Cameraman Never Dies

Judge and his master strutted out of the railway station like they'd just robbed a candy shop but didn't quite have the nerve to run. The capital stretched out before them, a chaotic mess of architectural ambition and public transportation chaos. The air smelled faintly of coal, horse manure, and that special brand of sweat reserved for people who just missed their trains. Truly, a welcoming aroma.

Seraphis, now disguised as Saphiel— the world's most intimidating mercenary who also happened to be cosplaying as a merc guild big shot— adjusted his coat with the air of someone who had better things to do but somehow still ended up here.

Known far and wide as the "Netherwalker" (a title that sounded like it came from a particularly edgy teenager's diary), Saphiel wasn't just a flame-controlling powerhouse; he was the mercenary guild equivalent of a rock star. Literally, the dude punches rocks and turns them into tiny crumbles that resemble the stars in the night sky... without light pollution.

Meanwhile, Judge was doing his best impression of someone who didn't care what people thought of him— which was, of course, ruined by the fact that he was wearing a plain white mask with an unsettling smile that screamed, 'I'm totally normal, don't look at me.' His black hoodie wasn't helping either.

His current alias, Dorian Caine, had somehow garnered the nickname "Fear's Eye," which was probably just a polite way of saying, "That rookie merc looks like he might snap at any moment." But hey, he was also the lucky apprentice of the Netherwalker, so who's laughing now?

Reflecting on his genius master-plan-turned-accidental-success, Judge couldn't help but feel smug. He'd originally aimed to cozy up to some merc higher-up to deal with the shady assassin gatherings in Limdon— a strategy that was supposed to take forever. Instead, he landed himself a mentor who, shockingly, seemed to actually care about him. Life was weird sometimes.@@novelbin@@

"You know," Judge began, tilting his head as he looked around, "this place smells like progress and poor decisions."

Saphiel side-eyed him. "It's the coal."

"Really? Because I think it's that guy over there," Judge said, pointing to a man who was trying— and failing— to balance six chickens in a single crate. "He looks like he's making all kinds of bad life choices."

"Focus, Dorian," Saphiel muttered. "We have business to handle."

"Right, right. Business. Totally not here to sightsee," Judge replied, though his eyes were clearly darting toward a food stand selling something that looked suspiciously like fried rat on a stick.

They surveyed the bustling scene in front of the station. A line of carriages waited patiently for customers, their ghostly specter-horses swishing tails that didn't even exist. Passengers streamed toward the nearby metro station like ants marching to their queen.

Judge made a beeline for one of the carriages, with Saphiel trailing a step behind, likely taking in the old scenery. The place had an air of nostalgia for her— back when she wasn't Saphiel but just Seraphis, a bright-eyed student at the academy who probably thought life would be plicated to say the least.

Judge's attention was immediately captured by one of the ghostly specter-horses. The creature was in the middle of some bizarre grooming ritual, brushing its back leg with a hoof in a way that made it look like it had just remembered it left the stove on at home.

"What's that horse doing?" Judge asked, stopping in his tracks. He pointed at the specter-horse with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered free Wi-Fi. "Is it just...horsing around? Get it? Because it's a horse!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Saphiel turned to his disciple with a look so tragic, it could have been used as a textbook example of pity. Her face was speaking words that never needed to be spoken, 'That was so bad I'm considering hiring a therapist— for both of us.'

"...No?" Judge asked weakly. "Too much?"

"Dorian," Saphiel said slowly, "You are better than this."

"Am I, though?" Judge replied, scratching the back of his head. "I feel like this is my peak."

"No. Your peak is much lower than this," Saphiel deadpanned. "And for the record, they're specters, not horses."

"Well, at least they're horse-shaped," Judge argued, gesturing dramatically. "And if it looks like a horse and prances like a horse— "

"It's still not a horse," Saphiel cut him off, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying to physically ward off a headache. "Let's just get on with it before someone thinks we're insane."

"Too late," Judge muttered under his breath, but he obediently followed his master toward one of the carriages.

As they climbed in, Judge couldn't help but notice how the interior smelled faintly of cinnamon and despair— a combination he found oddly comforting. "You know," he said as the carriage began to move, "I once read that cinnamon is supposed to ward off evil spirits. Or was it mosquitoes? Either way, it's working."

With a long-suffering sigh that carried the weight of a thousand dad jokes, Saphiel entered a carriage. They were in the capital to meet one of Judge's underlings and another soon-to-be underling, who was already conveniently...under control.

Lucifer and Isadora, the duo in question, had failed to uncover anything about Noel's whereabouts, little did they know that they searching an assassination organization for proof of their missions. Talk about searching for ice cream in a dessert— you would be lucky to find water.

All they found was various cases of experiment results that read more like 'Top 10 Evil Science Projects You Shouldn't Try at Home.' Seriously, it was less hitman, and more mad scientist.

Judge and Saphiel's carriage ride to the northern borough was a quiet affair—mostly because Judge had run out of bad jokes. Forty-seven minutes later (yes, Judge counted), they arrived at a dingy little inn at the edge of civilization. Judge handed the driver 20 nen for his trouble—a generous sum that would probably have the driver recommending him to his colleagues.

Judge was rich, but it was high time he controlled his spending. But the toxic pride of being a Drakonis and a former tycoon did not allow him to hold back when it comes to spending money on the most unnecessary things imaginable.

The inn itself was exactly as unimpressive as Judge had imagined: creaky wooden floors, peeling wallpaper, and a front desk clerk who looked like they hadn't slept since the last lunar eclipse.

Judge knocked on a door marked with three parallel lines after confirming Lucifer was in that room.

Lucifer opened the door almost immediately, his expression a mix of surprise and mild annoyance. "Where's Noel?" he demanded, looking past Judge like the missing person might materialize out of thin air.

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"Nice to see you too," Judge said, stepping inside. "And surprise! I brought my teacher. Aren't you thrilled?"

Lucifer's gaze shifted to Saphiel, who was leaning against the doorframe with the air of someone who really didn't want to be there. "This is Saphiel," Judge added helpfully.

"I know who Saphiel is," Lucifer replied, his tone dripping with skepticism. "But did the Master approve this?"

"Define 'approve,'" Judge said, dodging the question with the skill of a politician at a press conference.

Lucifer sighed, clearly deciding that he didn't have the energy to argue. "Fine. Wait here. I'll get Isadora."

As Lucifer disappeared down the hall, Judge turned to Saphiel with a grin. "See? That went well."

"This is your definition of 'well?'" Saphiel asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sure! No one's dead, no one's yelling, and I haven't been kicked out yet. That's a win in my book."

Saphiel just shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "I need a vacation."

While they waited, Judge wandered around the room, poking at random objects like a bored toddler in a museum. "Hey, is this a lamp or some kind of weapon?" he asked, holding up a strange contraption that looked like it could double as both.

"It's a lamp," Saphiel replied without looking.

"Are you sure? Because it's got this button that— "

"Don't press the button."

Judge pressed the button.

The lamp immediately started whirring and emitting a high-pitched noise that sounded like a banshee having a bad day. Judge frantically pressed the button again, but the noise only got louder.

"Why do you never listen?" Saphiel asked, snatching the lamp from Judge's hands and flipping a switch on the other side to turn it off.

"I was just trying to— "

"Don't."

"Fair enough... I will just, y'know... sit here."

When Lucifer finally returned with Isadora in tow, the two of them were greeted by the sight of Judge sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a mug of tea he'd found somewhere, and Saphiel glaring at him like he was debating whether or not to disown him.

"Am I interrupting something?" Isadora asked, her eyes darting between the two.

"Just a normal day," Saphiel replied dryly.