That night, Vito, Tatsumi, Genco, Gauri, and Josef—who had recently moved his family near Vito's residence—gathered in Vito's study. The five of them, now affectionately dubbed "The Five Angels" by the neighborhood, were seen as a beacon of hope in the heart of the Empire. Their presence represented not only security, but a vision of something better—a system of fairness, prosperity, and dignity that stood in contrast to the harshness of Imperial rule.
The cozy room flickered with the light of several oil lamps, the air heavy with the scent of pressed olives and aged paper. The men sat in a tight circle, their expressions grave but determined. Genco, ever the practical voice among them, was the first to break the silence.
"So, Vito-san, our business was a success... perhaps too successful."
Vito looked over with quiet curiosity. "What do you mean by that, Genco?"
With a slight wince, Gauri reached into a satchel and pulled out a small flask sealed with wax. He uncorked it with a subtle crack, and immediately, the room was filled with a pungent, eye-watering odor. Tatsumi instinctively turned his head, waving the air away.
"This, my friend, is whale oil," Gauri said, holding the flask out for the others to see. "Not for cooking—obviously. But it burns bright, and for many, it's all they know. Unfortunately, it leaves behind a smell that could knock out a boar."
Josef leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he considered the implications. "So what you're really saying is... we didn't just do well—we outsold the whale oil vendors by a huge margin in just our first week?"
"Huge margin might be an overstatement," Genco clarified, "but the trend is there. Their customers are trickling away. And for a good number of those merchants, whale oil is their bread and butter."
Tatsumi furrowed his brow, his voice low with concern. "That's not just a business issue. If they figure out who's behind this—who's steering the shift—they might come after us. Maybe not through official means. I'm talking raids. Sabotage. Desperation breeds danger."
Vito rose from his chair and took the flask of whale oil, lifting it with practiced ease. He took a piece of cloth and dipped a small part into the flask. He sniffed again, face unmoved.
"A strong odor, yes... but the burn is potent," he murmured. "What if we refine it? Mix it—just a touch—with our own olive oil? Make something cleaner, something brighter. Something better."
Gauri exchanged a glance with Genco. "You mean... make a hybrid? Fuel that uses the strengths of both?"
Vito nodded. "Exactly. The whale oil trade is a rough business, but it's honest. We don't need to destroy it—we need to evolve it. Bring them in. Let them see what we're building. Then give them the chance to be a part of it."
Josef tapped his chin thoughtfully. "That could turn enemies into allies. We'd be offering opportunity, not war."
"Right," Vito said. He turned to Tatsumi, locking eyes. "They get a choice. Ride the wave of change we're creating—or be swept away by it."
The room fell into a contemplative hush. In that silence, a deep understanding grew among the five men. The Five Angels knew the path ahead would not be easy. But they also knew they were not walking it alone.
The next morning, business resumed across the marketplace with its usual bustle. Yet, under Josef's discreet instructions, the merchants who had been selling Vito's olive oil displayed only a fraction of their inventory. Bottles were reserved exclusively for culinary use, with medicinal and utility oils tucked out of sight. This strategic pullback created a sudden gap in supply, allowing the whale oil traders—previously losing ground—to step in and bring out their reserves.
"Ehh…? We're making so much profit off this stuff. Why hold back now?" one merchant grumbled, visibly annoyed.
"It's because Vito needed me to look into something else entirely," Josef answered calmly, folding his arms. "I guarantee you, this won't last more than a day or two. Just bear with it."
"Well, if Vito-sama says so…" the merchant sighed, relenting.
The truth behind the strategy was less about business pacing and more about gathering information. Josef had requested the slowdown so he could better observe the demographics—who continued to purchase whale oil and why.
Josef, ever analytical, took up his vantage near the merchant stalls and began his watch. The way the crowd interacted, how money flowed, and who spent it told him everything he needed to know.
A blacksmith, soot-covered and wearing a leather apron, approached a traveling merchant and asked for a bottle of whale oil for his forge. The merchant nodded and handed him one for a steep 50 silver coins, clearly overcharging but aware the craftsman had no alternative.
A few stalls down, an Imperial officer clad in standard-issue armor ordered five bottles for military supply. He didn't flinch at the quoted price of 750 silver. He paid promptly, a transaction borne of necessity rather than choice.
Then came a nobleman, his garments embroidered with gold thread, flanked by two broad-shouldered enforcers. With a sneer, he demanded several bottles of whale oil. The vendor, face tight with reluctant obedience, surrendered half his stock without payment.
Josef's eyes narrowed, his mind clicking through the implications.
So this is how it goes... Whale oil is widely accepted across the Empire for industrial and domestic use, but it's priced steeply—especially for the military—so the merchants can cover the loss they incur from feeding the nobility for free. It's all a cycle of imbalance.
"They really do need Vito's help," he muttered under his breath, realizing just how much the Empire's lower classes suffered under this system.
Later that afternoon, the same whale oil vendor who had grumbled earlier was beginning to shutter his stall. His sales had been disappointing, and frustration hung on his face like a storm cloud.
