Stealth

Horn tucked the pistol he had taken into his waistband and summoned a thin wisp of [Flame of Destiny] at his fingertips once more. With the mindset that even a mosquito was still meat, he wanted to give the monster called Martin one final send-off.

"Hmm, why is there so little?"

The illusory flames probed into Martin's body, yet found only a meager remnant. It did not match Martin's tenacious vitality just now at all. Moreover, with Horn's interference, the already scant crimson spirituality dissipated even faster, as though it were fleeing in blind panic.

Even natural leakage could not have been this fast. There was probably... no, definitely something wrong.

The exposed flesh rapidly grew stale. Following his unmistakable intuition, Horn studied the dying Martin. While searching, he deliberately left a thread of crimson spirituality unburned. Closing his eyes, he focused his attention on the flames and carefully felt his way along it.

In the flames' perception, that thread of spirituality seemed to be drawn by an invisible Attraction. Like a parasite instinctively leaving a nearly dead host, it wriggled out through Martin's flesh before sinking beneath the floorboards.

Focusing intently, Horn followed that thread of spirituality, sweat slowly beading on his forehead. It was his first attempt at such long-range analysis. Even his awakened flames were somewhat unable to bear the strain, and the information they sent back gradually became blurred and distorted.

Drawing upon his reserves of spirituality, Horn gritted his teeth and struggled to maintain that tiny spark. After an incomparably long eternity—or perhaps only an instant—the spark finally broke through the invisible barrier, only to vanish at once beneath the impact.

In the instant before it disappeared, Horn used it to "see."

He saw desire rushing straight at him.

Grail.

A Blood Pool.

A crimson Blood Pool.

Endlessly drawing spirituality from those indulging themselves above, using their still-trembling, living bodies as a relay point to brew the distorted [Grail], then generously feeding it back, bringing in more infected people. And so the cycle continued.

Like a fungus, it planted its threadlike roots deep into the darkness. It absorbed nutrients, scattered spores, and repeated the cycle over and over.

The dazzling lights and revelry were the perfect decoration, concealing the bloodiness underground and allowing it to flourish and bear abundant fruit.

As people arranged comfort and romance for themselves, they did not know they were whispering to indulgence. The spores of pardon had been multiplying in their hearts all along, ready to rot away the beating that had continued until now.

An Ocean of Blood formed from spirituality flowed beneath the ground, churning... hunting?!

"Ugh!"

A brief muffled groan escaped him. Even though Horn had only sensed it vaguely, glimpsing an existence far beyond his own scale inevitably came at a price.

Along with a trace of crimson that spread upward through their invisible connection, an overwhelming torrent of information crashed into his mind. It felt as though his forehead had been struck by a sledgehammer. Even the flame at the center of the "table" within his consciousness shook violently, while faint crimson specks flickered around its edges.

"Hey, what are you doing? Why are you standing there?"

A rebuke rang out beside him, though it was not directed at Horn. It was aimed at a half-grown child who had been sneaking glances around the gambling table amid the chaos, making him hurriedly withdraw his outstretched hand. A faint silver glint dropped silently into the pocket of his trousers.

While everyone's attention was focused on the thief, Horn forced himself to maintain his spiritual vision and turned to sweep his gaze over the hall. Members of the Hound Gang who had come to maintain order were already gathering, and traces of Crimson Menstruation could be seen, more or less, in their vicious pupils.

There were also the guests seeking pleasure, the dancers onstage, the waiters bringing food, and more, so many more...

All of them were stained crimson.

And during that brief contact, even Horn himself had been tainted by a blood-red glow like a "mark." His connection to the Blood Pool was gradually becoming clearer with time. For now, it was merely a faint sense of linkage, but Horn had no doubt that as time passed, with the bloody stench on the spiritual level clinging to him, his exact location would no longer remain hidden.

In other words, that illusory "Blood Food Chain" had already treated Horn as a new link. As time went on, even if he tried every possible way to stay away from it, having already absorbed too much of its spirituality, he could not escape the inevitable end.

After the blood fight, he would either win or die.

Even the police station had pieces planted by those monsters specifically to target people calling for help... Rather than sit around waiting to die, he might as well strike first. At the very least, he had to make enough noise for those "law enforcers" who truly feared them and did not dare openly devour people to notice him.

