The endless night, adorned with raindrops, took on a foggy hue. They fell vertically, shattering against the sinister buildings of Nostramo.
The rain would not stop.
Kariel sat silently on the head of a huge gargoyle, looking down at the Church of Tranquility below. The Ghost stood behind him, and his mere presence sent a chilling cold down Kariel's spine.
The Ghost was not hostile towards him; this natural sense of threat stemmed from their differences.
Kariel understood this perfectly – from the moment he met the Ghost six months ago.
"Well?"
A hissing voice sounded from behind him. When the Ghost spoke Nostraman, his voice was softer than most.
Kariel did not answer.
"What is it, Kariel? Shall we act?" the Ghost asked again, impatience in his voice. "He's in the church… and his men too… there won't be a better chance…"
"He was never the target," Kariel finally said in a cold tone. "At best, just a dog."
He said no more. The Ghost fell silent. He began to empty his mind, and with this unsettling silence, his eyes closed.
In the next moment, countless visions descended upon him. Sinister, dark, cruel… horrifying. These were fragments of the future, reflections in a broken mirror.
But the Ghost remained unfazed.
He knew that of all these visions, only one could become reality, the rest were just interference. However, he rarely managed to see the picture of the future without distortion.
This was another of his gifts.
He didn't tell Kariel about it, just as he didn't about the other: the Ghost had never seen even a shadow of Kariel in his visions.
Never.
In the visions he could see, a man named Kariel Lohars seemed to not exist.
Kariel paid no attention to the Ghost's silence; he was already accustomed to his companion, who was more like a monster than himself. The Night Ghost, in most cases, behaved more like a beast in human form, and Kariel had already thoroughly studied his habits.
Kariel knew that the Ghost usually preferred to remain silent.
And it suited him, as he also loved silence when he was thinking.
Kariel looked at the woman in the white cloak. His vision was excellent, allowing him to see her clothes clearly.
The woman's white cloak was trimmed with gold thread along the edges, a stark contrast to the clothing of most inhabitants of the Underhive. Even some aristocrats probably did not have the right to wear such attire.
And that metal prosthesis…
Obviously, this was a person from the upper echelons. However, Razor, when talking to her, showed no slightest subservience.
Kariel merely smiled calmly at this. What else could he say? He was not surprised.
The woman walked away from the church doors, got into a car, and drove off. The roaring car started, producing a terrifying noise, and its size was even more frightening. The car occupied most of the street and, as it drove away, even hit two children crossing the road.
However, no one paid attention to this. Only a few hands emerged from the darkness and hastily dragged away the bloody bodies.
These two children were needed by the vagrants who had been thrown out of the factories due to illnesses that prevented them from working any longer.
People are always hungry.
A sharp screech sounded from behind him, as if two sharp pieces of metal were rubbing against each other.
Kariel knew it was the monster grinding its teeth.
"Don't bother," Kariel said. "Your anger is useless now, Ghost. She shouldn't die yet. Did you see her clothes?"
"Aristocrat…" the Ghost exhaled a puff of steam coldly.
"Yes, an aristocrat."
Kariel stretched his lips into a silent laugh and nodded.
He could have been handsome: with melancholic eyes and a high nose. However, his laughter completely ruined this attractiveness.
At this moment, sitting on the gargoyle, he looked like a monster ready to pounce on anyone who appeared in the darkness.
"I'm going to the church to pray."
Kariel stood up, and the gargoyle beneath his feet silently bared its teeth at the sky.
"You can keep an eye on that woman for now… but don't kill her."
He turned around, raised his head, and looked at the tall and silent Ghost, patiently asking, "Can you handle it?"
"I can't promise…" the Ghost whispered. "I can't promise…"
Kariel merely smirked at his evasive answer.
"The main thing is, don't kill her," he said quietly. "You understand what I mean."
…
"What the hell!"
Razor kicked Father's head in anger. It flew into the air, hit a bench nearby, and rolled further.
Inside, the church now resembled a slaughterhouse. The thick smell of blood made some of the eleven present tremble.
Don't misunderstand, they weren't afraid. How could they be afraid? They had done worse with their own hands.
The reason was different.
A hallucinogen made from human blood was very popular on Nostramo. Most gang members had tried it and were fascinated by it.
As addiction intensified, even ordinary blood began to act as a stimulant for them.
If this seems absurd to you, it means you haven't fully understood Nostramo. There was no morality here; anything that brought profit could happen.
Razor stood under the bloody statue, and the anger in his heart boiled endlessly. He often had to make great efforts to control his emotions.
However, when his gaze slid upwards and he saw the inscription on the statue, his rage finally erupted.
"Who does he think he is?!"
Razor roared, drew his pistol, and began firing at the statue, shattering its faceless visage. He felt no reverence for this deity; after all, Razor knew that gods did not exist.
"'I have come for your sins'? What the hell! This madman who kills people all over the city thinks he's so noble?"
"I'll kill him! I'll skin him and carve a figurine from each of his ribs!"
Razor screamed madly, his temples throbbing, and veins bulging on his forehead. His anger was caused not only by uncontrollable emotions but also by the chemical he constantly consumed. It was an old potion, a special entertainment for aristocrats.
