How boring.
Scar stood there, holding the now-cooled iron rod, staring at the slumped figure before him.
After that sizzling sound, first came the smell of seared flesh spreading through the air. The moment he caught it, his stomach even spasmed. That was a reaction carved into his bones, a damn instinct that only came from too many years of hunger.
Then the smell changed.
From seared flesh to burnt. Deeper, harsher, like grease burned too long, like the smell that drifted over during a shantytown fire—rags and rotten wood burning together.
The body he was holding down, pinned by two others, jerked violently the instant that iron palm touched skin.
A broken, formless whimper escaped its mouth.
That sound faded quickly.
Whether it passed out, or its tongue or something blocked its throat—soon there was no sound at all. Only the body still twitching slightly, once, twice, like something still struggling yet beyond saving...
Scar suddenly couldn't quite remember what that was.
He looked down.
That face had been pressed sideways, expression invisible. He could only see that fresh, swollen handprint, edges already beginning to blacken, branded squarely on the person's cheek—on the same side as his own scar.
How boring.
He thought it would be different.
That afternoon, lying on Darenz's cold street, blood trickling from his temple into his mouth, those three calling him "clown," telling him to "dance." Crawling back to the shack, all the way he thought about how he'd make them crawl to beg him.
He thought he'd waited long for this moment.
But the instant that iron palm branded down—
That rush of satisfaction did come. Like fire, like alcohol surging, like something held too long finally bursting from his chest.
But it came fast.
And left fast.
So fast it felt like it never came at all. So fast that the seared-flesh smell hadn't even been savored before turning to burnt.
Scar stared at the body that had stopped twitching, suddenly felt utterly bored.
He casually handed the iron rod to someone nearby. That person took it carefully, placed it back by the bucket, like handling some sacred object.
Scar turned away.
Stopped looking.
—
Everything in the warehouse, from that moment on, became boring in Scar's eyes.
Those people were still frenzied. Still shouting. Still gazing up at the stage with eyes that wanted to tear out their hearts—gazing at that masked, robed figure beside him.
Whatever that figure said, Scar didn't register. He just stood in the shadows, watching those upturned faces, one by one, like a field of withered grass ignited by the same fire.
He suddenly remembered standing on stage himself just now.
Holding the iron rod.
Waiting for that brand to be pressed down.
Watched by a thousand eyes below.
What had he felt then?
He couldn't remember.
Only remembered now—watching those still-burning eyes—just felt pointless.
Very pointless.
Pointless even more than waiting for half a stale flatbread on an empty stomach and never getting it.
—
But one thing still bothered Scar.
He slowly raised his head, gaze passing over the frenzied crowd, through the warehouse's open doors, into the bottomless night outside.
Such a commotion.
He'd heard that sound. A thousand throats roaring, enough to tear the roof off. Torchlight seeping through the warehouse's cracks, like a wildfire blazing up in this godforsaken place.
By rights, someone should have come.
Those in uniforms, with knives and guns, belonging to some higher-up "them"—should have stormed in, roared at them to kneel, then started grabbing, beating, killing.
Yet not a stir.
Outside was terrifyingly quiet.
Only the night wind occasionally gusting in, making the torches sway.
Maybe those bastards were afraid?
The moment that thought surfaced, even Scar found it laughable. Afraid? When had those high-and-mighty ones ever feared rats like them from the gutter?
He'd seen them.
On Darenz's most "respectable" street, they rode in carriages, wearing clean, crisp robes, their gaze sweeping over him and his kind like sweeping over a pile of trash.
Those people would be afraid?
Or maybe—
Another thought slowly rose from deep within, chilling.
This little "stir" of theirs wasn't even worth their notice?
Scar stood on stage, looking down at that still-burning crowd, suddenly felt this warehouse had grown smaller.
Smaller.
Farther away.
Those roaring voices also distant, as if separated by something intangible.
He remembered that afternoon, lying on the cold street, blood from his temple flowing into his mouth.
