Erika kept Cole's words firmly in mind.
Keep clapping. Until I say stop.
So he was still clapping.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
His palms struck together, the rhythm even, the force measured. Cole had said applause needed 'showmanship'—not too rushed, which looked overly excited and naive; not too slow, which seemed perfunctory and insincere. It had to be like watching a play reach its climax: genuinely appreciative, yet maintaining a deliberate distance.
Erika thought he was doing a pretty good job. As he clapped, he watched the scene unfolding before him with keen interest.
Under the moonlight, the narrow alley stuck out from between two rows of crooked shacks like a pale, grey tongue. At the end of the alley, the tall, filthy white-robed figure—Cole—was walking forward, step by step. The hem of his robe dragged on the ground, stained with muddy water, trailing behind him in the moonlight like a faded tail.
In the middle of the alley stood two people.
One was pinned against the wall by his throat. The one doing the choking was currently twisting his head, looking in their direction.
Erika recognized that face.
That scar. Slashing diagonally from the brow bone to the ear, looking exactly like a resting centipede in the pale light. Just moments ago on the stage, this was the man who had held the iron rod, branding a glowing red handprint onto someone's face without blinking an eye.
Now he stood there, his hand still clamped around the other man's throat, but entirely motionless.
Like he'd been nailed in place by something unseen.
Erika kept clapping. He remembered what Cole had said just earlier: "Remember those two poor, unappreciated talents? When you invested your money in them, I told you I'd bring you to see the results."
Unappreciated talents. Poor souls.
Erika hadn't fully understood at the time. He had simply followed Cole's instructions, pulling out those metal chits he'd gotten from his "Southern friends" and handing them over to these two—one being this scar-faced man, the other being the guy currently being choked, bile hanging from his mouth, smiling a smile more agonizing than tears.
Cole called it an "investment."
Erika didn't understand investments. But he knew those metal chits had now transformed into something else—into a massive gathering, into the frantic roars of thousands, into blood and fire on and off a stage, and into the very scene he was observing right now.
Was this what it meant to "deliver on a promise"?
He didn't know. He just kept clapping, watching Cole's back draw closer, watching what those two "poor souls" looked like under the moonlight. One choking, the other choked; one face etched with confusion and raw vigilance, the other wearing a gruesome, hair-raising smile.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The applause echoed down the narrow alley, steady and unhurried. Cole hadn't said stop. So Erika kept clapping. And kept watching.
"You did very well."
Cole's voice echoed in the alley, airy and unhurried, layering perfectly over Erika's applause.
Erika kept his hands moving, but his gaze drifted past Cole's back, fixing on the two men deep in the alley.
"I must say, you truly have talent." Cole paused. "Especially this friend here."
Erika didn't know exactly which one Cole meant. From the stage earlier, faces were a blur. The firelight was too blinding, the distance too great, not to mention the pure white masks. He only knew that the man who eventually wielded the iron rod had a scar—one that was much clearer now in the moonlight. The other man, the one being choked, he recognized even less.
So did "this friend" mean the one with the scar? Or the one pinned to the wall?
He didn't know. But what he was far more curious about was—why exactly were these two trying to kill each other right now?
Just moments ago on stage, they had been a team. One branding with hot iron, the other shouting through a mask, cooperating perfectly. How did they end up at each other's throats the second they stepped off?
Erika tilted his head slightly, keeping up his rhythmic applause, like an audience member watching a play halfway through without knowing the prologue.
—
However, Cole's words seemed to take effect. The alley fell silent for a heartbeat. Only Erika's applause remained.
Then—
The man with the scar let go.
The hand clamped around the throat slowly loosened, dropping heavily to his side. The other man instantly collapsed. Like his bones had been extracted, like the single breath keeping him upright had snapped. Darren slid down the moss-covered wall, crumbling into a heap on the ground, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. It was impossible to tell if he was crying or just gasping for air.
Old Scar stood rooted to the spot, staring dead at Cole.
His arm hung loose, but it wasn't relaxed. In the moonlight, those hands were visible—thick-knuckled, stained with blood from gods-knew-where. The hands that had just gripped a searing iron rod, the hands that had just choked a man. Right now, those hands were slightly curled, half-clenched into fists.
Like they were waiting for something.
"Of course, I always deliver on what I promise," Cole continued. His tone was still airy, as casual as discussing the weather or what to have for dinner. "Though I certainly couldn't carry it on me."
He paused.
"After all, this place is... a bit uncanny."
