Chapter 1
Prologue
Do you have any last words?
At the sound of that voice, the man gently opened his eyes.
What came into view was a stark, soundless room devoid of windows. As he observed his surroundings, numerous vacant stares were directed his way. They dug into him, much like the handcuffs on his wrists.
And right in front of him stood the infamous thirteen steps. The rope, more worn and ragged than those in movies, was tied into a noose. It seemed to be eagerly awaiting the man's arrival.
This wasn't just a feeling; it was waiting—because soon, at that very spot, the man's life would come to an end.
. . . What's so funny, you bastard?
The prison officer standing at his side shot him a sharp glance.
Unbeknownst to the man, he had been smiling unconsciously.
He shook his head quietly, composing himself as he resolved to answer the guard's question honestly.
However, upon reflection, composing his final words was difficult.
He had lived doing as he pleased; it had been a thoroughly satisfying life.
Despite his origins as an orphan, a social underdog, he never hesitated to employ any means necessary in his continuous pursuit of freedom. He gathered allies from similar backgrounds, either eliminating or using obstructive authorities, securing an unshakeable position in the underworld. Eventually, he found himself part of an organization known as the Mafia, and spent countless years among their ranks.
Glancing at his aged hands, he realized—everything in this world was within his grasp.
He’d amassed enormous wealth. Lain with countless women. He was revered more than any historical figure of the past.
It seemed like a truly fulfilling life. Even now, as he stood before his final curtain call, it was just another part of his plan. His death was merely a ritual of succession he had orchestrated.
Even after his death, his power would be seamlessly transferred to his beloved family. A new evil would be born from his death, seamlessly inheriting control of this world from the shadows.
Thus, the man felt no regret about his life coming to an end; only satisfaction with how he'd lived.
So, he had no particular last words to share—yet the prison officer before him appeared to be dissatisfied.
The guard glared at him as the man spoke with a smile.
Are you displeased? That the villain before you seems content as he faces his end?
. . . What's so funny, you bastard?
I thought so. Villains are always supposed to receive judgement at the end of their stories, aren't they? And their end must be miserable, smeared with regret. That’s the universal moral view you've all decided on, isn't it?
Indeed, the tales that existed in this world were just so.
Not just novels, but many well-known stories among the people were about promoting virtue and punishing vice. They revolved around heroes who defeated evil. The man had always doubted this.
Promoting good and punishing evil was all well and good. He understood that such stories were preferred in general society. He did not even particularly dislike them.
No, he did not dislike them, but at the same time . . .
What a waste.
Hey, you . . . How much are you earning now?
The prison officer's expression turned puzzled at the man's abrupt question.
Well, you don't have to answer. John Brown. Thirty-four years old. Prison officer. In your sixteenth year of service. Wife’s a nurse, two years your junior. Your daughter turns six this year, and both your parents are alive and well. you've got no arrest record. You’re highly regarded at work as a serious and exemplary man. I hear they’ve even started discussing a promotion to chief warden for you this year.
The prison officer—John Brown's—eyes widened in shock.
His face seemed to ask how the man could possibly know that, but to the man, it would be more unnatural not to know.
Why would he think the man wouldn't know about his own overseeing officer? It did not end there, either. He was aware of everything, from the family structures of everyone here to what they ate yesterday. He had multiple collaborators within the prison walls, some even in this very room.
Deputy warden, making roughly four thousand five hundred dollars a month. So, roughly an annual salary of sixty thousand dollars, huh?
. . . What about it?!
The man chuckled lightly at John's agitation.
You studied diligently, graduated from college, worked wisely, abstained from alcohol and women, followed the law for thirty-four years, and finally built up status and wealth. That's what it means to be deputy warden, earning about sixty thousand dollars a year.
. . .
In contrast, I barely went to school, never held a decent job, drank like a fish, and slept with a different woman every night. I kept breaking the law for decades, and in the end, I ended up—
At that point, the man could no longer contain himself; he lifted his face.
As the boss of the world’s largest mafia organization, earning billions of dollars a year. What you make in a year is mere pocket change to me.
The man let out a loud belly laugh, and John was unable to bear it any longer.
Enough!
He pulled a sack over the man’s head.
The man felt a jolt, as though someone had shoved him from behind, and began ascending the stairs.
Listen, John. This world is made for us bad guys; we always end up with the most. It’s just that you don't see it because people like me, the major villains, control everything from behind the scenes.
Shut up!
Doesn't it seem twisted? A man like you, all buttoned up and serious, walking the straight and narrow, makes sixty thousand dollars after a proper career. On the other hand, scum like me, living as I please, ends up with unimaginable wealth. That’s the reality of the world you live in right now.
I said, shut up!