Back then, he thought crawling back to the shack was victory.
Later, he thought being chosen by that vivid red finger was destiny.
Then later, he thought branding down with that iron rod was revenge.
But now—
Not a stir outside.
They'd raised hell all night. Shouted all night. Burned all night.
Not a stir outside.
Scar stood beside that robed figure on stage, staring at those still-burning yet dim faces, spacing out for a while.
Darenz's night was still that dark.
—
"We are the true masters of Darenz!"
Scar walked toward the shadowed side of the stage, watching Darren—that robed, masked figure now vigorously waving his arms—scream out those words.
Pretty loud.
Another wave of frenzied cheers from below.
"The selfish laws of devils do not apply to us!"
Darren shouted again.
What laws?
Scar's brow furrowed.
What the hell was this guy talking about?
This wasn't in the script.
Before going on stage, he'd gone over the lines with Darren: shout "power," shout "chaos," shout "witness," shout those words that could make these gutter bastards tremble and want to tear their hearts out.
These words Scar had tested himself—they worked, they were effective, harder than any reasoning.
But he hadn't told him to shout any "laws."
Laws?
What the hell was that?
Something those respectable types used to control gutter rats like them.
Something written on paper, posted on walls, yet never protected them a hair's worth.
How many of these people below had ever seen what "law" looked like?
How many hadn't been trampled by it their whole lives?
Scar was very dissatisfied.
Very dissatisfied indeed.
He stared at Darren's back, at that white mask swaying in the torchlight.
A fire burned in his heart.
This bastard—did he think that getting on stage, wearing a mask, shouting a few times, made him a real "savior"?
That he could just improvise?
He clenched his fist.
The rod that had branded someone was gone, but his palm still felt that solid, heavy sensation.
—
But—
His gaze swept the crowd below.
Those frenzied believers still raised their faces, mouths open, eyes burning with that almost-ignited light.
They shouted along:
"Salvation!"
"Drop dead!"
"Power!"
"Chaos!"
Again and again.
Like possessed.
Like seized by something.
Unable to stop.
That "laws" Darren had just shouted was like a pebble thrown into the sea—not even a ripple.
Scar stared at those faces, one by one.
Ecstatic.
Twisted.
Tearing up.
About to faint.
Not one puzzling over what "laws" meant.
Not one questioning whether what that figure on stage just said deviated from the "script."
They just needed to shout.
Needed to follow along.
Needed to shout those words—no matter who taught them, where they came from—over and over until they shouted themselves empty, shattered, part of this frenzy itself.
Hmph.
The corner of Scar's mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
A complex expression he himself couldn't quite name—satisfaction mixed with disdain.
Seems I'm still more suited for this.
Darren had the voice, the presence, that mask and robe that could bluff people.
But he didn't get it.
Didn't understand what these people below truly wanted.
They didn't want reasoning.
Didn't want "laws."
Didn't want things they'd never touched in their lives.
They wanted someone to shout for them.
To roar out those things they'd held in all their lives, unable to express.
Power.
Chaos.
Salvation.
Drop dead.
Just these.
Enough.
These were the words Scar had clawed from that gathering, from that vivid red finger, from that night's smoke and torchlight.
He didn't know what they really meant—
but he knew:
When these words smashed down from the stage,
those people's eyes lit up.
Darren didn't understand this.
He just shouted according to the lines—
and even got them wrong.
These people—
Scar's gaze swept the boiling sea of blood below again.
Better to have Scar in charge.
He stood in the shadows, watching Darren's still-vigorously waving arms on stage, watching those torchlit, ecstatic-to-the-point-of-twisted faces below.
That fire of dissatisfaction in his heart slowly sank,
turning into something colder.
More solid.
No hurry.
Tonight's show wasn't over yet.
Once the show ended,
once these people dispersed,
once only he and Darren remained—
He'd make Darren understand
what should be shouted
and what shouldn't.
What was Scar's script—
and what was Scar's territory.