Chapter 5: Night of the Crimson Harvest
[I. The Calculus of the Hunt] The luxury black steam-carriage—a trophy "borrowed" by Silas's men—sliced through the waterlogged veins of Azmareel. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of the glass-wipers provided a hypnotic tempo to the chaos outside. In the plush rear seat, Alexander Milov sat in a shroud of shadow, his ash-colored eyes scanning the three names Elena Vostok had provided.
Beside him, Silas was a coiled spring of tension. He spent the journey obsessively sharpening a long trench-knife, the metallic shing-shing sounding like a death-knell.
"Three of the most lethal contractors on the continent," Silas muttered, peering through the fogged window at the passing gloom of the Industrial District. "Are we really just going to knock on their doors, Boss?"
Alexander closed the envelope. He struck a match, the sulfurous spark illuminating his cold, aristocratic features for a fleeting second. He watched the paper curl and blacken in the silver ashtray until it was nothing but a memory of ash.
"A prince does not wait to be hunted, Silas," Alexander said, his voice a calm river of obsidian. "If we wait until dawn, we are merely targets in a shooting gallery. Tonight, we teach Kruger's dogs that Azmareel has a new master. And a master does not hide from his pets."
[II. Target One: The Glass Eye] The carriage glided to a silent halt in a grease-stained alleyway behind the St. Mark's Clock Tower.
The first target: Vasily the Sniper. A man whose nervous system was said to be made of liquid nitrogen. He was a phantom of the high-rises, capable of staying motionless for seventy-two hours just for one clean shot.
"Wait here," Alexander commanded, his hand on the door handle. "This requires a silence your mallet cannot provide."
Alexander slipped into the tower. The ascent up the spiral wooden stairs was a dance with gravity. Each step groaned under the weight of history, but Alexander moved like a wraith, his boots barely whispering against the rot-softened wood.
When he reached the belfry, where the gargantuan iron gears of the clock ground together with a slow, tectonic groan, he activated his Vision.
The room exploded into a kaleidoscope of mists. There it was: Electric Blue. Cold, static, and terrifyingly steady. This was the color of absolute focus.
Vasily was a silhouette against the circular window, his long-barreled rifle aimed toward the distant Manor. He was waiting for Alexander to walk into his crosshairs. He didn't realize the target was standing six feet behind him.
Alexander didn't draw a gun. A gunshot would stain the night with noise.
He moved.
Vasily sensed it—a minute shift in the air pressure. He spun, his hand blurring toward the steam-pistol at his hip. But Alexander was a storm already unleashed. He kicked Vasily's wrist, the bone snapping with a sickening crack, and before the sniper could gasp, Alexander seized his collar and slammed him against the rotating gears of the clockwork.
"You're looking the wrong way, Vasily," Alexander whispered into the man's ear.
He looped a thin, alchemical wire around the sniper's throat. He didn't pull tight—not yet.
"Kruger paid you for a head, didn't he?"
Vasily tried to speak, but the wire bit into his flesh. His aura began to leak a Frantic Orange—the color of a predator becoming the prey.
"Consider your contract... voided."
With a sudden, violent heave, Alexander hurled the sniper through the open window. There was no scream, just the long whistle of falling air followed by a dull, wet thud against the cobblestones below. The Glass Eye was shattered.
[III. Target Two: The Meat-Grinder] The second destination was the City Slaughterhouse. A place of iron hooks and the copper smell of death—the perfect nest for Goran the Butcher. Goran was a sadistic giant who preferred the tactile resistance of flesh against a cleaver over the cowardice of a bullet.
When Alexander and Silas entered, the stench of raw beef and drying blood was a physical weight. Carcasses of cattle hung from automated rails, swaying slowly like hanged men in a metallic forest.
Goran emerged from the rows of hanging meat. He was bare-chested, his massive torso a map of scars and fresh blood. He held a cleaver the size of a man's torso.
"You came to me?" Goran laughed, a sound like a bull's roar. His aura was a Vile Crimson, saturated with Black Shardsof pure, unadulterated malice.