Josef approached with two fellow merchants beside him.
"We're closed," the merchant barked as they neared. "Come back tomorrow."
"Actually," Josef began with a calm, measured voice, "someone would like a word with you—about a potential partnership."
"Something that could improve your earnings and your position in the market," one of the merchants added, stepping slightly forward.
The vendor eyed them warily. "And if I say no?"
Josef gave a casual shrug. "Then you might find your place in this market slowly slipping away. Your call."
The merchant hesitated for a moment, then clicked his tongue in resignation.
"Tsk… If you say so."
With a reluctant nod, he stepped away from his stall and followed Josef and his colleagues. It was a brief walk through the winding alleys and side streets of the neighborhood—now proudly known by its patrons as Little Italy. The cobblestones were swept clean, lanterns glowed warmly from freshly repaired posts, and a quiet, industrious calm had replaced what was once chaos and filth.
The merchant himself was stunned by what he saw.
"What just happened here? Last time I passed through this place, it was all filthy, rundown, and crawling with rats. Now people are living here—peacefully—and it's clean too."
Josef responded with a warm, almost paternal smile as he gestured to the neatly painted storefronts and busy vendors.
"Well, we happened. Welcome to Little Italy."
The merchant raised a skeptical brow, his thoughts uneasy as his eyes flicked over the new life pulsing through the area.
Little Italy? Hmph. If Prime Minister Honest hears even a whisper about this place, he wouldn't hesitate to burn it down to ashes just to make a point. No place escapes his gaze for long.
They finally arrived at the old inn—now transformed into the Genco Pura Olive Oil Company headquarters. Once filled with chipped wooden tables and the scent of spilled ale, the place now held a modest but tasteful living room adorned with rustic furniture, brass oil lamps, and woven rugs. The air was thick with the warm, earthy aroma of fresh olive oil wafting from a room next door.
Olive oil.
The moment the scent hit his nose, everything clicked into place.
"So it was you who's trying to run us under with your fancy new product," he muttered, almost to himself, his voice tinged with bitter realization.
Another voice spoke up from above, calm yet pointed, but laced with dry amusement.
"Running you off was never our goal. I'd say we just accidentally won over your loyal customers—without even trying too hard."
The merchant looked up. Genco was standing at the banisters of the second floor, one hand resting casually on the rail.
The merchant immediately lit up the moment he recognized him
"Hey! You're the one who brought all my stock yesterday!"
Nearby, Tatsumi sat near the window, watching the merchant with quiet curiosity, eyes sharp and discerning. Gauri then stepped in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a linen cloth, his demeanor calm but firm.
The moment all four figures filled the room with their presence, the merchant's confidence wavered. His heart began to sink, weighed down by uncertainty. The power dynamics had shifted.
"So this is what it's all about? You're going to take out the competition? Is this some kind of execution?" he asked, voice rising just slightly, caught between fear and indignation.
The four looked at one another—and suddenly burst into laughter. All but Genco, who groaned and facepalmed in dismay, clearly fed up with the theatrics. Clearly, the merchant had misunderstood the situation.
"No, no," Tatsumi said between chuckles, still holding his sides. "We're not that kind of people. We actually want to help you and your fellow merchants get back on your feet. There's more than enough business to go around, if everyone just works together."
He spoke with sincerity, and his words cut through the air with unexpected warmth and clarity, silencing the last of the merchant's doubts.
Genco let out a long sigh, shaking his head with a faint smirk.
"Enough with this nonsense. Vito wants to see you. He's waiting in his office upstairs. Don't keep him waiting."
The laughter faded, and a new air of seriousness filled the room. The warm buzz of conversation gave way to a silence filled with anticipation. The merchant glanced up the stairs—where the true architect of Little Italy awaited, cloaked in reputation and mystery.
He swallowed his fear, his feet heavy as he climbed upstairs. The wooden steps creaked softly beneath him with every step, as if announcing his arrival. At the top of the landing, Vito's office loomed ahead—a door half-closed, yet inviting.
Genco was already inside, standing beside the doorway. He turned toward Vito with a respectful bow.
"Vito-san. It's the merchant I was talking about yesterday."
Without looking up from the document he was reviewing, Vito replied in a calm, steady voice. "Let him in."
Genco gave a nod and stepped aside, gesturing for the merchant to enter. The merchant hesitated, then walked in, his boots tapping softly on the hardwood floor. The moment he stepped foot inside, he felt a heavy presence settle upon his shoulders—unfamiliar, but not malicious. It wasn't fear exactly—it was reverence. The room seemed to hold the weight of countless decisions made with precision and purpose.
He took in the sight of Vito's study: the walls lined with books and ledgers, a simple olive-wood desk at the center, and behind it, a modest yet dignified chair. It was adorned, yet restrained—evoking not the wealth of the Empire's elite, but the pride and pragmatism of a man who had earned everything by hand.
And then there was Vito himself.
