The rain began to fall again. There wasn't a single light in the city; only the dim yellow glow from the pointed windows of the distant cathedral grew ever hazier through the rain. The closer he got to the cathedral, the more corpses lined the streets. Many of them gave off the stench of rot. To others, it was an omen of death; to Schiller, it was a beacon in the night.
The estimated times of death, determined by scent, guided him through streets and alleys. He walked through the dark streets while countless dangers hidden in the shadows reached for the hem of his coat, yet they could not even touch his shadow. Schiller's stride was simply too resolute, as though the carefully constructed atmosphere of darkness had no effect on him whatsoever.
As he passed through an alley, he heard those chaotic, fragmented footsteps again, along with some foul-mouthed curses, followed by the barely perceptible scent of blood.
Schiller stepped aside and hid at the mouth of the alley. Torchlight followed close behind. A youth in a jacket sprinted past him, pursued by a group of cult members carrying torches.
Schiller stood quietly at the street corner and watched them rush past. Once they had gone, he casually brushed the hem of his trench coat and continued toward his destination.
Just as he rounded another corner and crossed a street, he suddenly heard a faint sound behind him. He turned around and saw a lean yet agile woman standing in the darkness, staring at him.
"Who are you?" the woman asked.
"Schiller," Schiller replied.
"I asked whose man you are and what you're doing here."
"I belong to myself. I came here to complete a mission. Any other questions?"
"You don't want to ask who I am?"
"Do