Ring of Fear (Part 2, Complete)

In a gorgeously decorated room bathed in soft light, Jando Skraivok smiled slowly before tucking his pocket watch away.

Twelve hours had passed just moments ago.

He turned his head, a look of regret surfacing on his face. This emotion stemmed from the scene directly in front of the sofa where he sat.

His sister, Irene Skraivok, stood there, her hands covered in blood.

As for that blood, it belonged to a man hanging suspended in the air—a former member of the Crimson Finale gang.

Or rather, the last member of the Crimson Finale.

His blood dripped slowly from the wounds on his body, leaving indelible crimson stains on the carpet that continued to spread.

Blood permeated the air.

Jando took a deep breath of the blood-scented air, then stood up and spoke in an elegant, resonant voice.

"I don't believe you'll gain anything useful by torturing a madman like this, my respected sister."

Hearing this, Irene Skraivok turned her head to glance at him.

"I also don't believe that choosing to cling to me will lead to a good end for you," Irene replied coldly.

"Oh, don't be like that, sister. We both know that the Glory Warlords are the only ones we can rely on in the Underhive right now. Do you really expect me to run off and seek help from other gangs? I'm not as foolish as Lena."

"She is not foolish," Irene said. "The foolish one is you, Jando."

"Ah, that is truly a heartbreaking assessment, my respected sister."

Jando feigned sadness, covering his face, but the dark eyes peeking through his fingers were filled with malice.

"I have always held you in adoring affection, so why do you despise me so?"

"There are many reasons, Jando."

Irene looked at him and replied calmly.

"Posturing, feigning depth, self-importance. While these flaws are normal for a nobleman's son, there is one thing about you I cannot tolerate."

"Hmm? Because I have a penchant for some exquisite ingredients from the Underhive?" Jando asked tentatively.

"No, because you are too stupid."

Irene Skraivok answered coldly. "You are so stupid that you actually thought this attack was something I planned."

Jando slowly raised an eyebrow. He lowered his hand, and his smile returned. At this moment, you could no longer see a trace of the fear that had been on his face twelve hours ago.

Sometimes, fear has an expiration date.

"But, my sister, you cannot deny that all of this is such a coincidence."

"A coincidence?"

"Yes, sister. Not to mention how that man managed to bypass the Glory Warlords' sentries without being detected, let's just talk about the suggestion you made."

"If we had truly followed your advice and split up to flee through the Underhive, there is no doubt that you would be the one to survive until the end, my sister."

"As for Lena... I am more pessimistic. I suspect she is likely dead by now."

Jando smiled elegantly. He felt no sorrow for the death of his fictionalized kin; instead, a sense of pleasure spread across his face.

He had changed his clothes and even bathed. The disheveled appearance from twelve hours ago had completely vanished.

At this moment, in this room decorated as lavishly as any Upper Hive palace, Jando Skraivok was acting like his usual self again.

He walked toward Irene with a natural, measured gait.

"My respected sister, I know your capabilities. I have always understood that Father's tolerance for me stems from the resemblance between us, but his trust in you is something I could never hope to reach. And you utilized his trust perfectly, didn't you? Truly excellent."

"Do not blame your incompetence on me, Jando. And do not project things I haven't done onto me."

Irene stared at him calmly. "It was your own decision to waste your time for study and practice on tasting flesh. You ruined yourself, so say no more."

"Perhaps... perhaps that is true, but, my sister."

Jando Skraivok sneered and spread his arms. "I may be inferior to you in every other aspect, but on the path of exploring the art of flesh, you could never be better than me."

He extended his right hand, asking for the blade used for the torture: "Allow me to demonstrate a thing or two for you, my respected sister."

"I don't have time to waste on such things with you, Jando."

Irene said coldly. "Torture is a means, not an end. You have taken the wrong path."

"Besides, the mind of this servant from the Crimson Finale was completely shattered long before the Glory Warlords found him. Do you really think you can excavate someone's spirit from their flesh with nothing but a blade?"

Jando shrugged, appearing very composed.

"Perhaps I really can, sister. You know, I learned a few tricks from some ancient texts regarding the methods of the House of Lohars."

"...You idiot."

After saying this, a clear emotion finally appeared on Irene's face—she glared at Jando in anger and spoke in a cold voice.

"You act so carefree. Let me guess, is it because you think we can receive more reinforcements sent by the family? And then you can go back and tell Father the 'truth' you've imagined?"

"Isn't that the case?" Jando retorted. "The family wouldn't abandon us, sister."

He smiled again, a sense of superiority spreading across his face, as if he had seen through everything. He winked smugly, drawing out the final syllable of his last word into an incredibly long, lingering tone.

Irene took a deep breath.

She spoke in a low, heavy voice.