"When two narrow paths meet, the brave one wins... If I still can't contact my mentor, this may be my only chance. Before dawn, I have to settle this."

Amid this hellish scene, Horn suddenly smiled in relief.

What could he do?

There was only killing!

There had to be a way to break this mark. Since there was no avoiding it, then he would burn every last one of these monsters to ash.

Not a single one left!

Anger that did not belong to him rose from the flames, and sudden hunger clenched his stomach. As his emotions surged, orange-red light appeared in Horn's eyes once more. The two colors clashed, and the red grew increasingly intense.

Within his consciousness, the core of [Flame of Destiny] began to slowly turn. The deep vortex at its center started drawing together countless trajectories, like tides, like stars.

—And like fate.

Even though he had already noticed that the sudden powerful impulse was affecting his judgment, Horn still had no intention of stopping. It was not merely for self-preservation; there was also a hunger burning from within.

It was as though he had entered puberty, except what he craved was not nourishment, but spirituality that was both more intangible and more real.

Right now, aside from these freaks, Horn truly had no idea where else he could find such rich bundles of spiritual experience.

Whenever he burned spirituality, [Flame of Destiny] gave him a faint response. And now, the accumulated quantitative change was already very close to the threshold of qualitative change. It only lacked a single opportunity before it would transform irreversibly.

—Into something utterly unfamiliar.

"Tch."

Pressing a hand to his temple, Horn forcibly pulled his thoughts back to reality. Though it seemed as if a long time had passed in his consciousness, less than a minute had actually gone by since Martin's violent collision. While the chaos was still spreading, Horn blended into the surging crowd and ran toward the direction where the crimson had been strongest in that fleeting glimpse.

His footsteps hurried on.

In the non-public basement level of Hound Bar, inside the upper floor of a dim warehouse.

Two hooded figures in black were busily unloading box after box of goods from a cart. The taller one gripped a heavy crate tightly with both hands, veins bulging in his arms as he lifted it.

Gritting his teeth, he let out a muffled grunt and slowly raised the crate, carefully passing it to the companion beside him.

"Here—catch it."

The shorter figure took the heavy crate, staggering under its weight and nearly falling flat on his backside. Lowering his voice, he cursed, "Damn it, we're moving 'grapes' again. This is already the third time this week. We're a gang, not a moving company. Why are there so many 'grapes' to move?"

The taller one lifted the next crate and teased, "Spent too long on dancers' bellies? Or haven't had enough [Crimson Nectar]? Gary, how are you so weak that you can't even carry 'grapes' anymore?"

Gary pursed his lips but did not argue. He merely added in a subdued voice, "Jamie, did you hear that noise upstairs just now? Did something explode?"

The taller Jamie shrugged indifferently. "Who knows? It's not like anyone would dare come here and provoke the boss. They'd have to be tired of living."

"In the Lower District, who has the guts? If people from above had come, we might even know before those lackeys did."

"...Right. I was overthinking it."

Apparently amused by Gary's answer, Jamie jabbed his elbow into the shorter man's shoulder, knocking him off balance. Gary's face twisted, and his lips moved as though some elegant greeting was about to come out.

But after sizing up the difference in their builds, Gary wisely abandoned the idea and let out a long sigh.

"Ah, enough talking. Let's move this stuff."

The two men carrying crates headed toward the warehouse, completely unaware that someone was quietly approaching behind them to offer a friendly greeting.

"Urgh—"

Hearing a short cry beside him, the shorter hooded figure turned his head in surprise and discovered that his companion was already falling forward in a twisted posture. Sudden shock froze on his face, his pupils dilating as they reflected the dusty gray ground.

The crate in his hands followed, tracing an arc as it fell to the floor with a dull crash. Crimson Liquid splashed from beneath its warped, split lid and began to gush from the crack.

"Who is it—mmph."

His furious demand was cut off in his throat. Still wearing his hood, the man stared at the black muzzle of the gun before him, his Adam's apple bobbing as he silently swallowed his question. The crate he had failed to hold properly slipped from his hands and landed squarely on his toes.

His muscles twitched uncontrollably. Gary's face twisted and flushed red, but he did not dare cry out in pain.

"Dog scum from the Hound Gang. From now on, I ask, and you answer."

Opposite him, the black-haired, red-eyed youth held the semi-automatic pistol that had burst out of half of Martin's body and delivered the threat with perfect politeness.