Cameraman Never Dies

Seraphis was hammering her desk, and by hammering, it was the sort of banging that made her ink pot jiggle like it was debating whether to stay or make a run for it. Her disciple— clearly operating on some chaotic wavelength— had left her something to puzzle over.

And boy, did it need puzzling. The principle he had dumped in her unsuspecting hands was, frankly, a bizarre piece of work. It had more unfinished plots than a ten-season series that got canceled mid-run. But— against all odds— it somehow worked. Sort of. Like a rickety contraption that technically didn't break apart… yet.

"Nihility, was it?" she muttered, squinting at the parchment like it owed her money. Judge, in his usual cryptic manner (She still wonders where he got that cryptic habit from), had said the principle was created by some genius who, in their later years, had gone completely bananas.

The diary he'd stumbled upon apparently painted a vivid picture: the poor guy's descent into madness was scribbled between diagrams, doodles of cats, and what Judge swore was a recipe for exploding soup.

Of course, Judge, being Judge, had bought into the story. He was utterly convinced the principle was complete. That is, until he finally started grasping how principles actually worked. And let's just say, once the realization hit, it was like watching someone realize they've been wearing their shirt backward all day.

Seraphis, now fully invested in dissecting this cosmic joke of a principle, grabbed her pen like it was a sword and declared war on the parchment. "Alright, first off, this whole section? Garbage. Unstable garbage. Who writes this? A poet on caffeine? No, I should not insult poets." She slashed through a paragraph so long and convoluted it could've doubled as a legal disclaimer.

Satisfied with her initial attack, she flicked the ruined page aside with the flair of a diva tossing her scarf. Then came the real fun. With a fresh sheet of paper and a gleam in her eye that screamed mad scientist vibes, she began jotting down what could generously be called "ideas." These ideas ranged from half-formed sentences to chaotic doodles that could've been anything from theoretical diagrams to avant-garde art.

Not done yet, she grabbed yet another sheet— her "theory" paper. This one was special. It was where she scribbled the big, wild, unhinged stuff. Circles, arrows, question marks, and a suspicious number of exclamation points filled the page. At some point, she paused, added a frowny face, and muttered, "Yep, that sums it up." when in fact, she had barely scratched the surface.

Her desk? Absolute battlefield vibes now. Crumpled papers littered the surface like fallen soldiers. She leaned back in her chair, stretched with a groan, and smirked. "If this principle doesn't kill me, the sheer comedy of this mess might."

———

Victor, the supposed mastermind of the assassin's guild— a man who fancied himself as a mix of philosopher, schemer, and fashion icon with that weird triangular hat— was currently doing something he despised— riding in a carriage over a road that felt more like a collection of holes held together by dirt.

It wasn't enough that the horses pulling the thing were spectral and cool (a perk of being in his line of work), but the paved road (Yes it was paved, can you believe that?) still managed to ruin the vibe with every bone-rattling bump.

Who even let roads get this bad? Did the city council just collectively decide, "You know what, assassins can deal with potholes. They're trained for it"?

Victor leaned against the carriage window, pretending to enjoy the scenery. Trees zipped past in a way that would've been soothing if he wasn't constantly jolted by every minor pebble the wheels hit.

Eventually, the trees thinned out, giving way to an expanse of rolling hills and flowers in colors so vibrant it was like nature was showing off.

"Look at me!" the flowers screamed. "Aren't I pretty? Forget your rotting people problems!" Victor glared at them. He didn't do pretty. Pretty was for poets and birdwatchers, not for a guy who could make bread mold look like a tactical weapon.

Still, he couldn't entirely focus on the flowers, as distracting as they were. He had bigger problems.

The biggest of which was his current destination: a meeting with Noel, the shapeshifter extraordinaire and, frankly, the wild card of his assassin squad.

Noel was loyal to Victor and Master Thadd, but loyalty from a person who controls shadows came with about as much reassurance as a smile from a shark. You never really knew what they were thinking— or who they were pretending to be.

