I Came For You

Kael Lohars looked up, casting a glance at the gargoyle perched above him. The stone monster stared silently into the distant night, its mouth agape in a fierce, soundless roar.

"Goodbye," Kael said to it.

He reached out from the shelter of the eaves, his skin pale, a prominent tattoo marking his wrist. Within seconds, his palm felt the icy sting of raindrops, causing him to pull his hand back immediately.

However, a faint burning sensation had already begun to spread across his palm.

Kael pursed his lips, a flicker of displeasure crossing his pale face before vanishing just as quickly.

"Good," he muttered to himself. "It's raining."

He turned, shifting his feet slightly to avoid the pooling blood. As for the source of that blood, one need only look at the corpse lying at his feet with its chest and abdomen torn wide open.

Kael bent down and flipped the body over. His movements were gentle, yet in the process, he heard a dull splat.

He knew that was the sound of the corpse's viscera sliding out of the cavity and hitting the ground.

Kael sighed, beginning to wonder if his technique had grown rusty.

It had only been a single upward strike; how had he managed to disembowel the man so thoroughly?

As he pondered this, he stripped the cloak from the body. The side that had been facing inward was still stained with blood, so Kael gave it a shake and flipped it over; it would serve well enough.

A bit of trivia: when it rains on Nostramo, if you absolutely must go out, you had best cover yourself with something.

If you have nothing, then don't step out from any place that can shield you from the wind and rain.

As for the reason:

On Nostramo, the rain is toxic.

He stepped out from under the eaves. The streets were empty of pedestrians, though many eyes peered from the darkness, watching the cloaked shadow with famished gazes.

That was Quintus Hive on Nostramo—or rather, that was how every hive on Nostramo was.

They were perpetually crowded, perpetually foul, and choked with suffocating smog. The natural environment had long since been destroyed by endless extraction, and sunlight had abandoned Nostramo ages ago.

Gangs carved out territories large and small, replacing law with violence and controlling everything. Yet, in truth, they were merely dogs kept by the nobles in the upper spires.

With every breath, Kael caught a heavy scent of rust. The damned smell permeated his mouth, making his tongue feel like a rusted nickel wedged between his jaws.

He loathed the sticky sensation, but what he loathed even more was the realization that he had grown accustomed to it.

At this thought, Kael tugged at the corner of his mouth in a smile, his shoulders relaxing and dropping naturally as two silver glints flickered at his cuffs.

It was raining.

A fine night for killing.

He walked onward, crossing dark metal bridges and passing through narrow shantytowns, where he could hear the restless murmurs of the people sleeping within.

The smile on Kael's face grew wider, twisting into a terrifying, unsettling grin. His skin was pulled taut by his muscles, his teeth grinding slightly in the air.

The suffering, the downtrodden, the oppressed. Even in their dreams, they dared only curse in whispers.

Toxic chemicals permeated the air, devouring the lungs, hearts, and bodies of these poor laborers.

It devoured their emotions, their very essence. Yet the perpetrators sat in their exquisite homes, enjoying everything without ever having to witness the deaths of those they squeezed dry.

It wasn't fair, was it?

Kael continued walking. About half an hour later, he nimbly vaulted over a towering wall and arrived before the gates of a church.

Amidst the low-hanging night and the toxic acid rain, it looked grim. Two gargoyles stared at him from beside the spires and stained-glass windows. Raindrops fell vertically, shattering against the stone.

"Good evening."

Kael offered a soft greeting. His Nostraman hissed in the damp, foul air stirred up by the rain.

He moved forward, his gait now vastly different from when he walked the streets. His boots touched the ground without a sound, and his speed was startling; it was less like walking and more like gliding.

Thus, Kael reached the side door of the church and placed his hand on the handle. Half a breath later, the heavy, deadbolted metal door swung open of its own accord, without Kael even having to push.

He smiled faintly, a flash of deep, cold blue light flickering in his eyes.

"The people from Kolpa didn't hand over enough, Father."

A man with a tattoo on his face spoke.

His skin was as pale as every other Nostraman, and his eyes were pitch black, but his physique was different.

Most Nostramans appeared gaunt due to famine and the exploitation of the upper spires, but he was exceptionally robust.

The man addressed as Father did not answer immediately. He kept his eyes closed, his fingers interlaced, and remained kneeling piously beneath the statue, deep in prayer.

"Father."

The tattooed man hesitated before calling out again. This time, the Father opened his eyes.

He stood up, and the man couldn't help but swallow hard. There was no other reason than the Father's sheer stature. The sense of oppression brought by his rising was like witnessing a mountain shift its spine before one's eyes—it was bone-chilling.

"The mines north of Kolpa?" the Father asked.

His voice did not match his physique; it was neither heavy nor deep, but rather gentle. Even the Nostramo dialect, when spoken by him, took on an air of elegance.

This was certainly not the accent of the lower depths.

"Yes," the tattooed man replied. "The pit that produces the gold."

The priest sighed.

"It is always like this," he said slowly. "There are always those who think they can escape the gaze of God. I bestow grace upon them, yet they do not cherish it."

