Rainy Night Dance (2)

The old district of Quintus is a fascinating complex of architecture.

In truth, twenty years ago, it was the "New District."

Yet, twenty years later, every citizen of Quintus refers to it as the Old District. There is no reason for it; that is simply what everyone calls it. The few who know why keep their mouths shut.

And the dead, naturally, do not speak.

How ruthless the changes of time are, with each passing day bringing something new. The workers who once lived in the Old District have vanished, their very bones nowhere to be seen. Everything they were has been thoroughly buried—no graveyards, no tombstones, no names.

Death means losing everything, doesn't it?

But at least one person remembers them.

A wraith remembers.

Karyl leaped down from a dilapidated roof, dodging a patrol vehicle of the Glory Warlords.

The motorcycle rumbled over the potholed road, and the two men sitting upon it cursed at the bumps. Neither of them knew that, at this very moment, a dim, dark shadow had flickered right over their heads.

Watching him and his companions recede into the distance, Karyl shook his head, his expression tinged with a hint of regret.

The patrols were cautious, or rather, the person who designed these routes was cautious. Many routes had been set along the highway, yet each one intersected with the others. This made silent slaughter a luxury.

After all, at this rate, the disappearance of any single group would soon draw the attention of the others.

Karyl could erase the sound of the killing, but he could not erase the result.

Every time he swung his blade, someone would die—and death is something that cannot be concealed.

Karyl continued forward.

He knew every detail of the Old District by heart. Moving forward, turning corners, darting into alleys, leaping onto gloomy, peaked houses—only twelve minutes later, he had reached his destination.

A clock tower.

Once, it was one of the many symbols of the Old District. Surrounding the tower, there used to be countless neon lights and floating advertisements from the factories. The pitch-black night would be illuminated in a riot of color, and the wars that erupted near the clock tower never ceased for a single day.

Every gang wanted to possess it.

It stood silent, tall, and imposing in the darkness, like some sort of icon that compelled everyone who saw it to try and conquer it.

However, all of this changed completely with the arrival of The Great Purge. Subsequently, the establishment of the Prime Hive City only made matters worse.

Today, this place could truly be called a ghost town. Only half the area is still in use, and it is not the workers who are using it.

It fits the temperament of Nostramo perfectly, Karyl thought.

He couldn't help but twitch the corner of his mouth in a cold, mirthless smile.

Karyl stepped forward, climbing the ancient structure with a few nimble leaps. When he reached the top and entered the heart of the clock tower through a small arched door, he was not surprised to find the massive bronze bell missing.

Stolen, or taken by some noble for a collection? Karyl had no answer.

He walked to the other side of the arched door, his gaze fixed upon the highway.

Compared to the pitch-black of the Old District, it was starkly different. Incandescent lamps stood every fifty meters, making the entire road look too bright to be a creation of Nostramo.

The Glory Warlords had set up heavy defenses here; if one had to say, the previous outposts and patrols were merely appetizers. These checkpoints, set every five hundred meters, were the main course.

Armed men were everywhere, and they even possessed sentry droids—a group of true low-intelligence iron puppets, crafted by the artisans of Prime Hive City, with staggering sales figures.

It is worth mentioning that the road conditions of this highway were also excellent. For this, one could thank the workers who were driven out to maintain the road every two months.

But where were they now?

Karyl had no answer.

He exhaled softly, then bent down to clear away the bricks and tiles piled at the edge of the arched door, brushing off some dust before sitting on the ground.

He would wait for them to arrive, just as he had done in the past. As soon as he caught their scent, he would leap from the darkness and sever the throats of his prey.

But before all this could be successfully executed, he needed patience.

A qualified hunter ought to possess patience; it is a rare quality, and without it, one cannot do this job.

"Patience, Wraith," Karyl muttered to himself. "Don't get hurt, and don't let yourself down."

Yes, don't let yourself down.

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

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

"Get away, you monster!"

A man shrieked, crying out. He stood in an attic filled with blood, his hand clearly holding a gun, yet he no longer had the courage to pull the trigger on the Wraith.

In fact, his hand was trembling so violently he could barely hold the weapon.

Half a minute ago, he had emptied an entire magazine without even touching the hem of the Wraith's clothing.

And if you were to look back another half minute, you would have seen how a dark shadow instantly entered the attic and, in two swipes of his hands, tore the limbs from one of the two sentries.

If you could see that scene, mixed with screams and the spray of flesh and blood, perhaps you could empathize with the intense terror this man felt at this very moment.

Faced with the man's wailing, the Night Haunter merely tilted his head.

So, this is the function of fear?

He nodded thoughtfully, finally beginning to truly understand why Karyl insisted on a silent approach for every mission.

He had originally assumed Karyl did so simply out of preference. The Night Haunter truly had not expected that Karyl acted this way simply because it was more efficient.

In the face of fear, they were utterly fragile.

In fact, this was already the last outpost the Night Haunter was responsible for clearing. However, this weeping man was not the first person to break down before him tonight.

There had been many before him.

"Don't come over here, don't come over!" the man sobbed, tears and snot streaming down his face. "I beg you, don't come any closer, I don't want to die, I don't want to die!"

