Vonjo's hands rested lightly on the steering wheel as the van hummed down the cracked streets of the city.

The sun was sinking, casting slanted orange light through the dusty windshield, but his eyes never strayed from the road.

Beside him, Eugene sat stiff and quiet, his hands in his lap, still digesting everything that had happened.

The three-headed frog perched behind them croaked occasionally, its three throats harmonizing in strange, wet ribbits.

The van rattled to a stop in front of the city hospital, a modest building of faded brick and steel, its windows glowing faintly with the sterile light of recovery wards.

Outside, on the curb, George stood with the street sweeper Vonjo had arranged to guard and take care of him earlier.

George looked healthier than before, though his face still held a trace of the trauma he had endured.

Vonjo didn't bother to look at them directly. He tapped the console with his finger, and the van's rear door clicked open with a hydraulic hiss.

George seemed to understand the silent gesture. He murmured a few words to the street sweeper, then stepped toward the van.

As he climbed in, the street sweeper gave Vonjo a crisp salute, his face sincere and respectful.

Vonjo blinked, genuinely caught off guard for the first time in hours. A salute? To him? Slowly, he gave a curt nod in return, his expression somewhere between confused and amused.

The bullet comments erupted instantly, their digital chatter plastered across his mental horizon:

SutterfouseTea: "LMAO the street sweeper saluted him! If only he knew what Vonjo did in that branch!"

NormalHumanLover: "Imagine saluting the guy who just nerfed an entire house of sorcerers to NORMAL HUMANS."

BranchWiped: "Bro's out here turning family elites into NPCs and driving away like nothing happened."

IronicRespect: "Saluting the executioner of your branch… peak comedy."

CasualDoom: "This is why I watch this live. 10/10 content."

Vonjo exhaled through his nose, half-smirking at their audacity, and shifted the van into drive.

The tires rumbled as they rolled off the hospital street, merging into the larger city roads and eventually onto a highway.

The ride was quiet for several minutes, the hum of the engine blending with the soft whir of distant traffic.

The cityscape rolled past in streaks of neon and shadow, broken occasionally by the ominous silhouettes of roaming spiritual beasts perched on rooftops like living gargoyles.

Then, from the back seat, George cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse but firm. "Sir Vonjo… thank you. Truly… for everything." Eugene quickly echoed him, bowing his head slightly even in the cramped van. "Y-yes, sir Vonjo. Thank you."

Vonjo's gaze remained on the road, but his voice was casual, even a touch dismissive. "Don't thank me too much. The House of Sutterfouse… isn't the kind of enemy you underestimate. If they really want to find someone, they can."

He let the words hang in the air like a cloud of smoke before elaborating, his tone low and steady.

"They have watchers posted at key crossroads. Spirit cameras that don't see faces, but souls. Hounds bred to track a single drop of fallen curse energy across half a city. If they decide to hunt, they'll sweep through every alley, every block, every hidden tunnel. Not even a shadow can escape their reach if they fully mobilize."

George and Eugene exchanged uneasy glances, their knuckles tightening on their knees. Neither of them dared to interrupt him. The van's interior felt heavier with every word, as if Vonjo's voice itself carried weight.

"Even those little branches, the ones I… dealt with," he continued, "have protocols. Distress signals, hidden marks. If the main house smells weakness or betrayal, they'll descend like a pack of starving wolves. You've seen a taste of their system." His eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, catching their pale faces. "And you know I don't exaggerate."

He let silence reclaim the van, the only sound the faint ribbit of the three-headed frog and the low hum of the road beneath them.

Only after several long seconds did George finally muster the courage to speak, his words tentative. "We… we will manage, Sir Vonjo. Don't worry for us. We… we'll be fine."

Eugene nodded rapidly in agreement, though his nervous swallow betrayed him. "Y-Yes… we'll keep our heads down."

Vonjo studied their expressions in the mirror, then allowed a faint, knowing smile to curl his lips. Oh… I forgot… the main character's strength, he thought. Not raw just power… but the ability to vanish, to blend, to slip through the cracks where monsters can't follow. Hiding was his expertise.

Understanding it all, he nodded once, firmly. "Good. Then take care."

For a moment, it seemed like the farewell was final. He eased the van toward a quieter district, preparing to let them out. But then, George's voice wavered again.

"Sir… what about you?"

Vonjo raised an eyebrow.

"We know…" George hesitated, exchanging a quick look with Eugene. "…we know you don't want to be tied to the House of Sutterfouse. But if they try to find you… how will you escape?"

Vonjo chuckled, low and confident. "Don't worry about me. I've read the game these people play. I can cheat the board whenever I want." In his head, he was almost laughing—this was a novel world, and he had overpowered abilities now. Avoiding their net was nothing.

But George didn't relax. His hand trembled for a second before he reached into a worn leather bag. Vonjo caught the motion in the van's mirror, his eyes narrowing.

"…What is that?" he asked, suspicion sharpening his tone.

George slowly pulled something into view—a simple, almost unremarkable headband. Its fabric was a muted gray, and its center bore a faintly glimmering sigil that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Vonjo's eyes lit with interest.

George met his gaze in the mirror and said quietly, "Our invention."

Vonjo stared at the headband in George's weathered hands, the faint pulse of the sigil reflecting in his eyes like a heartbeat in the dark.

Invention? he thought, his mind racing.

Of course… Eugene and George come from that diluted branch of the fallen curse creators, the artisans.

Their bloodline isn't about destruction—it's about construction, trickery, craft. And Eugene's own RPG-game bloodline ability… tch, how did I not consider that earlier?

Still, he let his face remain neutral, feigning ignorance. "What is this supposed to be?" His tone was casual, curious, though his senses were sharp and hungry for every detail.

George's lips pressed together for a moment before he began to explain.

"This… is a Null Sigil Headband," he said slowly, as though savoring the weight of his own invention. "A craft born from the last vestiges of our bloodline talent. It doesn't attack, it doesn't defend… but it erases."

Vonjo tilted his head, and George, perhaps encouraged by his attention, continued.

"It erases your presence—not by illusion or invisibility—but by masking your existence in the currents of fallen curse energy itself. Every living being here, human or beast, radiates a subtle curse resonance since we descended into hell. The House of Sutterfouse and its spirit beasts detect people by these fluctuations. This headband… nullifies that resonance. It tells the world: You are not here."

Vonjo's eyes gleamed with interest, and he leaned slightly forward in his seat.