The tattooed man lowered his head—he dared not answer the priest. Discussing God and His grace within the church was the priest's sole prerogative.

"Send men tomorrow."

The priest waved his hand languidly.

"Bring Kolpa to me. I shall personally make him understand what precious love God has bestowed upon us. A sinner who commits the crime of impiety such as his deserves to be ground to dust in the fiery abyss."

He ceased speaking and stared at the man in silence. That gaze was like a blade, coldly scraping against the man's marrow and leaving him unable to stop trembling.

Finally, the priest spoke slowly once more.

"Also, do not disturb me at night again. This is my time for prayer."

"As you command, Father." The man hurried to bow his head in agreement, his back already soaked with a thin layer of sweat.

"So, are you pious, Father?"

A voice rang out abruptly, followed by the sharp sound of metal grinding against metal. There were no lights in the church; only a few candles burned quietly near the statue of the deity. Their tiny flickers were not enough to dispel the darkness.

In the mist-like gloom, something was moving.

The tattooed man's expression shifted violently. He immediately stepped in front of the priest and drew a pistol from his waist.

The weapon's appearance was crude, its grip nothing more than wooden planks wrapped in duct tape, yet it was capable of killing a mutant beast from the wastes outside the hive city in a single shot.

"I am pious, of course."

The priest did not seem flustered. He spoke softly, "And you, sir? Coming to my church in the dead of night—do you wish to make a confession?"

"Oh, a confession?"

A low chuckle came from the darkness. "I do have some things to confess. Very well, Father, I have killed many people. At first, it was just a bully who oppressed the miners; I hung him in his own room."

"Then, I couldn't stop. The second was a bastard who used drugs to control children and force them into prostitution."

"As for the most recent one, let me think. An unlicensed physician who liked to eat his patients. I took him apart."

Hearing this, the tattooed man's hand shook violently, his face turning pale with terror. He had already realized what this meant.

The priest gently raised his hand and placed it on the man's right shoulder, steadying his uncontrollable trembling.

Then, he said, "Judging by your description, I presume you are the Vengeful Spirit?"

"Vengeful for whom?" the figure in the darkness countered. "In this city, no one knows me. For whom would I seek vengeance?"

"So, you do not kill for justice."

"Justice?"

A sharp, piercing laugh erupted from the darkness.

The priest frowned. The hand he held on the tattooed man's shoulder tightened, the immense force causing the man to let out a pained groan. Even so, he dared not make any sudden moves.

There was a monster lurking in the darkness, and behind him, there was another. He did not know which was more terrifying.

"Justice exists," the priest said slowly. "You are too extreme."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Then, does God exist?"

"Naturally, He exists as well."

A low laugh came from the darkness, and a man in a cloak stepped out from the shadows.

"Oh, Father, if God truly exists, why does He, in His omniscience and omnipotence, not cast down thunder to punish us?"

"Because He pities us," the priest said calmly. "He wishes for us to find our way back, rather than cleansing our flesh through destruction."

The tattooed man let out a low, pained hiss.

The priest's tone remained calm, but the pressure from his right hand grew ever greater. This was the source of the tattooed man's agony.

The cloaked man laughed again. He lowered his hand, took off his cloak, and tossed it aside.

His skin tone and eyes were the same as all Nostramo people: skin as pale as a corpse, eyes as black as a tombstone—opposing colors, yet coexisting.

The priest stared at him. The moment their eyes met and he saw the man's face clearly, he exerted sudden force, crushing the tattooed man's shoulder blade.

A scream of agony, like that of a wild beast, erupted. The tattooed man collapsed to the ground, his gun falling beside him. Blood began to spread across the floor.

"My name is Kael, Kael Lohars, Father," Kael said with a smile. "How does this surname sound to you? Familiar?"

The priest gloomily raised his hands and undid the buttons of his robe. He stripped off the heavy, solemn black vestments piece by piece and threw them onto the lectern nearby. Beneath the robes, his body was covered in crisscrossing scars.

On his chest, there was a tattoo.

"Familiar," the priest said. "On Nostramo, there is no surname more familiar to me than Lohars."

"That is good."

Karyl smiled faintly and raised his hands, the blades reflecting the chaotic flicker of candlelight. He began to dance lightly in place, his back relaxed, his posture leisurely, the blades weaving in and out of sight at his wrists.

"Mr. Karyl."

The priest slowly clenched his fists, a rumbling mechanical sound echoing from within his arms.

"Speak, Priest—you can make it long, consider it your last words," Karyl replied with a chuckle.

The priest did not answer, merely drawing a deep breath of the blood-scented air.

The man on the ground was still screaming incessantly, so he raised his foot and stomped down hard on the soft throat, ending the man's pain.

The priest said, "You have indeed come for revenge."

"No, Priest, that is not it," Karyl responded softly. "I have come for you."

A strike flashed by in an instant, extinguishing the candlelight. Roars and manic laughter erupted in turns, and one of the tattooed man's eyeballs rolled away, vanishing silently into the darkness.

New author, new book; I hope you all enjoy it. Two updates daily, 3k words per chapter.