New Green was a city of sounds.
By day, the rumble of traffic and the chatter of crowds. By night, the maniac's laughter echoing through empty streets, followed by the screams of his victims.
Tonight, a man named Max had silenced that laughter.
But the silence didn't last.
The laugh returned, but something had changed. It was wilder now, more chaotic—as if the real monster had finally awakened from a deep sleep.
"I thought you were some kind of weakling by your look." The maniac's voice dripped with dark amusement. "Looks like I made a mistake."
Max's eyes narrowed. "You're welcome. Now give me everything you've got!"
The maniac vanished.
"What?!" Max's head snapped around. "He got faster—instantly?"
Too late.
The maniac appeared above him, descending like a bird of prey. The knife bound to his hand by chains gleamed in the dim streetlight, aimed to split Max in half.
"Oh, shit—" Max barely got the words out.
The blade came down with terrifying force.
Drops of blood hit the pavement.
The knife had struck Max's right hand. The cut wasn't deep, but it was enough.
Max seized the opening and threw a kick at the maniac's stomach.
The maniac twisted away, slipping just beyond range. In one fluid motion, he yanked the knife free and hurled it back at Max's eye.
Max caught it at the last second, fingers closing around the blade. He pulled it to his side, closing the distance.
The maniac vanished and reappeared behind him.
Max spun—or tried to.
His body wouldn't move.
Chains.
They'd already wrapped around him, binding him tight. The maniac raised his weapon, aiming for Max's neck.
"You didn't leave me a choice, Andrew."
A sudden burst of light.
The chains shattered.
When the light faded, the maniac lay on the ground, his body crushed beneath an invisible weight. Max stood over him, breathing hard. His clothes hung in tatters.
"I don't think even you're going to make it from that." Max's voice carried disappointment—but only for a moment.
A grin spread across his face. "Bye-bye. It was fun toying around with you!"
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh, I forgot to mention something." He glanced back. "You're probably wondering what just happened. If you're technically dead anyway, let me tell you the truth—"
He stopped.
The maniac was gone. Only a pool of blood remained.
SLICE!
A deep gash opened across Max's chest. Blood poured out, hot and fast. Not life-threatening—but close.
The maniac appeared behind him for a split second, then vanished again.
"Damn." Max pressed a hand to the wound. "I really didn't think it would come to this."
The maniac appeared above him once more, knife raised for the killing blow.
Max's lips moved, barely audible.
"Living Star: Death."
Red flames erupted from Max's wounds. His body began to burn, heat radiating outward in waves.
The maniac sensed the danger immediately and changed trajectory mid-air. The moment his feet touched the ground, Max's leg crashed into his head with devastating force.
The maniac was sent flying through the wall of a nearby building. Debris exploded outward.
Max stood in the center of the street, his body wreathed in flames. The fire consumed him from the inside out. Every second brought him closer to death.
Slowly, the maniac emerged from the rubble.
But he wasn't laughing anymore.
Max's vision shifted. The Dying Star granted him sight beyond sight—a world painted in colors no one else could see.
The maniac's body glowed red. Far too red. Darker than any human should be.
But something was wrong.
From his head down to his right arm—the one gripping that massive knife—the color changed. Bright red fading to deep crimson, bleeding into pure, absolute black.
Max's breath caught.
No. It can't be.
His eyes locked onto the knife.
The Butcher's Knife. One of the Seven Forgotten Weapons.
He'd spent years searching for traces of them. Heard the stories. Studied the legends.
It extends the owner's life. Heals even fatal wounds.
The maniac lunged forward, impossibly fast.
Max barely dodged. The knife sliced through the air where his throat had been a second ago.
But it comes with a price. Kill at least one person a day—or the knife rejects you.
They collided. Fist against blade. Flame against steel.
And it corrupts. Drives its wielder to slaughter everything alive.
Max's mind raced as they fought.
How did someone like him get his hands on one of the Seven?
The maniac's laughter returned—wild, manic, inhuman.
Max gritted his teeth, flames burning brighter.
It doesn't matter.
He blocked another strike, feeling the heat in his veins intensify.
There's only one way to end this.
The maniac appeared behind him, knife raised for the killing blow.
Max spun around, eyes blazing with red fire.
I have to destroy that knife.
They clashed again—a collision of flame and steel that shook the street beneath them.
