Chapter Seven: Sleepless Tonight

Vaelen still found it hard to believe.

He couldn't help but glance at Anya’s face again, even though he knew she was incapable of lying. She was his most prized disciple—as cold and precise as a machine, possessing no thoughts or desires other than the execution of orders. Yet, he still…

"I need to make a call," he finally said.

"Feel free." Ethan understood what he meant and did not stop him.

The news of Joann’s assassination must already be sweeping through the underworld of Winster like a storm, just as it had when his father was killed. By tomorrow morning, everyone would know that the last heir of the Poppleta family had returned, bringing with him blood and fire.

Ethan strolled through the converted shooting range, feeling at ease. Thanks to the knowledge granted by the "Name," he was well aware of how professionally this facility had been constructed. He noticed the walls, illuminated by hanging oil lamps, were lined with all manner of firearms. It was, in essence, a small armory.

"Anya, do you know what a 'Name' is?" Anya was someone he could trust.

"A 'Name'?" Anya looked slightly bewildered, but then, as if realizing something, she nodded. "I’ve heard of them, though I don’t know much. Master, have you inherited Al’s Name?"

"Tell me about it later." Ethan didn't answer directly.

He continued examining the guns on the wall and quickly spotted a problem. There were rifles and handguns, but none of the submachine guns he was familiar with. He traced the knowledge granted by his own Name, but found no information regarding such weapons.

Could it be that this world hadn't invented submachine guns yet?

Footsteps echoed—Vaelen had returned. He was practically running, clearly in a state of extreme agitation.

"Young Master! Master Ethan!" he shouted as soon as he descended the stairs. "You actually killed Joann! That son of a bitch! How did you do it?"

His face was flushed, appearing as if he were drunk under the dim lights of the wine cellar.

"Because I have inherited the family’s Name."

Ethan slowly raised his left hand, revealing the crest on his ring finger, wrapped in dark mud and thorns. Upon seeing the mark, Vaelen stopped, his expression turning solemn and grave. He smoothed his hair, adjusted his collar, and then approached Ethan with a slow, humble gait.

He took Ethan’s left hand and bowed to kiss the crest. It was an ancient mafia tradition; if one wished to pledge loyalty to the head of a family, they would kiss the family crest to signify submission.

"Are you willing to offer me your loyalty and your lifeblood, Vaelen?"

"I am, my lord."

"Very good."

For a fleeting moment, Ethan felt his "Name of the True God" stir slightly, as if it had consumed and digested something, growing a fraction stronger.

The assassination of Joann was like a gale that swept through everyone’s hearts, and it firmly established Ethan’s position as the head of the Poppleta family beyond any doubt. Even without that crest, Vaelen would have kissed his hand willingly.

"Young Master, what is our next move? Including myself, there are seventeen men at Vaelen’s Tavern. I trained them all myself; they are skilled and their marksmanship is excellent. Should we strike while the iron is hot and raid the Cabrea stronghold?"

Vaelen’s face was flushed red as if from strong liquor, his passion that of a young man, yet his attitude remained deeply respectful.

"No, Vaelen, don't rush. I need more intelligence on the Cabreas. After Joann’s death, who will take his place? Fred?" Ethan had been here too short a time; his information was severely lacking.

"Fred—that damn traitor!" Vaelen spat the name with grinding teeth. "He’s strong, but he doesn't carry the Cabrea name. Joann has a younger brother, Palon; he should be the successor. But Palon is a wastrel obsessed with wine and women. The Cabreas have only been rising for a decade and lack deep foundations. Fred has already taken many of their elites with him; I fear he will end up usurping the family."

Vaelen fell silent. After a moment, he added, "Young Master, Joann was killed only tonight; the Cabreas will surely be on high alert. Perhaps I should go notify the other family heads, hold a meeting through the night, and gather our forces before we strike."

"No," Ethan shook his head. "We do it tonight. Vaelen, you said your men are capable and excellent shots. Are they willing to die for the family?"

"Of course." Vaelen puffed out his chest, his hunched back seeming to straighten. "They are ready to give their lives for Poppleta at any moment. In fact, we had already planned to do so tonight."

"Good. We leave in fifteen minutes." Ethan glanced at Anya. "Anya, go in my name and notify all the family heads. A meeting at the company, tomorrow morning at nine."

The Poppleta family had legitimate business interests, the Poppleta Venture Capital Company being one of them.

Upon hearing the order, Vaelen paused, deep in thought, before turning to leave quickly.

Fifteen minutes later, Ethan was sitting in the back of the Klaus sedan. Anya was driving; they were alone, while Vaelen and the others followed in separate cars, heading toward the Cabrea stronghold.

"Now, tell me about the 'Name'," Ethan said, watching the night sky, which had not yet faded into true darkness.

His heart was calm—incredibly calm. If someone had told him a day ago that he would risk killing a man one night and then launch another raid the next, fully aware that the enemy would be prepared, he would have thought it a fairy tale.

Yet, he was living that fairy tale now.

He didn't know if it was the influence of the power he had acquired, or if this was simply who he was all along, just undiscovered until now. Aside from the initial pounding of his heart, he had fully adapted to this dark, bloodthirsty life, and perhaps even found it a little intoxicating.

Closing his eyes, he could smell the heavy scent of alcohol in the air. The singing, laughter, weeping, and shouting drifting from afar sounded clearer than ever. Perhaps because Prohibition was starting tomorrow, people were too reluctant to part with the god of wine, choosing to revel through the night to keep the darkness from lifting.

"A Name… actually, it should be called a 'True Name'," Anya said, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. "People of the Old Continent call it a 'Gift from the Gods' or 'Divine Grace.' Those in the New Continent either loathe and fear it, calling it witchcraft or demonic, or they are obsessed with it, calling it a 'True Name,' a 'Name of Reality,' or a 'Primordial Name.' To possess it is to see the truth of the world."