The Boss Returns

The manor loomed ahead—bigger than Nathan had pictured. Not just a house. A fortress. Tall windows burned with light, banners sagged heavy from the eaves, and lines of guards stood along the walls, unmoving, like part of the stone itself.

Exterior lights that weren’t torchlight but lanterns glowed sharper than fire, colder than torches—almost electric—too clean, too strange. Nathan’s stomach flipped. They reminded him of the fantasy flashlight he’d first seen in the dungeon.

Ronan moved first, grim as ever, gesturing him forward. Nathan had no choice but to walk the gauntlet. However many men there actually were—dozens, maybe forty—it felt like twice that number. Every stare drilled into his back as his boots echoed far too loud.

At his shoulder, Ronan rumbled, “The men will want words soon, Boss.”

Nathan nodded too quickly, as if it were the most natural thing.

And Ronan meant now. Words now. Oh.

Nathan turned back toward the crowd, cleared his throat. “You are… dismissed.”

“Yes, Boss!”

He figured he was supposed to say more, judging by a few raised brows. Panic bubbled. He added, “Uh… carry on.”

The words hung in the cold night air. A few men exchanged confused looks. One even tilted his head like a hound catching a sound only it understood.

Nathan’s ears burned. Fantastic.

The formation fractured. Dozens of men slipped away without a word, melting into side halls like shadows.

The rest—twelve now—fell in behind him, close enough that their presence pressed hot at his back. Mason’s top brass, if he had to guess. Every one of them radiated the kind of menace that said they’d killed for less.

Well. This is fun.

Nathan risked a glance around as they walked. His gaze snagged on a row of bunkhouses across the courtyard—armor on pegs, blades stacked like firewood, shields glinting in the dark. Soldiers lived here. Mercenaries. Killers.

This wasn’t just Mason’s residence—it was a fortress sprawling across an estate. Barracks and training grounds stretched beyond, buildings rising like teeth around the heart of it all. Not a home. A headquarters. A machine of war.

How many people lived here?

Nathan’s gut lurched. All of these people answer to me now. To Mason.

He drew a hard breath. I’m in way too deep.

The threshold swallowed him whole. Inside, the scale hit harder—hallways big enough to fit his apartment several times over, ceilings lost in shadow. Mercenaries clattered down stairwells while servants hurried past with trays. The same cold lanternlight burned inside as outside—steady, unnatural. No torches at all. A sharp contrast to the Guild Hall’s dripping wax chandeliers and guttering torches, warm but unreliable.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nathan caught sight of Dane and two others slipping down a side hall. A low whisper drifted back—Dane’s voice, sharp enough to catch one word: Erich. A familiar face in the blur of strangers, but not among the twelve who shadowed his every step.

Ronan tilted his head toward a corridor paneled in dark wood. “Dining room.”

Nathan’s pulse hammered as he marched deeper, twelve killers at his back. The corridor narrowed, stone arching high overhead. Don’t run. Running is prey behavior.

The double doors ahead groaned open on hinges thick as a drawbridge. Heat and light poured out, carrying the smell of roasted meat.

The dining room stretched cavernous, more a hall than a room. A table ran down its length, broad enough to host a battle. High-backed chairs loomed like thrones for warlords.

Ronan pulled a chair out at the head of the table.

Nathan hesitated. Every instinct screamed don’t sit—because sitting meant owning it.

But his legs folded anyway. He dropped into the chair, stiff and awkward, the wood biting his shoulders with judgment.

The men didn’t sit. They ringed the walls instead, twelve mercenaries—waiting, expectant, testing, watching him breathe.

Nathan cleared his throat. “…So. Dinner?”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting. Thick as smoke.

Nathan’s stomach chose that moment to rumble like a dying whale—so loud Ronan shot him a side-eye.

He squared his shoulders, dredged up every scrap of acting talent he could muster, and dropped his voice low, rough, dangerous—the Mason-growl he’d been practicing since the Guild Hall.

“Bring the food,” he said, slow and deliberate. “Now.”

The words rolled heavier than he expected, echoing off stone. A few men flinched.

Nathan blinked. Holy crap. It worked.

One merc bolted for the side door like he’d just been released from execution. The rest lowered their eyes, tension loosening.

Nathan leaned back, fighting the urge to fist-pump. Instead, he smirked the way Mason might have. “And beer,” he added. “Strong. I won’t settle for water.”

Ronan’s face didn’t change, but something flickered—approval, maybe.

Nathan exhaled slowly through his nose. Inside, his thoughts screamed: God bless community theater.

