Scar crawled through the streets.
Along the same empty street he had come from—only now, in the opposite direction.
From a tentative, self-satisfied attempt to "patrol" his territory,he had reverted to the most primitive, most miserable kind of movement.
His palms and knees scraped against the rough, icy ground.Each motion sent up a burning sting, intertwining with the dull ache of the beating,a constant reminder of the humiliation he had just endured.
The emptiness of the street only made those crawling things more brazen.
They seemed completely unaffected by the eerie silence.If anything, with fewer "people" walking upright,they appeared even more active—more efficient.
They rushed past Scar in swift blurs, stirring faint gusts of wind and dust.Their direction was clear.Their pace steady.
They showed no interest whatsoever in the fellow crawler on the ground—one far slower, far clumsier than themselves.Not a pause. Not a glance.
In Scar's lowered field of vision,aside from the difference in speed,he felt there was no essential difference between himself and them anymore.
Both crawled across this filthy ground.Both struggled forward toward some clear—or vague—destination.Both had been stripped, by this damned Darenz, of human dignity and posture.
This was the first time Scar had observed the Darenz he'd lived in for who-knew-how-longfrom such a perspective—
a viewpoint almost pressed to the ground, shoulder to shoulder with dust.
Before this, his gaze had always been level or slightly raised,watchful of other people's fists and theft,coveting scraps or opportunities that might exist above.
Aside from trivial matters,all his time and energy had gone into survival—
Where would the next meal come from?Where would he sleep tomorrow?How could he avoid even more vicious bullying?
The most primitive problems.
Looking back now—
Truly laughable.
As he crawled, Scar pulled back his blood-smeared lipsand laughed—silently.
Like a complete fool.
For that pig-slop-like mush.For half a moldy breadcrumb.
He bowed and scraped.He swallowed every insult.
He had lived like the most insignificant mouse in the gutter.
And the result?
The moment he tried to straighten his back—even just a little—reality smashed him flat again,
forcing him to crawlin a posture even more wretched than a rat's.
In this Darenz, perhaps only two kinds of existencedidn't have to worry about such things.
Didn't have to roll in the mud like he did,burning through every breath just to stay alive.
One kind—
The crawling things that sped past him now.
They seemed stripped of something called "humanity,"yet had also, strangely, cast off human worries and pain,leaving behind only a pure, instinctive existence—
one unbound by worldly rules.
What did they eat?How did they live?
Scar didn't know.And he didn't want to.
He only felt that such a state was both terrifyingand faintly, tragically free.
The other kind—
The decent people.
Those who lived in clean districts,with relatively intact clothing.
Their faces might show fatigue,but never this bone-deep hunger,this constant, gnawing panic.
Before, Scar's hatred toward them had been vague—mixed with envy.
Now—
As he crawled like a dog through the streets he had just "ruled,"listening to his own ragged, humiliating breathing,
that hatred became razor-sharp. Ice-cold.
"I'll make them all crawl."
This thought wasn't a specific act of revenge against those three thugs earlier.
It was something larger.Darker.
A silent curse roaring inside his chest.
Not killing.Not driving them away.
But stripping.
Stripping them of the upright posture that separated them from rats and things.Stripping them of their pitiful dignity and sense of superiority.
Making them taste it—
Faces pressed to the ground.Hands clawing at dirt.Struggling through streets where humans and monsters mingled.
Making them all…
like he was now.
Like the shadows that rushed past him.
Even worse than that.
"Look at that guy—he crawls so slow."
The voice dripped with undisguised contempt.
"He really does…"another chimed in, indifferent,with even a hint of idle amusement.
Scar's blood surged to his head again.Shame burned his ears.
He didn't dare lift his head—afraid of being recognized,afraid of seeing the look of disdain that would drive him mad.
He held his breath, ignored the pain of reopening wounds,and crawled faster.
His raw palms and knees screamed in protest.
The more he crawled,the farther he left those cold voices behind.
But the sounds—
the swollen slap marks on faces,the massive red handprints on walls,Vito's anxiety,the women's madness,the thugs' fists and boots,and the ever-present cold roughness of Darenz's ground beneath him—
all of it branded itself into his soul like red-hot irons.
He no longer wanted revenge on just those three.
He wanted this entire twisted Darenz—the place that had turned him into this—
to pay.
In a way only he could imagine.
Only Scar—who had crawled up from the very bottom,been smashed back down,and begun crawling again.
…
Humiliation flowed through him like molten iron,filling every limb.
Yet strangely,it became the only fuel keeping him from losing consciousness entirely.
Relying on that scalding, nauseating fuel,he shifted his weight between elbows and knees,inch by inch—
until he finally reached the familiar, crooked wooden door.
Behind it lay a temporary shelter.
Or perhaps just another fragile thronethat required constant effort to maintain.
He lifted an arm—caked in dirt and blood, trembling uncontrollably—and with the last shred of strength he had left,
hammered on the door.
Thud!Thud!Thud!
The dull sound rang out, jarringly loudin the silent shantytown.
As if completing a final command,all strength drained from his body.
He collapsed,his cheek pressed against the cold, filthy doorframe,left only with ragged, painful breathing—
and the warm sensation of blood still seeping from his temple.
The door was yanked open the next instant.
Light spilled out,along with the stale, murky air from inside.
"Who's there?!Who is it?!"
Vito's voice—alert, with a trace of barely concealed tension.
Scar forced open his swollen eyes.
From below, against the backlight,he saw Vito's blurred silhouette.
He opened his mouth.A wheezing, bellows-like rasp escaped his throat.
