Cameraman Never Dies-Chapter 266: When Your Escape Plan Gets Review-Bombed by a Grandpa

The cathedral felt strangely alive again, as if rehabilitating from trauma and pretending it hadn't just been used as a chew toy by forces way above its pay grade. But at least it was still standing, thank the gods — cause that's what people do in cathedrals, though this one was a bit too shady for that.

The last curl of Gereon's cigar smoke drifted upward, outlining faint shapes that dissolved with disappointing delicacy.

Barachiel did not move.

Technically, she hadn't been moving for a while. She had been hidden, or so she believed.

Her presence didn't just go unnoticed — it gave up and left before anyone had a chance to miss it.

Her breath wandered off into some dimension that probably failed basic sound physics, and her consciousness hung around just outside perception like it was waiting for someone to buzz it in.

She wasn't merely stealthy; she was so stealthy that "flawless" filed an official complaint for being shown up. Even ninjas would've asked her for tips, preferably in writing, because they weren't sure she actually existed.

So when Gereon turned his head slightly, eyes amused in that infuriating "I already wrote your fate yesterday" manner, her mind stuttered.

"How long have you known I was there?" she had asked. Her confidence came from knowing Gereon was the grandfather of the being that Lord Observer was serving. Woefully oblivious to the fact that both were the same person.

Gereon's face did not change; he spoke with a casualness usually reserved for picking lint off one's coat, "From the very beginning."

Now she stood there, still as a snapped prayer. She could not move even if she wanted to; a simple gaze from this man felt like it could kill.

The trio of warriors barely registered her appearance. They were too busy drowning in the humiliation of still being alive in the same room as Gereon, which frankly felt medically unsafe at this point.

Gereon took another slow pull of his cigar, flicked ash that fell like gold shavings off a lazy god, and regarded Barachiel with the faintly bored look of someone regretting letting the door-to-door salesman speak a second too long.

"You know," he said, "for someone who prides herself on stealth, you make the air quite loud."

Barachiel felt something twist in her chest. It wasn't fear. She knew what fear was like. This was something else, something much worse: the perfect realization that the laws she obeyed bowed to him instead.

She shifted an inch, the barest preparation of escape. She didn't even get to think about fleeing, let alone enact it.

The universe stopped.

No, she stopped.

Barachiel was frozen in place, body suspended in a perfect sculpture of intent. Her fingers wouldn't twitch. Her lungs refused her the mercy of breath. Her heart realized with bleak resignation that pumping was merely a suggestion.

In that microscopic instant, the world felt like a sealed jar and Gereon the lazy hand holding the lid just tight enough to remind everyone inside who owned the oxygen.

Gereon stepped forward and studied her like a mildly interesting painting. His annoyance was almost polite. He tilted his head as though listening to a faint melody, though it was probably just Barachiel's existential screaming.

"You're trying to run to some domain?" His voice dropped into that dangerously casual register that meant someone's survival was being weighed like spare change. "Bold choice."

Her stillness mocked her.

"Bold," he repeated, "but unwise."

That should have been the end of her. It was the correct moment for a final judgment, a casual snuffing out, or maybe a bored laugh followed by spontaneous nonexistence. Her entire life rested on his thought.

Then, for the first time in what felt like centuries compressed into a half-second, something changed.

Gereon's expression faltered.

Only slightly. So slightly it could have been mistaken for smoke drifting across his features. But for someone like Barachiel, that shift was louder than a shattering star.

He blinked once. His eyes took on a faint, puzzled gleam.

"Hmph," he said, in a tone that wasn't annoyance or sarcasm but something dangerously close to curiosity.

He lifted his hand.

The invisible pressure vanished.

Barachiel staggered as breath rushed back into her lungs like a tidal wave. The universe reconnected all its cables to her body at once.

"Go," he said, voice soft but carrying the weight of a carved commandment. "If you stay another second, you die."

She didn't waste time. She did not know why, but Gereon was letting her go — and she took it as she entered the Studio.

Gereon didn't stop her.

He didn't even look at her.

He just gave a small, absent flick of his fingers, like brushing away a fly without malice or effort.

Barachiel left.

Not fled. Left. Because Gereon had allowed her to. Because she sensed that if she disobeyed the invisible permission, reality would close the door on her, and she would remain in this cathedral forever, just another forgotten puzzle piece of a man who solved everything by existing.

The silence that followed her departure felt different. Heavier. Curious. Unsure whether it should fear or admire whatever made Gereon hesitate.

The three warriors barely had time to register hope.

Gereon turned to them.

His expression was back to its normal setting: supreme irritation, sprinkled with a dash of "why must I do everything myself."

He lifted one hand.

Quill knew what was coming a millisecond before it happened. May tried to form a final word. Luther inhaled fire that would never reach his lungs.

Gereon waved.

Not dramatically. Not like a spellcaster or a king.

More like someone lazily wiping crumbs from a table.

The three warriors dissolved instantly.

Not into ash, ether, or into some poetic fragments of meaning.

Into red dust. Fine, weightless, mercilessly quiet. It drifted upward before the wind caught it, whisking it away like it had somewhere better to be.

Gereon brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with a faint scowl.

"I hate making a mess," he muttered. "And for this? Effort. My day keeps getting worse."

He sighed, long and tired, like an old dragon complaining about modern furniture.

"Oh, Judge, my dear grandson." He smiled, "You are just four, yet you are more mischievous than your grandpa."

Gereon felt like he had just found his grandson's secret playhouse. Maybe he could use this as leverage against Judge to make him come to his grandfather often; Judge wouldn't want his mother to know his little band after all.

He took one step forward.

Then stopped.

A frown tugged at his brow, something flickering across his golden eyes.

He whispered a name.

"Seraphis?"

Just as he said that, he tried to teleport, but something was blocking direct teleport.