Chapter 96: Chapter 96: A Reluctant Janitor

Arthur stood before the window of his manor, staring out at the rain-slicked London street below, lost in thought. His revenge was complete. The men who had shattered his happy family were gone, reduced to ash and memory.

There was no elation, no triumphant surge. Just the quiet, hollow satisfaction of a job well done.

Last night had been a calculated risk. A thousand things could have gone wrong, but his planning, his power, and a healthy dose of luck had seen him through. The newly learned signature-masking spell, a gem plucked from North’s mind, was his guarantee of peace. No magical authority would be tracing this back to him.

The mundane world, however, was another matter.

He knew their disappearance would eventually be discovered. Soon, the intelligence agencies of the world would be sniffing around. He would undoubtedly be high on their suspect list, but without a shred of evidence, all they could do was watch.

He had no plans to leave London. A return to Kamar-Taj was tempting but he dismissed it instantly. He had created powerful enemies, even if they didn’t know his name yet. He would not risk leading them, mundane or otherwise, to the doorstep of the Sorcerer Supreme. There was also the fact that he did not want to influence other sorcerers to follow his path. It was better to stay away.

Besides, he had learned what he needed to at Kamar-Taj. He was also far too young to embrace the quiet life of a hermit sorcerer.

So for now, he would wait. He would watch, and he would observe how the criminal underworld reacted to having its head so brutally severed.

The days that followed were unnervingly silent. Arthur scanned the news, but there was nothing. No visits from Aurora Thatcher or MI6, which was a good sign. The criminal organizations were clearly keeping the deaths of their leaders under wraps, scrambling to hide the fatal weakness at their core.

He used the quiet week productively. He paid a visit to North’s sanctuary and found many forbidden and obscure tomes. The magic of MACUSA was different—pragmatic, brutal, and fascinatingly direct. He collected the entire library, planning to dissect its secrets at his leisure.

Then, nearly a week after his return, the first tremors of the earthquake he had caused finally reached the surface.

It started with a small headline on the bottom of a news site: RIVAL GANGS CLASH IN VIOLENT BRIXTON SHOOTOUT. By the next day, it was the lead story. Brutal gang fights, brazen robberies, and bloody territorial disputes were erupting all over London. The violence was chaotic, disorganized, and shockingly public.

Within days, similar reports flooded in from Paris, Berlin, and Rome.

Arthur watched a live news broadcast from a street in Manchester. Paramedics were loading bodies into an ambulance while police tried to control a hysterical crowd. Bystanders, caught in the crossfire.

He recognized the sloppy tactics immediately. These were the hyenas, let loose from their cages.

A cold knot formed in his stomach. This was the fallout. The entirely predictable consequence of his surgical revenge. No matter what excuse he could conjure, this was his mess. His responsibility.

The local law enforcement was, as usual, hopelessly outgunned. He couldn’t let this chaotic free-for-all continue.

Not to be a savior. But to be a janitor. It was time to clean up.

Arthur closed the news feed. He closed his eyes and called forth the detailed mental map he had meticulously extracted from the minds of Ravenscar, Greycairn, and Ashridge. A web of names, locations, and strongholds spread out in his consciousness.

He knew where they all were.

It was time to go to work.

—

The air in the derelict East London warehouse tasted of rust and cheap cigarettes. From a rooftop vantage point, hidden by the night and his cloak, Arthur surveyed the battle below.

On one side of the street, a group using cars as cover sported crude green armbands. On the other, a rival crew returned fire from storefronts. He couldn’t be bothered to remember their names, but he knew from the Lords’ memories that both had worked under Ravenscar. With him gone, they had decided it was their turn to be king of the hill.

Bullets tore through metal and shattered glass. It was messy, unprofessional, and loud.

Arthur knew he could wade in and slaughter them all. It would be quick and decisive. But the thought left a bad taste in his mouth. He wasn’t the Punisher, and he had no desire to become a killing madman. Most of these were misguided young adults, not hardened monsters. Killing them would be a waste.

A better plan began to form, cold and precise. He would attack the pillars that supported their ambition.

Their leadership, who gave the orders.

Their weapons, which gave them power.

And their money, which gave them loyalty.

He wouldn’t be a warrior. He would be a phantom who pulled the threads until their entire operation unraveled.

—

Since it was easier to clean up the hideouts first, Arthur apparated away from the firefight. His first stop was a dingy pub two blocks away, the headquarters of the green-banded crew.

The rest was insultingly straightforward.

He slipped into his astral form, phasing through the walls to map the interior. He noted the guards outside the armory and the safe room, but the rooms themselves were unguarded. Child’s play.

Returning to his body, he didn’t bother with doors. A shimmering orange portal, a slice in reality itself, opened directly inside the safe. He vanished the contents with a wave of his hand. Another portal opened into the armory. He cherry-picked a few interesting firearms for his collection and then, with a small, vicious smile, he pulled the pins from every single grenade in the room before closing the portal.

Five minutes later, he repeated the exact same process at the other gang’s headquarters.

With both gangs now secretly defanged, defunded, and about to be homeless, he returned to the alley. The firefight was still raging, both sides burning through the last of their ammunition, completely unaware that their bases were now infernos.

It was time to cut the heads off the snakes.

He slipped into the Mirror Dimension, the real world turning grey and silent around him. He moved through the battlefield, completely immune to the stray bullets, and took out a high-powered rifle he had acquired from the fortress raid. Last week, he’d spent a few hours practicing with his new collection. It was proving to be a useful hobby.

He found a hidden vantage point with a clear line of sight to both leaders. Stepping partially out of the Mirror Dimension, cloaked in invisibility, he poked just the barrel of the rifle through. He aimed. A muffled crack. He aimed again. Another crack. Both shots were lost in the cacophony of the battle.

The two aspiring gang lords fell, their reigns lasting less than an hour.

His work here was done.

—

The sudden deaths of both leaders shattered the morale of their men. The fighting faltered, replaced by panicked shouts. Both sides, leaderless and terrified, began a hasty retreat.

Arthur watched from the rooftops as they fled, knowing they were running toward rubble and ruin. He was certain these gangs wouldn’t last the day. With no money, no weapons, and no base to regroup, they would scatter to the winds.

This was the template.

Over the next few weeks, this scene repeated itself across Europe. Naples, Berlin, Marseille—wherever rival gangs started bloody wars, a phantom moved against them. They all suffered the same fate.

The whispers in the underworld grew louder. They knew someone was hunting the gangs. Not to take over.

But simply to erase them.

It was a campaign that imposed a terrifying, absolute peace across the continent. They didn’t have a name for the phantom responsible, the ghost in the shadows who left no trace.

But they had a name for the phenomenon itself.

They called it The Great Erasure. A peace born not of treaties or surrender, but of the cold, paralyzing fear that you and your entire operation could simply cease to exist overnight.

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