"No, Jando. This is not my conspiracy."

"Father sent us here to deal with the Coroner's death. This matter has tarnished the reputation of the Skolevok Family. It has absolutely nothing to do with me, and I would never do such a thing."

"Family honor is more important than anything else, Jando. Father gave us the Iron Pride and forty personal guards, along with the assistance of the Glory Warlords—a loyal cult of servants with a twenty-five-story spire and thousands of members."

"What more do you think we can get from Father? Our value is not as high as you imagine. Yes, Father spent twenty years cultivating us, but he has many more twenty-year spans to burn through."

The smile on Jando's face slowly faded; he tilted his head slightly, forcing himself to remain calm.

Yet Irene continued, as if she were pouring out all the disgust she had held for him over the years, losing her usual composure in a rare display of emotion.

Her face flushed deep red, her features twisted. She looked both furious and terrifying.

Unlike Jando, she had never forgotten the encounter from twelve hours ago; the terror in her heart had swelled to a point where it was on the verge of devouring her sanity.

And Jando's behavior had perfectly ignited that fear.

"You bathed, changed your clothes, and then sat in this fake palace built by servants, smugly assuming that everything was my conspiracy?"

"But do not forget, twelve hours ago you were just a piece of trash collapsed on the ground, so scared you nearly lost control of your bowels! Jando! You are nothing but trash!"

Irene let out a cold, high-pitched laugh that echoed through the room. Jando's face turned from pale to livid, and he found himself speechless.

Whether by coincidence or not, the moment her laughter erupted, the survivor from the Crimson Finale behind her—who had been tortured to the brink of death—opened his eyes.

There was nothing in those pitch-black eyes: no sensation, no reason, no desire for life, nor any resistance to death.

There was only an eerie calm, followed by a fleeting, chilling blue light.

He raised his head and looked at the bloodline of the Skolevok Family. Then, he opened his mouth—lips shorn away, many teeth pulled out—and began to chant softly in a hoarse voice.

It was low, long, and carried an obvious gloom. The melody was gentle, yet it felt like a blade scraping against the tender skin of a throat.

Irene Skolevok shuddered, and her laughter stopped abruptly.

She turned her head in disbelief, the fury on her face gradually being replaced by terror. Jando's expression shifted violently; in a mere instant, the memories of twelve hours ago flooded back.

The slaughter in the torrential rain, the corpses everywhere, the cold, the gaze of the monster.

In a daze, he felt as if he heard that whisper again.

"Run."

"No, no."

Jando Skolevok muttered to himself and stumbled forward a step.

The fear returned in full force.

He snatched the blade from Irene's hand, approached the survivor with trembling limbs, and raised the weapon high.

"Stop!" Jando roared. "Stop singing!"

The survivor remained indifferent, his head swaying slightly. He was covered in wounds and drenched in blood, yet he continued his soft chant.

Jando swung the blade down hard. It pierced accurately into the survivor's chest and abdomen, drawing a spray of blood.

He then twisted the blade viciously, and mangled flesh welled up from the gaps created by the wicked barbs.

Jando's eyelids twitched as he stared at the scene, desperate to hear a scream. He had often used this little trick in the past, and it had always been effective.

But this time, there was nothing.

The survivor remained unmoved.

The ballad continued, pouring out from that shattered face just as his blood and life did.

Jando let go with trembling hands and retreated—retreating incessantly until he hit the wall. He tilted his head back, resting it against the stone, his face suddenly flushing red.

He turned his head and growled a question.

"Irene Skolevok, what kind of madness are you playing at?! Make him stop! I knew this was all your doing; you brainwashed him and forced this song into him, didn't you?!"

His sister did not answer.

His sister simply wore an expression Jando had never seen in his entire life. From his angle, he could only see her profile. But that was enough.

He saw a weeping eye.

"You..."

In an instant, Jando felt ice-cold.

He had originally thought this was merely a conspiracy between Irene Skolevok and the Glory Warlords—such things were common, and in the history of the nobility, slaughtering one's own kin was as simple as eating or drinking.

But...

When faced with a situation of one's own making, the perpetrator could not possibly be this terrified.

"It is here," Irene Skolevok whispered to herself. "It is here."

"Impossible! Let's just go with the story you made up! That thing said twelve hours, but twelve hours have already passed!"

Jando roared as he pulled the pocket watch from his coat, hurling the expensive treasure violently in front of Irene.

"Look, look! Look! Twelve hours have already passed!"

He shrieked, "End this farce, sister! I won't fight you for the Black Mark anymore! I was wrong!"

Under Jando's pleading gaze, Irene Skraivok slowly picked up the pocket watch, and then, she snapped it shut.

