Power Thief's Revenge [BL]-Chapter 167: The Ball Game

Chapter 167: The Ball Game
Hermes felt his chest tighten, eyes locked on the beetle sprawled across the bed. No sign of Samuel Gregor anywhere else. Just this... thing.
"You... you little—" Hermes muttered, clenching his fists so tight his nails dug into his palms. "Trying to get sympathy? Preying on your family’s fear?"
The beetle shivered, its weak, tremulous voice carrying a strange, eerie tune.
Take me out to the ball game...
Hermes froze. The sound was soft, almost human, coming from the creature itself. His throat went dry, disbelief clawing at him.
"W-What...?" he whispered, staring. "Are you... singing?"
The beetle’s voice continued, frail, trembling with effort:
Take me out with the crowd...
Hermes’s fingers tightened around the doorknob he had left behind, jaw clenching. He felt the familiar surge of anger and betrayal... the same feeling he’d felt when Eirwyn had begged for help only to turn on him. It twisted in his chest like a knife.
Eirwyn, who acted weak as he limped through that foot injury that Trivia afflicted him with. Eirwyn who did not ask him directly, but continued to hammer down the idea in Hermes’ head that he was helpless, and that he was the only one who could help him. Eirwyn who smiled at him and said he believed in him...
Only to be involved in an organization that wants to take him down.
"You... you manipulative little—" he hissed, his voice breaking. "I hate people who exploit others’ trust!"
The creature’s singing wavered, as if it sensed his rising fury.
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack...
Hermes shook his head, teeth gritting. "Not again. Not like this. Not to me... not to anyone."
His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his grip on the sunbeam focus in his eyes.
"I won’t be tricked."
The rage inside him finally snapped. His sunbeam eyes flared bright, shooting out beams of golden light that sliced cleanly through the beetle and the bed beneath it. Splinters flew, shredded sheets caught fire, and shards of wood clattered across the floor. The creature shrieked once, a sound that was both alien and heartbreakingly human.
Hermes panted, his body shaking, heart hammering like a drum in his chest. Smoke curled from the remnants of the bed. The anger that had driven him surged and ebbed, leaving a hollow ache in its wake.
Then, slowly, Hermes’s eyes drifted from the destruction around him and began to scan the room. Trophies, medals, certificates, photos, books. A journal lay open on the floor, pages fluttering as if trying to speak. He crouched and scanned the images, letting the world blur around him, focusing on each detail.
The song came again, softer this time, barely audible:
I don’t care if I never get back...
Hermes’s eyes caught the first page. A small boy, hair messy, grinning as he held a baseball. His cheeks flushed with excitement. The trophies on the shelf were for little league championships, spelling bees, science contests. Each one telling the story of a child driven by curiosity, talent, and persistence.
Let me root, root, root for the home team...
The beetle’s weak, trembling voice carried on, each note breaking and fragile. Hermes’s knees pressed into the carpet as he studied the pictures, each flashback cutting through the remnants of his fury.
He saw Samuel in a lab coat at a school science fair, smiling shyly as he held up a poster board filled with equations and experiments. He saw Samuel at a debate podium, gesturing emphatically, eyes alight with thought and conviction.
Hermes’s chest tightened. This wasn’t some hollow trick to pull at heartstrings.
It was a life.
Take me out to the ball game...
Take me out with the crowd...
Hermes swallowed hard, tracing the lines of a photograph where Samuel stood on a podium with a law degree in hand, shaking hands with the dean. The realization started to creep in, slow and insidious, that the creature lying broken on the bed had a story, a past, a name.
He had a history, a presence, a humanity.
The images turned to family photos. Samuel and his parents on the porch of this very suburban home, smiling broadly, bright sunlight casting long shadows behind them. Samuel with his younger sister, their heads pressed together, laughter frozen in a snapshot.
The life Samuel had built for himself, all the years of work, of play, of accomplishment... It was all here, and Hermes had destroyed it in a moment of anger.
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack...
Hermes closed his eyes and whispered, "No... it can’t be. It can’t be..."
His knees buckled under him, the weight of understanding crushing him. "This... isn’t some monster exploiting fear. It isn’t a trick. It’s..."
He trailed off, voice breaking, unable to form the words.
The beetle’s song faltered, a quivering, fading whisper:
I don’t care if I never get back...
Let me root, root, root for the home team...
And then it stopped.
The room fell silent. The faint echo of the last note clung to the walls, like smoke curling after a candle’s flame dies. Hermes’s eyes fell to the beetle, broken and still.
The trophies, the photos, the journal... all the evidence he had ignored in his anger crashed into him like waves.
No.
The truth hit him like a tidal wave.
It wasn’t a monster exploiting fear.
It wasn’t a trick.
It was Samuel.
Hermes collapsed further to his knees, covering his face with both hands, chest heaving with grief, disbelief, and shame.
"What have I done...?" he whispered, voice raw and hollow, almost swallowed by the silence.
"What have I done..."
Then a hand landed on his shoulder, firm and calm.
"My Lord..."
Hermes flinched, looking up. Raphael stood at the threshold, eyes steady, golden light catching in them even through the cracked window. He was perfectly composed, posture impeccable, expression unreadable yet reassuring.
"It’s not too late," Raphael said. His voice was calm, unshaken, but carried weight.
Hermes shook his head, voice trembling, almost pleading. "Not too late? Do you know what I’ve done?"
Raphael didn’t flinch. He only asked, softly, quietly, but with piercing intent:
"You have HIS powers still, don’t you?"