Power Thief's Revenge [BL]-Chapter 162: Revelations

Chapter 162: Revelations
The silence after Raphael’s question hung heavier than the piano’s last note.
Hermes sat rigid in the chair, arms crossed so tight his muscles ached, his pulse still pounding from the way Eirwyn’s name had detonated in the air.
He wanted to demand answers immediately, to shake them out of Raphael if he had to. But the golden boy didn’t rush. He only leaned back in his seat, posture flawless, like a professor about to deliver a lecture.
And deliver he did.
"The Thirteen Stripes," Raphael began, voice low but steady, "is not a myth. They’re real, Hermes. A body of power users carefully positioned throughout the world. In governments. In courts. In industries where visibility makes them untouchable."
He added: "They are surgeons and generals, journalists and senators. They are... heroes. The kind that live on magazine covers, their images plastered on billboards, their names sung in stadiums. They are everywhere and nowhere, tied together not by uniform or bloodline, but by secrecy."
Hermes’s fingers twitched against his arm. He’d heard rumors before of something like that. Just whispers, half-mad conspiracy theories in underground forums.
But Raphael’s delivery was too sharp, too calm, too knowing to be dismissed.
"Why?" Hermes asked before he could stop himself. "Why would they even exist?"
Raphael’s smile carried that maddening serenity. "To guard balance. To watch over the state. To ensure those without powers—the Normans—retain the illusion of control."
Hermes blinked. "Normans..."
His memory flickered back to the dullest history lessons of high school, the kind he’d nearly slept through. "The Norman Law."
Raphael inclined his head. "The very same."
Hermes remembered: the amendment drafted after the chaos of the first powered wars, when the public demanded safeguards against tyranny by those stronger than tanks and harder than bullets. The law carved into the Constitution that no one above a D-class ranking could hold federal office.
The justification had been simple—"a Normal Man for normal people." Hence, Normans.
It had always sounded patronizing to him. Backward. Like shackling the capable because of the weak.
But it was law, and the world had twisted itself around it. Every president since had been Norman. Every secretary, every governor above a certain clearance level. All Norman.
Hermes leaned forward, jaw tight. "So what you’re saying is, the Thirteen Stripes is a direct violation of that law."
"Of course." Raphael’s agreement came too easily. "That is the entire point. The Stripes is what allows the illusion to persist. On the surface, a Norman president governs. Behind her? Someone with abilities, ensuring he makes the right choices. Not controlling. Merely supervising."
Hermes stared at him, disbelieving. "And you expect me to think that’s a good thing? You just admitted they’re puppeteers."
Raphael shook his head softly. "Not puppeteers. Guardians. It is a fragile system, Hermes. Too much intrusion, and it collapses. Too little, and chaos returns. That balance is what the Stripes swore to protect."
But Hermes was already shaking his head, heat climbing his neck.
"Balance? Don’t twist it. If they’re hiding in every layer of government, in every stage light and camera flash, then it’s control no matter what you call it. The Norman Law was supposed to keep powers out. This spits on the whole thing."
For the first time, Raphael’s smile dimmed, his hands steepling in thought. "Yes. That is why they remain secret. Exposure would unravel the country itself. People would riot. Economies would crash. Trust in both Normans and power users would shatter in a single breath."
He leaned closer. "Tell me, Hermes... Do you want that?"
Hermes didn’t answer. His throat was too tight.
Raphael leaned back again, his composure recovered. "What matters is this. The Stripes existed for generations as keepers, not kings. But lately..."
He exhaled, gaze fixed on some distant point past Hermes. "They have grown restless. Paranoid. Especially after SHIFT fell."
Hermes stiffened at the name. "They’re connected to SHIFT too?"
"SHIFT was their intelligence arm," Raphael confirmed Hermes’s darkest suspicion. "Their watchtower. Their invisible ledger. Every , every threat analysis... it all flowed through SHIFT. And then you burned it to the ground. With Eirwyn."
"They didn’t like that," Raphael said softly. "They don’t like exposure. And losing their cadets, losing their secrets... it rattled them. SHIFT’s death was your team’s victory. But for the Stripes, it was an amputation. Now they lash out. Losing sight of what they were meant to uphold."
Hermes swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "How do you know all this?"
Raphael didn’t flinch. He didn’t stall. He simply folded his hands in his lap and said, with the calm finality of a confession.
"Because I am one of them."
Hermes froze. The words landed like a blade.
"...What?"
Raphael’s smile softened, but he did not retreat. "I am the newest to their circle. Inducted not long ago, when a seat opened."
His cerulean eyes pinned Hermes where he sat. "The seat once held by Eirwyn."
The name, again. Hermes’s stomach dropped, fury searing through his veins. His hands gripped the armrests hard enough to creak the wood.
"You—" His voice came out jagged. "You replaced him?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No shame. Just a simple statement.
Hermes surged to his feet, the chair nearly toppling. "That means—"
He had to force the words through clenched teeth. "That means you were with the people who took him. Who stole him from me. You’re with the bastards who put him in that... that thing."
His voice cracked. He pushed it down.
"Where is he?"
Raphael’s smile finally faltered. His gaze lowered, a shadow crossing it. Slowly, he shook his head.
"It’s too late, Hermes."
"Don’t say that," Hermes snapped, stepping closer, fists trembling. "Tell me where he is—"
"It is too late," Raphael repeated, voice gentle but immovable, like stone. "Even if you recovered the body, it is no longer Eirwyn. What lies there is only a shell."
Hermes’s chest heaved, rage warring with dread. "What do you mean?"
Raphael looked up then, eyes softened with something Hermes couldn’t name. Pity? Sorrow?
"Because the soul has left. It has moved on. A life ended, reborn elsewhere."
Hermes staggered back a step as though struck. Reborn. He hated the word. Hated how it clanged against the memory of cold hands slipping from his grasp, of promises unfulfilled. His mind screamed that it was lies, pretty words to cover the truth.
And yet something in Raphael’s tone....the way he said it with no flourish, no arrogance... gnawed at him.
He pressed both hands to his knees, staring at the marble floor just to ground himself. "You expect me to accept that? To... let it go?"
"I expect nothing," Raphael said softly. "I only tell you what is."
The words rattled in Hermes’s skull. He wanted to scream. To break something. To tear through the polished walls of this false museum until only rubble remained. Instead, he forced his head up, his voice low, guttural.
"...Then why?" His eyes locked onto Raphael, burning. "Why are you helping me?"