"Raise your hands, sir," the officers ordered.

  As he raised his hands in a stiff, awkward position, Verso still couldn't fathom why they kept calling him "sir." Maybe it was just the local version of "Monsieur" or "dude" for a random man on the street.

  The officers began to pat down his torso, arms, and waist. Then, they stopped abruptly. "Sir, what are you packing there?"

  Packing? For a second, Verso had no idea what they meant—oh, right. His swords. He was currently carrying one long sword, one short sword, and three small daggers. Standard equipment for dealing with Nevrons, obviously.

  "Uh... my swords. Are they a problem?" Verso asked. He tried his absolute best to sound benevolent. Non-threatening, pleasant, the very picture of calm.

  He was welcomed with the officers frantically screaming at him. "Hands up—higher! Get on the ground, Get down, on the ground, on the ground!" They drew their black guns in a blind panic, their eyes wide.

  Great job, Verso. Things are going just swimmingly.

  "Guys," Verso muttered, frustration bubbling up as they twisted his arms behind his back and slapped cold metal cuffs on his wrists. "Why are you doing this? I was taking out Nevrons, not people!"

  "It's Officer, you idiot—and you're going to tell us everything at the station!" They hauled him to his feet with zero grace. Then, without even asking, they ripped open his coat, exposing his entire arsenal to the world.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "What the hell are these?!" one officer shouted, sounding genuinely disturbed. "A long Gothic sword? What are you, some cosplay guy?" The officer reached out to touch the edge and flinched as it bit into his skin. "What the... these are real! They're actually sharp!"

  Of course they’re real, Verso thought, his eyes narrowing. What an absurd thing to say. Were there actually people who carried fake swords?

  At this point, Verso was officially and thoroughly fed up with this entire situation.

  Long story short, Verso was dragged into a massive, shiny white building crawling with well-groomed officers bustling around.

  Every single person there looked at him with a cocktail of irritation and surprise. Some laughed, some shot him suspicious glares, some muttered "lunatic," while others went with the classic "cosplay guy"—the labels were endless.

  Then they tried to strip him of his swords and clothes. "Hey, hey, don't touch that! That sword was retrieved from a Nevron cave and I—" He started to panic. These were the last shreds of his previous life, the only things he had left. But before he could finish his protest, something heavy connected with the back of his head. Everything went dark.

  Yes, he was immortal, but let’s be clear, immortality just meant he couldn't stay dead. It didn't mean he was immune to a good old-fashioned blackout.

  Another long story short, these days, the New York State government was taking police brutality very seriously.

  Plus, at first glance, Verso looked like a refugee who had lost his mind while defending himself in a war zone. Or more accurately, like a grown man who had retreated into a full-blown cosplay fantasy as a coping mechanism for some deep trauma—a very "healthy" way to deal with life, until he decided to start carrying actual, lethal steel.

  Ironically, the situation worked in his favor.

  The moment the police chief saw Verso’s head leave a streak of blood on the office wall, he absolutely lost it. He hauled the officers into his office and spent a solid fifteen minutes screaming about "police brutality" and "vulnerable immigrants who need our help."

  The officers tried to argue—"But Chief, he doesn't even look like a Middle Eastern refugee or anything!"—but they were shut down instantly.

  And that’s how Verso, the legendary warrior of Lumiere, ended up with a private room at the New York State Hospital-Hope Medical Center.