The silence dragged, still thick. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He crooked a finger at Ronan.

The big man stepped closer.

Nathan dropped his voice. “Do they all have to stand there once the food and beer come? Are they not going to sit?”

Ronan’s brow ticked, almost amused. “They wait for you, Boss. Always.”

Nathan’s stomach dropped. Oh no. They’re going to watch me chew.

The side doors banged open. A stout man—Erich, apparently—with sleeves rolled up to the elbows marched in, carrying trays that steamed with roasted meat, bread, and something blessedly soupy.

He barked orders at the serving boys, who scrambled to lay dish after dish across the warlord’s table. Platters gleamed with grease and gravy, the lanternlight cast a cold sheen across the spread. A cauldron of stew landed close enough Nathan felt the heat kiss his face.

A serving boy placed a large mug of beer in front of him, too.

Nathan’s stomach howled again—loud enough to echo.

The silence snapped. Half the men shifted, shoulders twitching with the effort not to laugh.

Nathan grabbed the nearest platter and started piling his plate like he hadn’t eaten in—no, not days. He hadn’t eaten since his grandparents’ table the night before. Just one day ago.

His chest tightened—has it really only been a day? Seoul already felt like a half-remembered dream, washed away by blood and stone and the suffocating dread that none of this was temporary.

He tore a hunk of bread in half, dunked it in stew, and shoved it in his mouth before he remembered the audience.

The mercenaries stood at attention, watching him eat like acolytes at a temple.

He chewed, swallowed, cleared his throat. “…Good.”

Erich arched a bushy eyebrow, waiting.

“…Very good,” Nathan corrected quickly, pointing with the bread. “Best I’ve ever had.”

The cook grunted, arms folding across his chest, but a faint smirk cracked his face before he turned away.

Nathan nearly sagged in relief. Survived dinner. Achievement unlocked.

Nathan leaned back in the massive chair, men watching from the walls like gargoyles. He lifted the mug of beer like it was holy communion.

Then he caught sight of his hands—Mason’s hands—still caked with dried blood. His clothes reeked. His hair clung in sticky strands to his forehead. And everyone was still staring.

He groaned inwardly. Now, please. A bath.

He set the mug down with deliberate weight, fixing Ronan with the hardest glare he could manage.

“Have the baths prepared,” he growled. “I’ll go after.”

Ronan inclined his head. “Yes, Boss.”

The mercenaries echoed in unison: “Yes, Boss.”

Nathan sagged back in his chair, half-relieved, half-miserable. Forget dungeons, forget wars. Just… food and baths.

Ronan gestured toward a side corridor. “This way.”

Nathan followed, braced for another hall of shadows. Instead, the doors opened on a chamber hazed with steam. Heat rolled over him, scented faintly of minerals and soap.

Finally.

He let himself sink into the water until his skin stung, scrubbing at blood that felt fused to him. He didn’t linger—too many eyes in the halls, too many whispers waiting for weakness.

Ronan waited outside, stone-faced as always. When Nathan emerged clean and raw, a fresh tunic and trousers were already laid out, folded with military precision.

“Your chambers, Boss,” Ronan said, gesturing him down another corridor.

Nathan followed, still half-expecting to be led to some barracks cot. Instead, Ronan opened a heavy door into a suite large enough to house a family of five.

Nathan froze.

The room was spotless. Not just clean—disciplined. Shelves lined one wall, stacked with tomes bound in cracked leather and notes penned in neat, angular script. A single desk, ink and parchment squared to exact angles. No trinkets. No mess. Just books, scrolls, and order. The light pooled cold across the desk, catching the edges of steel-nib pens and glass inkwells.

The bed was made with military precision. Blank walls, save for one rack of weapons gleaming in the lanternlight. No paintings. No trophies. Not even a discarded cloak to hint at the man who lived here.

Nathan stepped in gingerly, almost afraid he’d stain the air just by breathing. His stomach sank.

This isn’t a room someone lives in. This is a room someone sharpens themselves in—like a blade left sheathed until drawn for war.

His hand drifted along the spines of the books. The titles crawled in a language he couldn’t read. Mage stuff, no doubt. Of course Mason’s room would be filled with wizard homework.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders heavy.

This guy’s entire personality is neat handwriting and homicide.

Behind him, Ronan lingered a moment in the doorway—watchful, unreadable—before shutting it with a soft thud. The sound felt final, like the lock turning on a cell.

Nathan sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm, unyielding—like Mason couldn’t even allow himself comfort while he slept. He rubbed a hand over his face.