And the price for his service to one of them.
You see, on Nostramo, everyone could find entertainment.
But what was the price?
"I am not noble, Razor… but I have indeed come for your sins."
A voice rang out, and in the next second, the light in the church went out. Previously, the lighting was controlled by Father; without his consent, no one could turn the light on or off.
But now he was dead.
In the darkness, a quiet, hissing voice sounded. The words were melodious, like romantic poetry, but those who heard them felt a chill run down their spines.
"Murder is the most common crime on Nostramo, my dear Mr. Razor. When the fire of anger ignites in the heart, anyone can commit such a sin… but I personally dislike this method."
"Murder in a fit of rage is inefficient. And I hate inefficiency."
Razor did not answer the voice from the darkness. He stared into the void, clutching his pistol, his anger having vanished without a trace.
This gang leader, who two minutes ago was roaring that he would torture someone, was now surprisingly calm. And so were his ten men. They didn't even need a command to instinctively stand back to back.
"Well trained, Mr. Razor."
The voice sounded again, this time with a clear smirk.
"So whose private soldiers are you? Did someone decide to clear out the lower levels again? Ah, every twenty years it's the same thing, almost like a natural law… a natural law that brings huge profits…"
"Show yourself!" Razor shouted into the darkness. "Since you figured it out, there's no point in being enemies with us! You can't afford the price!"
"The price…"
The voice from the darkness laughed low, echoing off the stone walls of the Church of Tranquility, distorting and turning into a monster's growl. The temperature began to drop.
Cold sweat ran down Razor's forehead. He didn't understand why he was so nervous. Was it because of the darkness? But darkness was familiar to every inhabitant of Nostramo.
He was used to walking in the dark.
But he couldn't stop the tremor in his hand clutching the pistol. And in the next second, a quiet sound behind him stretched his nerves to the limit.
Razor turned sharply, and along with his men, opened fire wildly in that direction.
Gunshots rang out.
"Not in that direction, Mr. Razor."
The voice sounded above Razor's head, and then he felt warm breath. He widened his eyes, raised his hand to pull the trigger, but a sharp pain in his wrist stopped him.
Then, a sharp whistle of a blade cutting through the air sounded again, and the dull sound of flesh being pierced by a blade.
The bandits were too familiar with this sound.
And finally, Razor's scream. With the most terrible scream of his life, he opened this massacre.
Gunshots rang out again.
Realizing what had happened, the bandits began to shoot frantically at the ceiling, but to no avail.
They had received training in the aristocrats' estates and knew that in such a situation, some men should remain vigilant, not empty all their magazines at once, otherwise the enemy would take advantage of the moment.
But they forgot about it.
They just wanted to keep pulling the trigger.
Irrational, illogical fear, crawling out of the darkness, completely destroyed their training. Fear erased all details from their memory, their seemingly firm will.
Fear crushed everything.
And death came again.
Kariel burst out rapidly
from their backs. His blades moved unhurriedly, but each strike was precise.
The first blow pierced one of their cheeks from behind. The victim screamed in pain, trying to break free, but in vain. The blade, lodged in flesh, simultaneously immobilized him.
Then, Karyel twisted his right wrist. Enormous force allowed the second blade to enter under the jaw and exit through the crown of the head.
Blood gushed. He squinted and licked his lips with satisfaction.
"Behind you!" someone shouted in the darkness.
But Karyel was no longer going to give them chances.
He knew no mercy and missed no opportunity.
He easily pulled the blade from the flesh, stepped back, and with a powerful kick of his right leg, sent the lifeless body flying, straight into the crowd. They immediately fell to the floor.
A few lucky ones managed to reload their weapons. With trembling hands, they pulled the triggers. Muzzle flashes illuminated the darkness, and a smiling monster appeared in their field of vision.
Karyel began to slide. His movements allowed him to move easily in the darkness. He didn't even need to distract himself to dodge the bullets fired by the fear-stricken humans.
Too simple, too easy.
Killing… it was as natural to him as breathing.
A lunge forward, right hand extended, blade drawing an arc, leaving a trail of blood behind. Another lunge, a kick breaks a neck. A crunch is heard, and Karyel laughs loudly.
A stop, a twist of the wrist, the blade pierces the eyeball and the brain behind it, then a twist. Pull out the blade, plunge it into another's throat. Dodge a grab, with an reverse grip cut the attacker's soft throat.
A throw with the left hand, the weapon pierces one's chest. A turn, with the free left hand rip out cartilage and trachea from the cut throat.
"Ah..."
The monster with a smile stopped, shook the sticky flesh in his hand, shook his head, and as if relieved, took a deep breath.
"Three more."
He spoke quietly, counting the enemies, but didn't even look at the trembling bandits. He had already smelled the sharp scent of urine mixed with the smell of blood.
A moment later, a scream echoed in the church again, and a low laugh, bouncing off the walls, became the accompaniment to their death.
Amidst the chaos of overturned pews, Father's head in the darkness silently watched it all, indifferently gazing at what was happening.
The dead do not judge.
***
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