After a long moment,he finally squeezed out a few words:
"Vito…it's… me."
His voice was hoarse,so weak it was almost inaudible.
Vito clearly heard it—or rather, recognized the voice and the barely identifiable silhouette.
He didn't ask any further questions.He didn't even cry out in surprise.
His movements were astonishingly fast.
He bent down immediately, quickly yet carefully hooking Scar under the arms,half-dragging, half-lifting him inside.
The moment Scar's body left the icy ground and entered the relatively warmer interior,he couldn't help letting out a painful groan.
Vito laid him down on that pile of fairly thick, tattered blankets.His movements weren't gentle,but they carried a taut, urgent restraint.
Vito's expression turned ugly—a mix of shock and fury.
"Who did this, Scar."
Vito kept his voice very low,yet it felt like a bowstring pulled tight,every word carrying a chill.
He asked who did this,not what happened—as if he'd long expected Scar to end up like this.
Before Scar could answer,Vito suddenly snapped his head around and shouted at the other women in the shack,who had been jolted awake and were staring over in panic:
"Out!All of you, get out!Now!!"
His voice wasn't loud,but it carried an undeniable violence—completely different from the timid figure who usually followed behind Scar.
A brief, dead silence followed.
Then came the rustling of hurried movement,the frantic sounds of clothes being pulled on.
They skirted around Vito and Scar,and hurried footsteps vanished out the door.
The shack immediately felt emptier.
All that remained was Scar's heavy breathing,Vito's suppressed anger,and dust hanging in the air.
Scar felt someone approach—a trembling hand reaching toward the filthy, tattered, clearly ill-fitting woman's coat on him.
Before the hand could even touch the hem—
Vito struck out suddenly,clamping down hard on the woman's wrist.
"I said, get out."
Vito stared at her,his eyes cold as ice,his grip anything but light.
The woman flinched violently.She didn't dare say a word.
She tore free and stumbled out the door in a scramble.
The door was pulled shut by the last person leaving,closing with a soft sound.
Now, only the two of them remained in the shack.
Vito released his grip.He didn't even glance at the one who had fled,and crouched back down beside Scar.
"Bear with it,"Vito said as he poured some murky water from a cracked clay jar in the corner,wetting a relatively clean strip of cloth.
"People everywhere are stirring up trouble under your banner…and they only dare go after our own neighbors?"
He ground his teeth.
"One street over it's practically heaven compared to this hell?!"
Scar lay on the blankets, letting Vito handle him.
Pain came in waves, blurring his consciousness.
But Vito's earlier "Who did this",and the way he'd driven everyone else out—protecting the last shred of Scar's battered dignity—
sparked like a tiny flameamid the cold ashes of humiliation and rage in his chest.
Scar closed his eyes.
He swallowed back the metallic, bitter words rising in his throat—about those three thugs with slap marks on their faces,and the vicious curse he'd laid upon them.
Reckoning could wait.
It would have to wait until he could stand again.
Right now,he needed to survive this moment.
In this goddamn Darenzthat forced people to crawl just to live.
"Scar, I… I was thinking…"
Vito spoke hesitantly,awkwardly wiping at the split wound on Scar's temple with the damp cloth,drawing a sharp hiss of breath from him.
Vito's eyes kept darting away,as if something troubled him even more than the injuries in front of him.
Before he could finish—
Scar's hoarse yet unnervingly clear voice cut in.
"The thing I asked you to handle,"Scar said, enduring the sting of the cleaning,each word squeezed out through clenched teeth,"is it done?"
Vito froze for a moment,then reacted at once, nodding quickly.
"It's… all done."
His words came fast,with the tone of someone reporting a completed task.
But the hesitation crept back onto his face.
"But, Scar, I think—"
"Good."
Scar cut him off again,clearly having no interest in hearing the "but."
He slowly opened his swollen eyes.
Through blood and exhaustion,his gaze locked onto Vito's face,carrying an unmistakable resolve.
"Tonight, you'll go in my place."
Vito's hand jerked.The cloth nearly slipped from his fingers.
"Me?!"
His eyes went wide.
"Scar, this… that place, those people…how can I—"
"If I say you can, then you can."
Scar's voice wasn't loud,but it carried crushing weight.
"You just stand there,""say exactly what I told you—not a word missing."
"Tell them the rules of the Red Hand."
He paused.
A flash of brutality crossed his eyes.
"And how debts are repaid."
Vito swallowed hard.The color drained from his face.
Facing those people alone terrified him—but under Scar's unyielding stare,he didn't dare argue further.
"Them?"Vito hesitated."Then… what about you?" he asked carefully.
Scar tugged at his lips.
That smile—mixed with dried blood and pain—was grotesque.
"Me?"
He slowly flexed his battered arm,his knuckles whitening.
"I'm going to… personally cripple them."
Scar's gaze shifted to the shack's tightly shut door,as if piercing through the wood—
seeing the empty street outside,the glaring red handprints on the walls,and three figures fleeing in panic.
"As long as they're breathing in this area,"he let out a cold, humorless chuckle,"no one would dare not show up."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Tonight's "gathering"was both a negotiation—or a warning—to those people,and his moment to purge his ranks, solidify his authority,and above all—
to take revenge.
He wanted everyone who was supposed to be there—
every last one of them—
to witness, with their own eyes,how he would personally deal with those who had offended him.
The shack fell silent.
Only Scar's heavy, forceful breathing remained.
Nightfall was creeping closer.
And this corner of Darenzwas destined to welcome a nightredefined by blood and fire.