Erika's mouth twitched slightly at those words. Uncanny. Whenever Cole used that word to describe Darenz, it was always with a tone of accustomed, almost appreciative amusement. As if 'uncanny' wasn't a bad thing, but a local flavor worth savoring.
"So, if you please—"
Cole took another step forward. Those eyes, glinting in the moonlight, shifted from the scarred face down to the trembling, huddled mass on the ground.
"Follow me."
—
Erika finally stopped clapping.
Not because Cole said stop—Cole still hadn't. It was because he himself felt that this was no longer the time for applause.
He watched Cole standing in the middle of the alley, watched the complex, churning emotions on the scarred face, and watched that shivering, ambiguous lump on the ground.
Follow me? Where?
Erika didn't know. But he knew that when Cole said those two words, his tone was exactly the same as when he'd said "deliver on a promise"—airy, yet like a stone thrown into deep water, sinking with a heavy, undeniable weight.
He stood at the mouth of the alley, the moonlight washing over him, stretching his shadow impossibly long.
He waited.
To see if that scar would move. To see if that lump on the ground would stand up. To see what else Cole would say.
And he continued to watch.
Erika watched in silence.
Under the moonlight, the scarred man stood rooted, his arm hanging like a stake driven into the earth. And that huddled silhouette on the ground—
Suddenly moved.
Not standing up. Crawling.
Moving on all fours, as fast as a whipped dog. Hands pressing into the dirt, knees scraping against the moss, scrambling forward with desperate speed—
Until he reached Cole's feet.
"We... we had a deal..."
The man at Cole's feet lifted his head. Moonlight washed over his face—deathly pale, soaked in cold sweat, sour bile still clinging to the corner of his mouth. His eyes were blown wide, like a drowning man who had finally grasped a piece of driftwood.
He reached out, wanting to grab the hem of Cole's robe, but not quite daring to touch it. His trembling hand just hovered in the air.
"We had a deal..." he repeated.
Erika watched the scene unfold.
Watched a man kneeling in the dirt, head thrown back, extending a violently shaking hand toward another. Watched that pale, contorted face, crumpled by fear and something far more complex.
Absurd.
The word popped into his head. He didn't know if it was the right word. He only knew this was the most bizarre spectacle he had witnessed in his entire life.
—
"Of course, of course."
Cole's voice remained incredibly airy.
He bent down and reached out—not to swat the trembling hand away, but to help the man up.
The motion was gentle. Like picking up a fallen child, or retrieving an object that shouldn't have been left on the ground.
The man—Darren—stumbled to his feet, both hands now clutching Cole's sleeve as if terrified he might vanish.
Cole didn't pull away.
He merely lifted his gaze, looking down the alley at the figure still standing in the shadows.
"What do you say?" Cole asked.
—
Erika watched.
Watched the scar. Watched the face flickering in the shifting moonlight. Watched those hanging hands clench, un-clench, and clench again.
Grunt.
A low, muffled scoff.
The scarred man turned and walked away.
Not a single word. Not another glance at anyone. He just turned his back and walked toward the other end of the alley—back toward the direction they had fled from, back toward the faint, fanatical roars still echoing in the night.
Boots crunching on moss, step by step, fading into the distance.
"Until we meet again," Cole called out to the retreating back.
Then he turned. One hand still supporting Darren, the other waving lightly at Erika.
"Let's go."
—
They walked toward the opposite end of the alley.
Toward where the decent people lived.
Erika followed behind Cole. Beneath his feet were unfamiliar cobblestones. Flatter, cleaner than the slums, devoid of flowing sewage and garbage heaps. The moonlight reflected off them in a pale, grayish-white hue.
—
A few steps in.
"I don't owe you."
The scarred man's voice barked from behind.
Erika curiously turned his head—
A tiny, glinting object was hurtling straight at his face!
It was too fast.
The object carved a sharp, abrupt arc through the moonlight, like a skipped stone, like a darting insect—but faster than both!
Erika's pupils dilated instantly. Before his body could even twitch—
A hand firmly intercepted the space right in front of his face.
Smack.
A very soft sound.
That hand—Cole's hand—stood between him and the deadly glint. Five fingers spread wide, like a wall that had materialized out of nowhere.
Erika froze.
It took a second for his senses to return, for his eyes to focus.
Pinched between Cole's fingertips was a gold tooth.
Yellowish-gold. Gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Stained with something dark.
Cole glanced at the tooth, then threw a look at the distant silhouette almost swallowed by the shadows. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Then, he casually slipped the gold tooth into his robes and patted Erika on the shoulder.
"Let's go," he said.
As if absolutely nothing had happened.