Dance in the Rain (II)

Quintus's Old District was a fascinating architectural complex.

In fact, twenty years ago, it had been the "New District."

But today, twenty years later, every resident of Quintus called it the Old District. There was no reason; everyone just called it that. The few who knew why kept their mouths shut.

And the dead, naturally, couldn't speak.

The world changed with each passing day. The times were merciless. The workers who had once lived in the Old District had vanished so completely that not even their bones could be found. Everything they had was buried beyond recovery. No cemetery, no gravestones, no names.

Death meant losing everything, didn't it?

But at least one person still remembered them.

A wraith remembered.

Karyl leaped down from the ruined rooftop, avoiding the Glory Warlords' patrol vehicle.

The motorcycle bounced over the potholes, and the two riders cursed as they were jolted around. Neither of them knew that, at that very moment, a dark shadow had flashed past overhead.

Watching the two men disappear into the distance, Karyl shook his head, his expression tinged with regret.

The patrolmen were cautious—or rather, whoever had planned these patrol routes was cautious. He had established numerous routes along the highway, but they all intersected in several places. That made a silent kill all but impossible.

After all, judging by the way things were set up, the disappearance of any group would soon draw the attention of the others.

Karyl could erase the sounds of killing, but not its consequences.

Every time he swung his blade, someone died—and death couldn't be concealed.

Karyl pressed on.

He knew every detail of the Old District by heart. Forward, turn, run down an alley, leap onto the roof of a sinister-looking house—with just twelve minutes of effort, he had reached his destination.

A clock tower.

It had once been one of the Old District's many landmarks. Neon lights and floating factory billboards had surrounded it. The pitch-black night had been bathed in dazzling colors, and the wars that erupted around the clock tower had raged without a single day's respite.

Every gang wanted to own it.

It stood silent and tall in the darkness, like some kind of symbol, compelling everyone who saw it to try to conquer it.

But all of that had been utterly changed by the arrival of the Great Purge. Then the establishment of the New District had only made matters worse.

By now, this place could truly be called a ghost town. Only half of it was still in use—and not by the workers.

Very fitting for Nostramo, Karyl thought.

His lips twitched, and he gave a cold little smile.

Karyl went forward and, with a few nimble leaps, climbed the ancient building. When he reached the top and entered the heart of the clock tower through its small arched doorway, he found, as expected, that the enormous bronze bell was gone.

Had it been stolen, or taken by some noble to add to his collection? Karyl had no answer.

He went to the other side of the arched doorway, his gaze settling on a highway.

It was utterly different from the pitch-black Old District. There was a bright white lamp every fifty meters, making the whole highway seem far too brightly lit to belong to Nostramo.

The Glory Warlords had made this a heavily defended position. If anything, the sentries and patrols he had encountered earlier had been nothing more than appetizers. The checkpoints set up every five hundred meters were the lavish main course.

Armed men were everywhere. They even had sentry automatons—a group of genuinely dim-witted iron golems built by artisans from Prime Hive City, and wildly popular.

It was worth noting that the highway was also in good condition. That was thanks to the workers who were driven out to repair it every two months.

But where were they now?

Karyl had no answer.

He let out a quiet breath, then bent down and moved aside the bricks and tiles piled along the edge of the arched doorway. After brushing away some dust, he sat on the ground.

He would wait for them to arrive, just as he had in the past. The moment he caught their scent, he would leap out of the darkness and cut his prey's throat.

But before he could carry out the plan, he needed patience.

A proper hunter needed patience. It was a rare quality, too. Without it, you couldn't do this job.

"Patience, Wraith," Karyl murmured. "Don't get hurt. Don't disappoint yourself."

Yes. Don't disappoint yourself.

He lowered his head, clenched his hands, and pressed the blades against his skin.

"Don't run," Wraith said. "You shouldn't run. You should accept all of this."

"Get away from me, you monster!"

A man screamed and shouted. He stood in an attic drenched in blood, a gun raised in his hands, yet he no longer had the courage to pull the trigger at Wraith.

In fact, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold it.

Half a minute ago, he had emptied a magazine without so much as grazing the edge of Wraith's clothes.

And if you went back another half minute, you would have seen a shadow enter the attic in an instant and tear the limbs off one of the two sentries with just two swings of his arms.

If you had seen that scene of screams and spraying gore, perhaps you could have understood a little of the terror consuming the man now.

Faced with the man's screams, Wraith merely tilted his head.

So this was the effect fear had?

He nodded thoughtfully, finally beginning to understand why Karyl carried out every mission in absolute silence.

At first, he had thought Karyl did it simply because he liked to. Wraith had never expected that Karyl did it because it was more effective.

In the face of fear, they were utterly helpless.

In fact, this was the last sentry post Wraith had been assigned to clear. But this sobbing man wasn't the first person to break down in front of Wraith tonight.

There had been many before him.

"Don't come closer! Don't come closer!" the man sobbed. "Please, don't come closer. I don't want to die. I don't want to die."

"Are you not going to shoot me again?" Wraith asked gently, standing where he was. His voice hissed.

"I, I..."

"Shoot," Wraith said quietly. "I want you to accept all of this."

