Chapter 120 — Preparing for Battle
Ethan knocked on the door in the rhythm he and John had agreed on.
The door opened almost immediately.
John's room was dimly lit—only a bedside lamp was on, its light deliberately subdued, as if avoiding any unnecessary reflections.
He was already wearing the suit that had just been delivered, but he was still making adjustments.
One hand pulled at the inner lining, the other fastened the final hidden button. His movements were clean, precise, efficient.
Beneath the suit, he wasn't wearing a normal shirt.
A fitted tactical vest was concealed perfectly underneath.
The vest hugged his body tightly, and the suit had been tailored so well that from the outside, nothing looked out of place.
On both sides of the vest were embedded magazine slots.
Fully loaded magazines sat securely in the most accessible positions—
from Ethan's perspective, it was extremely practical. When needed, a simple reach would be enough.
John glanced down, checked the placement, then rolled his shoulders to test mobility.
No stiffness. No friction. No excess noise.
On the bed, an entire lineup of equipment was laid out in perfect order.
Every piece looked carefully selected—refined through experience.
Ethan's eyes were drawn to it instantly.
He stepped closer, then stopped, unable to hide the surprise on his face.
In his entire life, he had never seen this many guns and this much ammunition in one place.
Movies didn't count.
— Two pistols.
— A shotgun.
— A knife.
— And a rifle.
This was more than a full CS loadout…
Ethan hesitated, then spoke.
"…You're planning to use all of this?"
He pointed at the bed, then at John.
John turned, following his gaze.
"Maybe," he said.
Ethan pointed to the pistol closest to him.
"What's this one?"
"Glock 34." John picked it up and checked it. "My primary. Best for close range."
"And this?" Ethan pointed to the slightly smaller one beside it.
"Glock 26. Backup. If the first one fails—or I don't have time to reload."
Ethan nodded.
Weapon switching… yeah, I know that one. Classic CS.
His gaze shifted to the shotgun.
"This one… doesn't exactly scream 'subtle.'"
"Benelli M4." John replied. "For tight spaces. When things get complicated."
Ethan swallowed instinctively.
His eyes drifted to the knife at the corner of the bed.
"And that?"
"When it needs to be quiet."
At last, Ethan's gaze returned to the rifle.
He hesitated, but still asked, "And this one? Isn't that… something you only use in a war?"
John walked over, picked up the AR-15, inspected it front and back, then set it down again.
"It's useful when there are a lot of people."
"There'll be a lot of people?"
"Maybe a lot. Maybe none."
Ethan blinked. "What does that mean?"
"Plans are just references. The unexpected is the norm." John looked at him. "Preparation is the only thing you can control."
The room fell quiet again.
Standing there, Ethan suddenly realized—
these weapons weren't meant to "kill more people."
They were meant to make sure things only happened within a controlled scope.
…Right. No fighting unprepared battles.
He didn't ask any more questions. He just said quietly, "…Got it."
John removed all his gear and spread a map across the table.
It looked old, worn with age.
In one corner, a name was marked: Baths of Caracalla.
The layout of the bath complex was detailed with precision—
stage area, audience seating, inner grounds, changing rooms, bathing halls.
And one route that didn't exist on any public blueprint:
a maintenance corridor.
Beside it lay a key.
"Tomorrow night," John said without preamble, "there's a private event at the Baths of Caracalla."
"What kind of event?"
"Gianna is hosting a performance."
"A concert?"
"Yes."
"How do we get in?"
"Follow me."
Ethan sighed inwardly.
Working with the Boogeyman was exhausting.
All his plans were in his head.
It wasn't that he wouldn't explain—
you just had to ask the right questions.
If you didn't…
you'd only get two words.
—"Follow me."
After several rounds of persistent questioning, John finally filled in the details.
Tomorrow's event wasn't just a performance—
it was a ceremonial gathering within the High Table's inner circle.
Operatic singing. A full orchestra. Lights. Black suits. A stage.
"Highly restricted."
"No tourists."
"No media."
"All security personnel are professionals."
For Gianna, the performance was only art on the surface.
In reality, it was a declaration.
Not for the public—
but for family representatives, High Table observers, and enforcers of the rules.
She wasn't showcasing power.
She was confirming identity.
Establishing status.
This was her self-coronation as a High Table candidate—
a recognized heir completing the formal process, building legitimacy.
In the High Table's world, power couldn't be inherited quietly.
It had to be displayed—
seen, acknowledged, recorded.
So tomorrow night—
she wouldn't just stand on the stage.
She would be the stage.
John folded the map and picked up the key again.
They confirmed their roles—mostly Ethan asking, John answering, Ethan listening.
Once everything was settled, the room fell silent.
Ethan sat in the chair, realizing there was nothing left to ask.
His eyes drifted toward the pile of equipment beside John—like a small mountain.
John gave a final summary.
"For you, it's very safe."
His tone was calm, like stating an objective fact.
"You don't need to be nervous."
Ethan reacted instantly.
"I'm not nervous."
The words came out too fast—less like a response, more like a reflex.
John didn't argue. He simply nodded.
"Mm."
Ethan took a breath and changed the subject.
"…Should I bring a gun?"
John looked at him.
"Have you ever fired one?"
"No." Ethan paused, then added, "Not a real one."
"Then don't bring one."
"Why?"
"I'm worried you'll hurt yourself."
His tone was calm. No mockery. No room for negotiation.
Ethan opened his mouth, wanting to argue—
but in the end, he swallowed the words.
"…Alright."
John turned back to his gear.
"Get some rest. Tomorrow will be long."