"Do you not intend to fire your gun at me again?" the Night Haunter stood where he was and asked softly, his voice hissing.

"I, I..."

"Fire," the Night Haunter said quietly. "I want you to accept all of this."

"Accept what? Are you sick?!"

The man screamed in a breakdown, his voice echoing through the shattered attic. His fat belly was stained with blood, and behind him, a dismembered corpse watched the scene in silence.

"Accept your death, Barry."

The Night Haunter replied in a low voice, slow and deep, his tone gentle and natural. He did not sound like he was threatening or coercing; in fact, he sounded exactly as if he were having a normal conversation with Barry.

"We heard your conversation with Jovan, Barry. You have already accepted becoming a servant of the Skolevok Family, offering them everything you have."

"Then why can you not accept your death? You are unwilling to die just like this, but why? Why should you be unwilling?"

The Night Haunter asked sincerely, earnest about the question. He could not think of an answer, and he did not want to trouble Karyl—not with Barry.

Barry's eyes widened, and he froze.

His legs turned to jelly the next second, and then, he found himself involuntarily kneeling on the ground.

We, heard, your, conversation, with, Jovan.

We.

We.

Vengeful spirits.

So that was it.

No wonder the bullets couldn't hit him, no wonder he was so tall, no wonder my shouts failed to draw the attention of the other squads, no wonder Jovan suddenly turned into...

So they had come for me.

Barry's face began to twitch, and he started gasping for air, yet the inhaled oxygen provided no relief for his emotions.

His breathing grew increasingly rapid, his expression crumbling further, until finally, he knelt on the floor and began to sob.

The crying was broken.

"Don't cry," the Night Haunter said gently. "Fire your gun at me, Barry, and accept all of this."

Clatter.

A gun dropped to the floor. Barry had made his refusal in his own way, and the Night Haunter frowned, beginning to recall Karyl's words.

"Why... is it me who encounters this?"

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

"Which people?" the Midnight Haunt asked, not wishing to correct Barry's error in address for the moment.

"The Skolevok Family!"

Barry roared, his eyes bulging and bloodshot, his murky pupils appearing to the Night Haunter like glass corroded by acid rain.

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

Faced with Barry's questioning, the Night Haunter simply crouched down. He remained perched at the other end of the dark attic like a monster waiting in the shadows.

His expression was calm and natural, filled with patience.

Karyl had taught him that during a conversation, one should make the other party feel respected. And now, he was already in a conversation with Barry.

He continued to ask: "What did they make you do?"

Barry froze; he was the one who had raised the question, but he seemed not to have thought about what came after.

But the Night Haunter had.

Or rather—Karyl had.

The Midnight Haunt's hissing voice echoed in the darkness once more: "They made you squeeze the workers, collect taxes, and suppress those who resisted, did they not?"

"Yes! Yes!"

As if grabbing a life-saving straw, Barry began to nod repeatedly, a bizarre madness flashing across his tear-streaked face. "Yes! It was all them who made us do it!"

"Then, did they make you engage in cannibalism, run butcher shops, commit murder, traffic people, kill in the streets, and rob at will?" Wraith asked again.

Barry was stunned once more; he hadn't expected this, as all of these things were self-evident in his worldview. Being a member of a gang meant having obtained these privileges.

He had never imagined that these actions would one day become the subject of someone else's interrogation.

Moreover, he found he had no way to answer.

"Then, did they make you learn from them how to drive civilians who couldn't pay their dues out of the Hive City, leaving them to fend for themselves in the wasteland and become fodder for beasts?"

"Then, did they make you learn from them how to act superior to others?"

Wraith slowly stood up.

"You had already accepted the fact that you were a servant of the Skolevok Family long ago. In reality, you were like a fish in water with this status, Barry. Since you accepted the benefits that came with this identity, you should also accept the responsibilities it entails."

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

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

"It's not!" Barry roared, his face twisted with ferocity.

"I did these things because I had to! I had to! If I didn't, I wouldn't survive. I didn't want to end up like those factory workers with lung disease, I didn't want to cough up blood like them, covered in dust—"

Wraith nodded silently; he knew what Barry was talking about.

Factory workers got sick; they contracted all sorts of illnesses. The most common was lung disease, and if one person caught it, the whole family would catch it too.

He had seen it many times while passing through the shantytowns—a family, or a single person, lying by the side of the street on moldy floorboards where others had already died, coughing up blood in agonizing pain, waiting quietly for death to arrive.

For no reason, a sense of irritation rose in Wraith's heart. Thus, he took the initiative to interrupt Barry, ending the conversation.

"—Hush, say no more, Barry. Accept it."

Wraith said softly, then took a step forward.

Barry screamed in terror. Even though he hadn't suffered any harm yet, he was already in as much pain as if he had been disemboweled. Irritating tears and snot crisscrossed his fat face, but Wraith remained indifferent and continued to walk forward.

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

Wraith stopped in his tracks and stared at him for a moment.

He thought that Karyl was right.

They really would cry, and they really would put on a show of repentance.

"However, we cannot forgive them. We have no right to forgive on behalf of the victims."

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

"Don't cry, Barry," Wraith said gently. "Crying is a privilege of humanity, and you are not human."

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