I don’t belong here.

The thought hung in the pristine air, unheard.

Nathan dragged a hand down his face, then let his eyes drift to the desk. Books waited there, stacked in grim order, spines cracked with use. One had been left open, a sketch stretched across its page—something hunched and fanged, too many teeth to count.

He leaned closer. The script crawled like runes, but his mind caught it anyway. Bestiary Log.

Nathan blinked. He could read this. A language he’d never seen in his life, yet the words slotted neatly into place. His chest tightened. Great. Magic Rosetta Stone installed. Thanks, ritual.

He flipped to the first entry. Orc. Tusks, pig snout, bulk. Familiar, at least. Relief trickled through him. Okay. Starter pack. At least I know these guys.

Each new page twisted his stomach tighter. A moth with a human face, wings spread wide as a doorway. A vine choking a horse, rows of teeth where flowers should be. Fleshmoth. Dreadvine. Ashwraith.

Why does every name sound like a death metal band? Where are my harmless slimes?!

Another word snagged his eye below each entry: Mana type. He flipped back. Orcs and goblins—Physical type.

A shaky laugh escaped him. Maybe it actually is good I ran into them first.

The sound came out too sharp, bouncing off the pristine walls. Since when is running into goblins and orcs a good thing?

But compared to the nightmares inked across these pages, they were kiddie pool material.

He snapped the book shut. “Enough of that.”

The bed creaked as he slid onto it. Firm. Military tight. He stared at the ceiling, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. Tomorrow, he’d deal with Ronan, Dane, the mercenaries. Tomorrow, he’d figure out how deep Mason’s mess really went.

Scratch that. I’ve been in way over my head.

His eyes sank shut, the silence pressing close. The last thought that slipped through as sleep dragged him under was almost a prayer:

Can I go home?

Ronan closed the chamber door behind him, the thud low and final. He had stood guard outside that room a hundred nights before, but tonight he didn’t linger. He needed sleep too, though rest came harder these days.

He nodded to the guard on duty and made his way toward his own quarters, the silence pressing stranger than steel. Inside, the Boss slept. Or something wearing his face did.

The change hadn’t begun tonight—it had started the moment they found him in the dungeon tunnel. Since then, Ronan had seen it again and again: hesitation where there had never been any, a voice unsteady, eyes darting like a boy cornered.

He knew the real Mason. He had followed him through fire and ruin, through deeds he would never name aloud. Mason had always been sharp, decisive, cruel when he had to be. Never uncertain. Always the predator.

What stood in his place now was something else. Something uncertain. Something… unfinished.

Ronan drew a long breath, heavy in the stillness. Not Mason. Not anymore.

And if this new Boss lacked footing, then Ronan would steady him. Keep the men in line. Keep suspicion quiet. Make sure he survived long enough to prove himself.

He turned down the corridor, boots echoing through a fortress that never truly slept.

A knock rattled the heavy door.

Nathan jolted awake, heart thumping. For one wild second he thought he was back in his apartment, late for class, alarm buzzing. Then the stone ceiling and weapons rack registered. Right. Mason’s murder-fortress.

“Boss,” a voice called through the wood. “Breakfast is ready.”

Nathan groaned into the pillow. Fantastic. Another round of fine dining with my murder choir.

He rolled onto his back, every muscle stiff from a mattress that felt like it had been stuffed with bricks. His eyes drifted to the desk. The Bestiary sat closed, innocently waiting. He shoved the memory away and swung his legs out of bed.

When he pulled open the door, Ronan was waiting, looming like a stone pillar. Dane hovered a step behind, fiddling with the strap of his gauntlet. Both looked far too awake.

“Morning, Boss,” Dane offered, voice careful.

Nathan scrubbed at his face. “Yeah. Morning. So, uh… let me guess. Big table, twenty guys standing around, me chewing bread like a hostage again?”

Dane blinked. Ronan’s mouth might’ve twitched, or maybe Nathan imagined it.

“Tradition,” Ronan rumbled. “The men watch until you finish.”

Nathan sighed. Of course it’s tradition. Murder-fortress tradition.

“Great,” he muttered. Breakfast with an audience. My favorite.

Except when they reached the dining hall, the long table sat half-empty. Platters were laid out, steam curling from bread and stew, but only a handful of servants lingered along the walls. No mercenaries glaring like gargoyles.

Nathan paused mid-step. “…Where is everybody?”

“At the training grounds,” Ronan said simply, pulling out the same chair as the night before.

Relief crashed over him like hot coffee. Bless you, training grounds. Anything but another round of eyes on me.

