Carefully Selected, Unhurriedly, Reason is Sliced into Shame

Crimson Finale is a Nostramo gang that is difficult to describe in specific terms. Don't misunderstand; this isn't because their image is particularly terrifying or their methods especially brutal.

You must understand that these two points are essentially the standard equipment for any Nostramo gang. If you lack either one, the gang will take the initiative to "dismiss" you.

Moreover, when it comes to sheer cruelty, they don't even rank. Aside from owning many motorcycles and having a penchant for painting half their faces red with blood, Crimson Finale has absolutely nothing worth remembering.

Furthermore, there is nothing creative about how they use their motorcycles.

They don't tie people to them to drag them to death, nor do they use them to ram passing civilians. They really just ride them while shooting guns and swinging blades; compared to other gangs with similar motorcycle obsessions, they are completely devoid of imagination.

The reason this gang is so hard to describe in specific terms is because, right now...

Well, most of them are currently in pieces.

Literally.

Karyl stood calmly before a closed wooden door, his hands hanging low and tucked inside his cloak.

He breathed quietly, his sound nearly imperceptible. The floor beneath his feet was covered in blood, even submerging the thick soles of his leather boots. He stood peacefully before the door, waiting patiently.

He was always very patient.

Fifteen minutes later, two faint, relieved sighs came from behind the door, only to vanish quickly.

Karyl continued to wait, as steady as a mountain. Five minutes later, soft voices and the sound of leather boots tapping lightly against the concrete floor echoed from within.

At this very moment, Karyl abruptly changed his posture.

He drove force into his legs and thrust his right shoulder forward. The immense power caused the door to be torn clean off its hinges, bringing bad luck to the person behind it who had come to check the situation.

The man screamed as he was sent flying, crashing into the wall with unfortunate precision, and fell silent immediately. Gunshots followed, but this time, Karyl had prepared in advance.

The sound would not leak out again—in fact, the slaughter had been going on for a while, yet another gang across the street had never realized a massacre was taking place here.

"Hello there," Karyl said softly. Icy blue light flickered in his eyes, making his voice sound terrifying and low, like the eerie grinding of blades against bone.

He stood before the empty doorway, tilting his head, not in a hurry to kill the final survivor. Blood pooled at his feet, corpses littered the corridor behind him, and the pale light from outside filtered in through shattered windows and holes in the walls.

This angle was carefully designed by Karyl. He needed the survivor to see all of this.

"Don't come over, don't come over."

The room fell silent for a few seconds, followed by a panicked voice and the protest of a firearm whose trigger was being pulled repeatedly, though it was out of ammunition.

The latter was particularly noticeable.

Karyl smiled, not rushing to apply pressure; he could already smell the scent of fear.

Fear can change many things; it can make the wise foolish and the foolish cunning. A small number of people can withstand high pressure, ignoring fear to move forward. But most people will inevitably become its slaves.

He took a slow step forward, deliberately letting the survivor see his posture.

The unlucky man screamed immediately, his imagination forcing him to involuntarily conjure up what Karyl would do to him next.

He scrambled backward on his hands and feet, simultaneously grabbing debris and trash from the floor to throw at Karyl.

Very good, just as I expected.

Karyl narrowed his eyes, the icy blue light flashing once more. He stood his ground, choosing not to dodge; those objects passed right through his body, not even brushing the hem of his cloak.

They fell to the ground, landing amidst the shattered flesh and corpses, splashing into the pools of blood with dull thuds.

The screaming resumed a few seconds later.

This time it was particularly high-pitched and sounded fragmented. The sole survivor of Crimson Finale closed his eyes, began chanting illogical phrases, and waved his hands wildly, desperate to beg the Vengeful Spirit to spare him.

What he didn't know was that Karyl couldn't move at all right now.

Still too much of a strain.

He frowned, thinking: My understanding of this power is still insufficient, but it seems that as long as I don't use it violently, that thing from the afterlife cannot find me.

This is an unexpected joy; I can note it down and inform Wraith later. He also has the potential to awaken this power—though I hope he never has to use it.

Sighing silently, Karyl endured the intense pain and soreness as he continued to walk forward.

The way he walked now was truly slow and stiff. This posture, stemming from his own body rather than a disguise, made the survivor, who had opened his eyes upon hearing the footsteps, scream even more horribly.

In the corridor outside the room, Wraith, who was hunched over, frowned.

The survivor screamed while continuing to retreat. His sanity had been sliced into pieces by fear, no longer possessing any possibility of being glued back together. However, the instinct for survival was still forcing him to react.

Like retreating, trying to get away from this room that had turned freezing cold, and the ghost standing at the door.

Unfortunately, his back was already pressed against the wall.

He had nowhere left to retreat.

And after that—

Standing before him, the Vengeful Spirit who had personally orchestrated all of this, slowly opened his mouth.