"Accept what? Are you crazy?!"

The man broke down and screamed. His voice echoed through the ruined attic. His fat belly was smeared with blood, and behind him a dismembered corpse stared silently at the scene.

"Accept your death, Barry."

Wraith answered in a low voice, slowly and softly, as naturally as if he weren't threatening or pressuring Barry at all. In fact, he sounded as though he were simply having a normal conversation with Barry.

"We heard your conversation with Jovan, Barry. You've accepted becoming a servant of the Skolevok Family. You've given them everything."

"Then why can't you accept your death? You don't want to die like this, but why not? Why shouldn't you be unwilling to die?"

Wraith asked in earnest. He took the question seriously because he couldn't think of an answer, and he didn't want to bother Karyl with it—but Barry...

Barry's eyes widened, and he froze.

A moment later, his legs began to buckle. Then, against his will, he dropped to his knees.

We heard your conversation with Jovan.

We.

We.

The vengeful dead.

I see.

No wonder the bullets couldn't hit him. No wonder he was so tall. No wonder my cries hadn't alerted the other groups. No wonder Jovan had suddenly become...

So they had come for me.

Barry's face began to twitch. He gasped for breath, but the air he sucked in did nothing to ease his distress.

His breathing grew faster and faster, and his expression crumpled further and further, until finally he knelt on the ground and sobbed.

His sobs were broken.

"Don't cry," Wraith said softly. "Shoot me, Barry. Accept all of this."

"Clatter."

A gun hit the ground. Barry had refused in his own way. Wraith frowned, recalling Karyl's words.

"Why... did this happen to me?"

Barry wept. "Why don't you go after them? Vengeful Spirit? Why don't you go after the people who made us do these things?"

"Who?" Midnight Haunt asked. For now, he didn't feel like correcting Barry's mistake about the name.

"The Skolevok Family!"

Barry shouted, eyes wide and bloodshot. To Wraith, his murky eyeballs looked like glass corroded by acid rain.

"Why don't you go after them?!"

In response to Barry's challenge, Wraith merely crouched down. He crouched at the other end of the attic's darkness, like a monster lying in wait.

His expression was calm and natural, full of patience.

Karyl had taught him that when talking to someone, he should make them feel respected. And now he was talking to Barry.

He continued, "What did they make you do?"

Barry froze. He had asked the question, but it seemed he hadn't considered what came after it.

But Wraith had.

Or rather—Karyl had.

Midnight Haunt's hissing voice sounded again in the darkness. "They made you exploit the workers, collect taxes, and suppress anyone who resisted, didn't they?"

"Yes! Yes!"

As if he had grasped a lifeline, Barry nodded again and again, a strange frenzy gleaming across his tear- and snot-streaked face. "Yes! They made us do it!"

"Then did they make you eat people, run butcher shops, murder, traffic people, kill in the streets, and rob indiscriminately?" Wraith asked.

Barry froze again. He hadn't expected this. To him, all of those things were perfectly natural. Becoming a gang member meant gaining those privileges.

He had never imagined that one day these things would be used to question him.

And he couldn't even come up with an answer.

"Then did they make you follow their example and drive people who couldn't pay out of the Hive City, leaving them to fend for themselves in the wilderness and become prey for beasts?"

"Then did they make you follow their example and act as if you were better than everyone else?"

Wraith slowly stood up.

"You had already accepted the fact that you were a servant of the Skolevok Family. In fact, you were perfectly suited to the role, Barry. You accepted the benefits it brought you, so you should accept the responsibilities that came with it."

"No, no, that's not how it is," Barry said, trembling.

"Yes, Barry," Wraith said in a low voice. "Yes, it is."

"No!" Barry roared, his face twisted with rage.

"I did these things because I had no choice! I had no choice! I couldn't survive otherwise. I didn't want to end up like those workers in the factories, with lung disease. I didn't want to cough up blood and be covered in dust like them—"

Wraith nodded silently. He knew what Barry was talking about.

The workers in the factories got sick. They contracted all kinds of illnesses. Lung disease was the most common, and if one person in a family caught it, the whole family would get it.

He had seen it many times while passing through the Shantytown—a family, or just one person, lying by the side of the street, coughing blood onto a moldy plank that had already seen someone die, suffering terribly as they waited for death.

For no particular reason, a surge of irritation rose in Wraith's chest. So he interrupted Barry and ended the conversation.

"—Shh. No more, Barry. Accept it."

Wraith spoke softly, then took a step forward.

Barry let out a horrified scream. He hadn't been hurt at all, yet he looked as though someone had gutted him. Tears and snot, stinging his eyes, streaked his fat face. Wraith remained unmoved and kept walking toward him.

"No, please, don't," Barry whimpered. "I really didn't want to. I really didn't."

Wraith stopped and stared at him for a while.

He thought Karyl had been right.

They really did cry. They really did put on an air of remorse.

"But we can't forgive them. We have no right to forgive on behalf of their victims."

Wraith stepped forward and reached out with his right hand, lifting Barry's chin.

"Don't cry, Barry," Wraith said softly. "Crying is a privilege of humanity, and you aren't human."

Outside the window, the rain began to pour in torrents.