Nathan dropped into the chair, grabbed a hunk of bread, and tore into it before anyone could change their mind. For once, no choir of killers watching him chew. Just food. Just quiet.

He made a mental note: add “ban on dinner spectators” to his list of executive orders.

For five whole minutes, it almost felt normal.

He barely finished when Ronan’s shadow fell over him.

“Boss. The men will expect you at drills.”

Nathan froze with half a crust still in his hand. “Drills?”

His stomach sank.

Ronan inclined his head. “Steel dulls if it isn’t tested. The men sharpen themselves every day. They’ll want to see you there.”

Of course it did. Nathan forced the bread down, wiped his hands, and pushed to his feet. “Lead the way.”

Ronan led the way, striding through the fortress with the kind of calm that made everything feel under control. Nathan followed, pulse climbing with every step, until the sound of steel and shouted orders rolled toward them like thunder.

The passage opened onto the training grounds—scarred dirt rings packed with mercenaries drilling in perfect rhythm. Blades clanged, bows snapped, orders barked. Nathan slowed at the sight. This wasn’t practice. It was war rehearsed daily.

And the weapons—God. They weren’t normal steel. A greatsword burned along its edge like it had been forged from fire. A spearhead flared whenever it struck, sparks bursting as if the earth itself recoiled. Arrows loosed from rune-etched bows left trails of light, glowing until they thudded into the dummies. Even axes shimmered faintly, ripples of frost clinging to their blades.

Nathan’s chest tightened. Actual magic weapons. These guys swung them like hammers or kitchen knives—ordinary tools. His mouth went dry. Holy crap. Real magic weapons.

Dane broke off from a sparring circle, sweat dripping down his temple, tunic clinging to his frame. He grabbed a cloth from a post, wiped his brow, then spotted Nathan. His grin was quick, almost friendly, though his posture stayed formal.

“Boss.”

Nathan raised a hand in a half-wave. “Dane. Working hard, huh?”

“Always.” Dane slung the cloth over his shoulder and stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that the clash of steel half-covered it. “I saw what you did. In the dungeon. With the orc. You didn’t burn it or tear it apart with glyphs—like usual. You just—” he mimed a single downward strike, respectful awe in his tone, “one clean blow. Skull crushed. Never seen you take something down with only a sword.”

Nathan forced a crooked smile. “Guess I felt like mixing it up.”

Dane inclined his head slightly. “And you conceal it well. Same way you do with your mana—nobody ever sees the work until it’s already too late. That’s why you’re the Boss.”

He straightened, posture crisp. “Good to have your eyes on the men. They’ll train twice as hard knowing you’re watching.”

With that, he gave another respectful nod and turned back toward the sparring circle.

Nathan’s smile stayed frozen as Dane walked away. Concealing it. His mana.

Except he wasn’t concealing anything. He didn’t have anything to conceal.

The clang of steel filled his ears as he stared at the mercenaries drilling, every strike blazing with elemental power, every rune sparking to life. His chest tightened.

Mana. If Mason had it—if everyone expected him to have it—why couldn’t he feel a spark? Why couldn’t he use any of it?

Guild Hall — Guildmaster’s Office

The office stank of ink and old parchment. Kieran stood stiff before the Guildmaster’s desk, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Taron leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“Why haven’t you sent anyone to bring them home?” Kieran demanded. “Three of mine. Five of his. Left in that chamber like they were nothing.”

The Guildmaster set aside his quill with deliberate calm. “I did send a team. Scouts. They reported heightened monster activity near the ritual site—packs moving together, more than usual. To push deeper now would’ve risked more men.”

Kieran’s hands curled into fists. “So you pull them out and call it finished? You tell their families their sons were abandoned because the Guild lost its nerve?”

Taron’s voice cut in, quiet but sharp. “And because Mason walked away while eight others didn’t.” His gaze flicked to the Guildmaster, distrust sharpening every word.

Silence pressed between them. Finally the Guildmaster folded his hands. “There will be retrieval. After the next expedition. With proper strength to clear the way. And the chamber will be investigated properly. Mason’s ritual left too many questions.”

Kieran’s glare didn’t ease. “Move faster. Every day we wait, the trail goes cold. And the more Mason walks free, the more I want to know what really happened down there.”

The Guildmaster’s gaze hardened. “Which is exactly why he’ll remain under closer watch. If Mason thinks the Guild isn’t looking, he’ll show us what he’s hiding.”

Kieran’s jaw set as he turned for the door. If the Guild dragged its feet, he’d find the truth himself.