rumors wouldn't happen to be you, would it, Cyril?"

"...."

Cyril's head drooped a little, allowing his bangs to cover his face, but he didn't respond—at least, not in the way Marcel was expecting him to.

"Hah..." He sighed again and slowly turned his body to face Marcel with his head still hanging. "I wasn't expecting someone from such a lofty background to be so annoying. I don't know what you're planning, but I'm not leaving here and that's final. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the 'washed up' saint when she gets here."

"Oh? I see you're being very blatant about it now—not even bothering to conceal your nefarious intentions, huh? You lot really don't want to take that route with me."

"I could say the same about you," Cyril replied. "You argued that we don't know who the enemies within Longinus are—but the same could be said about you, couldn't it? After all, there's no reason to believe Cocytus agents aren't posing as hunters too, is there?"

His tone had grown noticeably softer, but the words themselves had lost none of their earlier venom. Instead of fading, his wrath only seemed to swell with time—each syllable coated in a cold, deliberate malice that made it clear his anger had not subsided, only sharpened.

"You piece of trash, just what exactly are you implying?" Marcel hissed, rage seeping from his every pore.

"Wait, wait, just calm down you two! This isn't the time for-"

Shnk!

A sharp sound cut off Watson's rebuttal. The injured agent slowly creaked his neck around, only to bear witness to Cyril now standing upright, his right arm firmly clutching the hilt of the mithril blade he had just freed from the ground.

Cyril was furious, but he hadn't completely lost himself to rage—instead of his knee, his foot pressed down hard against Victor's chest, deliberate and unrelenting.

"Watson, step back a bit." he muttered offhandedly, not even bothering to spare the man a glance.

Watson could sense the pressure slowly building up within Cyril's body, and as if on instinct, he obeyed and walked back a few paces.

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