—

"I still don't understand why we didn't kill him."

"Because—wait, let me catch my breath."

Karyl caught his breath, leaning his weight against the filthy wall of the dark alleyway, and it took several seconds before he resumed answering Wraith's question.

"Because my plan requires a piece of trash like him, shattered by fear."

"A plan?" Wraith crouched on the ground and tilted his head. "What plan? You never told me about one."

"You don't need to know the specific process of this plan, Wraith, you don't even need to know its name. The only thing I can tell you is this."

Karyl paused again, forcing himself to take deep breaths, though the process was clearly agonizing. Wraith could see his distorted features and sweat-drenched face, which prompted him to stand up.

"...What is it?" Wraith asked in a low voice.

"It's its purpose." Karyl managed a weak smile. "I let him go because I knew he would definitely go around broadcasting what happened to his gang."

"And then?"

"And then, the gangs will know which sector the Vengeful Spirit is currently operating in, and those who didn't believe before will be a little more convinced of its existence when faced with such a living, breathing example of madness."

"But didn't you say it's best not to leave any witnesses, and only leave the name at the scene?"

Wraith walked forward, puzzled, and helped Karyl sit down on the ground.

"My thanks, Wraith."

Karyl said, choosing to offer thanks before rushing to explain further.

Politeness is very important.

"Both methods have their own advantages; don't be rigid about sticking to just one. You must weigh the situation and use them accordingly."

"...I don't quite understand."

If you understood, I'd be damned, you little eighteen-month-old monster.

Karyl smiled. "You can verify their respective effects later. Back to the point, Wraith. Do you remember that woman?"

"...I remember."

Wraith's expression tightened slightly, and he asked in a low voice, "She said I was a low-intelligence iron puppet. What did that mean?"

"You actually heard that. Fine, we'll talk about that later. In any case, she came from the Skolevok Family, a high-nest family with a long history; there are seventeen people alone who hold the title of Count."

"She was a coroner for the Skolevok Family, a role responsible for patrolling the lower Hive City, maintaining order in the gang territories under the Skolevok Family, and collecting the taxes they owed."

"Compared to the gangs, she wasn't particularly high-ranking, but a coroner is a direct employee. Can you understand what I mean by that?"

Wraith listened to Karyl's words quietly and patiently, nodding—the term "direct employee" caused ripples in his mind the moment it appeared, allowing him to understand the word and the meanings of many others that followed.

"And she is dead. I killed her, along with the priest of the Church of Rest, the Razor of the Razor Gang, and the Tremor-Tooth member you killed."

"Tremor-Tooth?"

"No lips, lots of piercing studs or chains on his body."

Wraith had a sudden realization: "That bald guy!"

"...Anyway, on the eve of The Great Purge, we provoked both the Skolevok Family and Tremor-Tooth at once. To ensure The Great Purge proceeds smoothly, they will definitely send people down to deal with us."

"This is a good opportunity, Wraith. We finally have a chance to kill some upper-crust nobles."

Karyl slowly grinned, and a joy that defied description flashed abruptly across his pale face: "...This is a first."

Wraith nodded, then began to think.

He didn't actually understand the Skolevok Family, Tremor-Tooth, or The Great Purge—those strange terms didn't just appear in his heart.

He didn't understand them, just as he didn't understand why Karyl knew so much. In fact, to Wraith, Karyl knew more than he did.

However, there are some things you don't need to understand. You only need to distinguish whether it is right or good, and that is enough.

After a cautious and brief reflection, Wraith reached his conclusion.

Karyl was right, and this matter was good.

However, he had one last point of concern to bring up. Karyl had said that if he felt confused about something, he should ask directly and not hide it.

Wraith did just that.

He frowned and asked, "But we never used to leave survivors."

"...You really are persistent about this, Wraith. Fine, listen closely—killing is always just a means, not an end. Don't get the fundamental relationship wrong. Also."

Karyl sat on the ground and slowly reached out a hand.

Wraith looked at him, puzzled.

Silence.

One second, two seconds, three seconds—the renowned Vengeful Spirit finally sighed.

"Give me a lift back to the Sanctuary," he said. "I can't move for the time being."

"Oh."

The next second, Wraith honestly hoisted him up.

Many thanks to Blood Sacrifice God Emperor, Demolition 2099, Slaanesh Chosen Monaha, binfou, Sudden Summer, Aman Ayan, Ice Cave Seal, and Book Friend 20190309164243994 for their generous tips.

I am truly overwhelmed and flattered to have achieved such results.

(I should probably just make a separate chapter for these kinds of thank-yous next time.)

During the new book phase, I will maintain two updates daily, with 3,000 words per update. There will be a massive release on the day of the official launch; I originally planned for 20 chapters, but let's bump that up to 30 (sigh).

I had actually thought I could slack off for a while after starting a new book.