And don't even get started on Noel's habit of disappearing mid-conversation. One minute he'd be there, nodding politely, and the next, he'd be near a coat rack. A coat rack!

Victor ran a hand through his hair, then adjusted his hat, the triangular brim casting a dramatic shadow over his eyes. He tried to calm himself down by going over the details of the mission.

They were supposed to meet in a room rebooked for a week later at some no-name hotel (Room 2098, because assassins apparently needed numbers so specific they could double as lottery tickets, and the hotel's name was Viarra... yeah).

Noel would be there first— standard protocol to let the shadow domain creator scope out any funny business. Victor would arrive shortly after, armed with the most ridiculous knock pattern anyone had ever devised.

Three quick knocks. One heavy knock in between them right after the second knock. Two heavy knocks. Four light taps.

And then the piece de resistance: calling out, "Stern, it is me, Selor." Who came up with this stuff? (spoiler: it was Victor). Noel probably thought it was hilarious. Victor, meanwhile, thought it made him sound like an actor in a bad play.

(A/N: the piece de resistance is just a saying in French, meaning the most important feature)

And the password exchange? Oh, that was even worse. Once inside, Noel was supposed to say, "What did you find at the night illuminated by the moon?" To which Victor would reply— brace yourself— "You fell in love with a strong man, and you married that guy. I can't believe you're gay. But I support all kinds of love, my friend."

Who writes this stuff? (Again, it was solely made by Victor). Victor had half a mind to skip the line altogether, but Noel would probably see that as an assassination-worthy offense. Assassins were weirdly picky about their inside jokes.

Speaking of which, that line wasn't even true! Noel didn't marry a man; his wife, Isadora Rivet, was a woman. A real, flesh-and-blood woman with no shapeshifting tendencies whatsoever.

But apparently, humor was a vital part of assassin communication. Nothing said "trustworthy" like awkwardly joking about someone's love life while a sword was pointed at your throat.

Because, yes, Noel's follow-up to the password exchange was to draw a blade and press it within an inch of Victor's neck. If Victor didn't immediately drop to his knees and beg for mercy like some bad street performer, the deal was off. Why couldn't they just shake hands like normal people?

The carriage jolted again, snapping Victor out of his thoughts. Something felt… odd. The air had shifted, or was it the ether, or maybe the flowers were plotting something sinister.

He leaned out the window, half-expecting to see a bird of prey swooping in to deliver a message. Instead, he got a big fat nothing— just more hills, more flowers, and an unsettling silence.

And then, out of absolutely nowhere, he wasn't alone. Across from him, where no one had been moments before, a man now sat.

Not just any man— a man with white hair, dressed in a black cloak with a white mask so unnervingly cheerful it looked like it had been designed to haunt children's dreams.@@novelbin@@

The mask had dark, hollow eyes and a grin that practically screamed, "I know all your secrets, and I've got time to ruin your day."

Victor's heart skipped several beats, each one feeling like it might be his last. Who was this guy? How did he get here? And why did he have the aura of someone who could make grown men cry for fun?

The man leaned back, one arm propped casually on the carriage window, like he had all the time in the world. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth but cold enough to send shivers down Victor's spine.

"Oh… you seem worried," the man said, his words dripping with amusement. "May I know what you're thinking? If it's about escaping, don't bother. I'm only here to talk."

Victor's mouth went dry. "Who are you?" he asked, clutching his triangular hat like it was a security blanket. His instincts screamed at him to do something— anything, maybe take out that damn gun in his jacket— but his brain had officially checked out, probably hiding under a metaphorical bed somewhere. Explore more adventures at My Virtual Library Empire

The man tilted his head, the motion was both curious and predatory. "Ah! Apologies for the discourtesy. Let me properly introduce myself," he said, pausing just long enough to make Victor sweat. "You may call me… Lucifer."