Alexander looked at Silas. "This one is yours."
Silas grinned, tossing his rifle aside. He unstrapped his iron mallet. "I've been waiting for a reason to hit something that hits back."
They collided like two locomotives. Cleaver met mallet in a spray of sparks that lit up the dark slaughterhouse. Goran was stronger, a mountain of meat and rage, but Silas fought with the precision of a man who had found a reason to live.
As they traded blows, Alexander leaned against a blood-stained pillar, his Vision narrowing. He saw a flicker in Goran's aura—a Sharp Yellow (Agony) in his left knee with every rotation. An old mining injury, perhaps.
"Silas!" Alexander's voice cut through the clash of steel. "The left knee. The gear is rusted."
Silas didn't hesitate. He ducked under a cleaver swing that would have decapitated a horse and drove the head of his mallet into Goran's kneecap. The sound of the patella shattering was louder than the machinery.
Goran screamed, collapsing into the sawdust and blood. Silas didn't give him a second chance. He brought the mallet down one final time, a crushing blow to the chest that silenced the Butcher forever.
[IV. Target Three: The Serpent's Kiss] The third name was Madame Lola. An expert in toxins, seduction, and the art of the invisible kill.
The Location: The Gilded Cage, an elite nightclub in the heart of the city where the wealthy drowned their boredom in expensive gin.
Alexander entered alone, his black coat a stark contrast to the shimmering dresses of the dancers. He sat at the bar. A beautiful blonde waitress approached him, carrying a crystal glass of amber liquid.
"On the house, handsome," she purred, her eyes trailing over his face.
Alexander looked at the drink, then at her. He activated the Mist.
The woman looked normal to the human eye, but her aura was a Sickly, Viscous Green—the color of hemlock and betrayal. There was no attraction in her soul, only a Frosty Grey of cold calculation.
"Lola, I presume?" Alexander said softly.
The smile on her face froze, cracking like cheap porcelain. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The poison in this glass... Cyanide? Or something slower? Arsenic, perhaps?"
She tried to pull her hand away, but Alexander's grip was a vice of cold iron.
"I never drink what I haven't poured myself."
In one fluid motion, he twisted her arm behind her back, slamming her face onto the cold mahogany bar. The patrons gasped, the music skipping a beat. Alexander took the poisoned glass and held it to her lips.
"Drink it," he whispered, his voice a freezing wind. "Or tell me where Victor Kruger sleeps tonight."
Lola shivered. The Grey Fear overwhelmed her green aura. She was an assassin of the shadows, not a martyr.
"No! No!" she sobbed. "I'll tell you! He's in the Imperial Hotel... the Royal Suite, Room 505. Please... don't make me drink it!"
Alexander released her, sliding the glass away until it shattered on the floor, the liquid hissing as it began to eat into the wood.
"Disappear from my city," Alexander said. "If I see your aura in Azmareel again, I will not be merciful."
[V. The Dawn: A Message in a Box] As the first grey light of dawn broke over the horizon, the rain finally ceased, leaving the city in a cold, shimmering shroud.
In front of the Imperial Hotel, the black carriage stopped for a mere second. Silas stepped out and placed a small, polished wooden box on the marble doorstep before the car vanished into the fog.
When Victor Kruger woke and opened the door to retrieve his morning paper, he found the box instead.
He opened it with trembling hands. Inside, there was no severed head. No threats written in blood.
Instead, he found three items:
The shattered lens of Vasily's scope.Goran's cleaver—cleaned and polished to a mirror finish.Lola's empty poison vial.
Atop them sat a crisp, black card embossed with a red wax seal of a Griffin with outstretched wings. In elegant, sharp handwriting, it read:
"You send toys, and I return them broken. The next move is not against your pawns, Victor. Prepare yourself."— A.M.
Kruger felt a primordial chill race down his spine. For the first time in his life, the Emperor of Industry realized he wasn't the player. He was just another piece on the board, and the Ghost was playing for the King.