Seated with one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed yet composed, Vito looked not like a tyrant or a boss, but something deeper. He seemed to radiate a calm authority that drew people in—a presence that felt divine in its stillness. As if the man before him was less a ruler and more a guiding force. A king? No. A god? Perhaps. A god with a disarmingly gentle aura hiding something far more calculating.
The merchant felt a dry lump form in his throat. He gave a shallow cough, trying to clear it, and offered a respectful bow.
Vito finally lifted his gaze, his eyes sharp but not cold. He spoke, his voice gentle, like aged oak.
"Come and sit, my boy. We have a lot to discuss."
The merchant nodded and moved toward the chair across from Vito, lowering himself into it with careful grace. A mixture of anxiety, curiosity, and a touch of admiration welled up in his chest. He folded his hands tightly in his lap, steeling himself for the meeting ahead—a conversation that could change the course of his future.
Outside the office, the murmur of the inn resumed, but here, time seemed to pause.
Far from the cobbled streets of Little Italy, nestled deep within the Empire's capital, lay a district of indulgence and ruin — the notorious entertainment quarter where the Empire's most depraved came to wallow in their desires.
Greedy merchants, blind to fairness and driven by unchecked ambition, surrounded themselves with women they had handpicked for the night — playthings to be used and discarded like yesterday's trash. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and desperation.
These women, robbed of dignity, endured the night under the lecherous eyes of men who ogled them with lust. No kindness, no respite — just the unrelenting churn of a system built to consume them.
In the background, Imperial soldiers loitered by the counters of various taverns and brothels. They slurred drunken demands for the strongest drinks available, their raucous laughter echoing off the dim walls. One of them had his filthy hands groping a waitress openly, eliciting no rebuke — just another symptom of the district's unchecked corruption.
It was a never-ending cycle of vice and decay — the Empire's Red Light District in full swing.
High above this mire of decadence, within the upper floors of a nameless brothel, resides the man who quietly oversees it all. In a plush yet garish office, thick with the scent of tobacco and incense, sat Gamal—a corpulent, out-of-shape man whose toad-like appearance was made all the more unsettling by his mannerisms.
His bald scalp was spotted and shiny, his features small and sunken, his lips perpetually pursed in a sly, calculating smirk. He wore a gaudy orange kimono shirt with matching pants, his frame concealed only slightly by a forest-green cloak adorned with grotesque prints resembling the bulbous eyes of a toad.
Seated across from him, stiff-backed and drenched in sweat, was Lord Tariq. A noble by name, but at the moment, reduced to a trembling mess.
"So," Gamal rasped, his voice dry like gravel. "I heard from a little rat… that some new olive oil business is making waves in the Capital. Genco Pura, isn't it?"
"Yes, Gamal-dono," Tariq replied meekly, voice faltering.
Gamal scoffed, waving a handkerchief lazily as he cleaned his hands. "I don't mind new ventures — as long as they bend to my control. But this… Genco Pura Olive Oil Company… it's cutting into our profits. Clients are leaving our suppliers and investing in them. I find that... unacceptable."
"I agree. If I could just have more time–"
"There are only a handful of people in this rotten city who can grant such permits. About fifty," Gamal muttered, eyes narrowing. "So tell me, Tariq. Who gave them the permit to operate?"
"I-I don't understand–"
"Did I stutter?" Gamal growled, rising from his seat. "Or are you simply deaf and stupid?"
"I apologize, I just–"
Gamal slowly paced around the desk, each step louder than the last. The room grew colder.
"It's a simple question, Tariq. Who. Gave. Them. The Permit?"
The nobleman froze, trembling. Sweat poured down his face in thick streams. After what felt like a lifetime under Gamal's gaze, he finally crumbled.
"It was me… I gave them the permit… He threatened me — said he'd tell Night Raid everything."
"I see," Gamal said quietly.
Without warning, he grabbed a jade statue of a frog from his desk and smashed it into Tariq's forehead. The noble cried out, collapsing backward with a thud. Blood didn't spill — the floor was cushioned with a thick fur carpet — but the impact was enough to daze him.
Gamal wasn't finished.
He leapt forward and clamped both hands around Tariq's neck, squeezing with terrifying force. The nobleman gasped, kicking and thrashing as he tried to pry Gamal's hands loose. He reached out, fingers stretching toward a cloth on the floor — just inches too far.
With an animalistic roar, Gamal yanked his neck up and slammed it down into the floor, once… twice… again. Seven times, the noble's head bounced off the thick carpet until his strength drained from his limbs.
Tariq's eyes bulged. His chest heaved. Then, his body began to convulse, his bloodshot eyes filled with terror. Still, Gamal didn't let go.
A full minute passed. Only when every twitch ceased, when there was no longer even the faintest gasp from the nobleman's lips, did Gamal release his grip.
He stood, breathing heavily, and wiped his hands on a silk handkerchief with disdain. Then, turning toward the door, he barked:
"Bring in Captain Ogre. Tell him we've got another cleanup."
His retainer entered, unfazed by the bloody spectacle. He bowed and vanished without a word, leaving Gamal alone with the corpse — and his thoughts.