The maniac lunged, knife aimed at Max's heart.
Max didn't dodge. Instead, he raised his right arm—deliberately, sacrificially.
The blade tore through flesh and bone.
His arm was severed cleanly at the elbow.
Blood sprayed—but evaporated instantly in the heat radiating from Max's burning body.
The severed limb fell to the ground with a wet thud, still glowing faintly.
The maniac's grin widened.
*He's weakened. One arm. One chance.*
He lunged forward, knife raised for the killing blow—aimed directly at Max's chest.
Max didn't move.
The blade plunged into his chest.
Blood erupted from the wound.
But Max's left hand shot up, fingers closing around the knife—stopping it from sinking deeper.
The maniac's eyes widened.
"Wh—"
Max's boot crashed into the maniac's stomach, sending him stumbling backward.
The maniac snarled and charged again, grabbing the knife with both hands—trying to rip it free, trying to drive it deeper.
Their eyes locked.
Max's face twisted in pain, his grip trembling. The blade inched forward, millimeter by millimeter.
*I can't hold it much longer.*
Then he saw it.
His severed right arm. Lying on the ground a few meters away, still glowing with red embers.
A plan formed in an instant.
Max's left hand released the knife for a split second—just long enough.
He kicked.
His boot connected with the severed limb, sending it spinning through the air like a football.
The maniac's head snapped toward the sound.
His eyes widened.
*No—*
The arm hit him square in the chest.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the glow intensified—white, blinding, *burning*.
**BOOM.**
The explosion tore through the street like a shockwave of pure heat.
The ground cracked open. Windows shattered for blocks. The maniac's body was hurled backward, slamming through the concrete wall and deep into the building behind it.
Dust and debris filled the air.
Max collapsed to his knees, breathing hard.
His left hand was still wrapped around the knife embedded in his chest.
Slowly, gritting his teeth, he pulled it out.
Blood poured from the wound, but he didn't care.
The knife writhed in his grasp, trying to corrupt his mind—whispering promises of power, of immortality, of endless slaughter.
Max squeezed.
The metal groaned.
Cracks spread across the blade.
"You've… done enough damage…"
With one final pulse of flames, he crushed it.
The Butcher's Knife shattered into countless pieces.
Fragments scattered across the pavement, their dark, unnatural color bleeding away, leaving only ordinary steel.
Max collapsed beside them, staring at the shards.
*It's over.*
Silence fell over the ruined street.
---
Behind him, the maniac stirred.
His eyes opened—clarity returning for the first time in months.
The laughter was gone.
Andrew looked around, disoriented, his mind suddenly… quiet.
*What… what happened?*
He pushed himself up, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through his body. His chest was scorched black from the explosion. Blood covered his hands.
Memories flashed through his mind in fragments: screams, the weight of the knife, faces twisted in terror.
*What have I done?*
Across the street, a man sat slumped against a wall. Blood pooled beneath him.
Andrew staggered forward, collapsing to his knees beside the dying man.
"Who… are you?" His voice came out hoarse, unfamiliar.
The man's eyes flickered open. He looked at Andrew—really looked at him—and something like relief crossed his face.
"You're awake." His voice was barely a whisper. "The real you."
"Who I am doesn't matter." Max coughed, blood staining his lips. "I came to tell you the truth, but..." His eyes dimmed. "I think it's already too late."
Andrew's throat tightened. "What truth? What are you talking about?"
Max forced himself to continue, each word a struggle. "There's a place… where you can find everything in this world. Whatever you're searching for, Andrew—you'll find it there."
"A place? What place?!"
But Max's eyes were already losing focus.
"They'll come for you," he whispered. "Don't die. No matter what… don't die."
"Wait—who? Who's coming?!"
Max's hand fell limp.
Andrew grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. "Answer me! Who's coming?! What place?!"
Nothing.
Max's eyes stared at nothing, empty.
Andrew's hands trembled. He looked down at them—covered in blood. Max's blood. The blood of countless others.
What have I become?
The city's sounds returned. Distant sirens. The hum of streetlights. Rain beginning to fall.
Andrew stood slowly, his legs barely supporting him.
He looked at Max's body one last time.
"I'm sorry."
Then he turned and walked into the night.
Alone.
But not entirely.
Deep in his mind, the laughter stirred.
Weakened. Wounded.
But waiting.