She turned her head, and on her distorted face, a smile—shattered into pieces by sheer terror—began to bloom.

"What makes you think," she sobbed, "that I could do such a thing?"

Jando's sanity was finally pulverized; he roared and lunged toward the source of the singing, drawing his blade as he charged.

"On the left!"

"No, that's wrong, it's on the right!"

Wraith leaped, dodging bullets.

If they were laser shots, he might not have bothered to evade. But solid-projectile weapons always tore bits of his clothing into his flesh, and if he didn't extract them in time, there was a risk of infection.

This was quite annoying; after all, removing bullets could only be done after the battle. By then, his wounds would have already healed, and he would have to slice his flesh open all over again to get them out.

Wraith didn't fear pain, but he didn't like it either.

The voices of his targets were crystal clear to his ears; he could even simulate their exact positions based solely on the direction of the sound. Karyl had once said this was a precious talent, though Wraith didn't quite understand.

Could other people not do this?

Thinking this, Wraith leaped high, jumping onto the ceiling.

His razor-sharp fingernails and superhuman strength allowed him to cling easily above everyone's heads. He quickly adjusted his posture and, in the next second, lunged out.

Like a monster descending from the heavens, Wraith spread his arms, tearing through the gang's defensive line as he charged. Wails erupted, and the gunfire suddenly weakened. Then, Wraith heard someone screaming.

"Behind! Behind!" the man shrieked in madness. "There's another one behind! God!"

Ah, that was Karyl.

Wraith tilted his head happily and leaped again. He focused his mind to look behind him, and time seemed to slow, allowing him to see Karyl's form clearly.

Weaving left and right, he moved as naturally as if he were gliding through the crowd. Karyl didn't dodge any bullets, yet the roaring projectiles seemed to be avoiding him; not a single one hit its mark.

He surged forward, his blade dancing, each swing claiming a life as a cold blue light bloomed beneath his cloak's hood. His movements were so rapid that the radiance blurred into an elongated line.

Seeing this, the joy on Wraith's face vanished for a moment.

Why must you use such power, Karyl? he thought silently.

Five minutes later, the slaughter ended.

Shaking his hands to dislodge the bits of flesh from his fingernails, Wraith approached Karyl. The latter glanced at his hands and asked, "What about that blade you made?"

"It broke."

"Broke?"

"It wasn't very durable," Wraith said. "It snapped."

"It's fine, I'll make you a better one another day."

"Really?"

"I have never lied to you."

"Good! Thank you, Karyl!"

Karyl smiled silently, not dampening Wraith's enthusiasm for now. The term "another day," in the human lexicon, possessed a certain ambiguity that could not be described in detail.

As for the present—

He looked up at the ceiling, the blue light in his eyes abruptly dimming.

In that instant, his vision soared, reaching a room at the very top of the spire.

He could see a woman sobbing, as if she had accepted her fate, and he could see a man covered in blood, muttering to himself with a crazed expression as he slashed at the air.

Both targets had collapsed.

So easily frightened.

With a cold sneer, Karyl lowered his head and said to Wraith, who was busy counting corpses, "Our work for today is almost finished, Wraith. Before that, I have a question for you."

"...Ah?"

"What is your take on fear?" Karyl asked in a soft tone.

Wraith blinked and gave his answer quickly. Although he didn't understand why Karyl would ask this, he had no reason not to answer.

"A useful weapon?" Wraith said cautiously. "It's very effective, effective on everyone, and it always works quickly. Most people are afraid when they see me."

"Anything else?"

"Anything else...? Uh, it—it should be used carefully?" Wraith said hesitantly. "I'm sorry, Karyl, but I always feel... that fear and fear are different."

He stole a glance at Karyl, who waited patiently, his expression devoid of any impatience or disapproval.

Wraith felt relieved. "That's it, Karyl. That's exactly what I was thinking."

"Your understanding is quite good, Wraith. In fact, it is excellent."

Karyl smiled faintly. "Fear is indeed a weapon that must be handled with care. We must meticulously select who it is used upon, and of course, the manner in which it is applied."

"The manner?"

"There are many ways to induce fear, just like the twenty-three different ways to cook a rat that you know. The methods are diverse, and we must choose with caution and care."

"I don't quite understand," Wraith said honestly. "But I will write it down. I'll understand it in the future, right?"

"Of course."

"Really?"

"Of course it's true." Karyl said, walking toward the exit of the blood-soaked hall.

The spires of the Glory Warlords had a complex system of self-operating elevators, but Karyl had destroyed the mechanism at the very start. Thus, as ridiculous as it sounded, they had to take the stairs to reach the twenty-fifth floor.

The final floor.

Wraith followed closely behind. After a brief silence, he spoke again.

"Karyl?"

"Hmm? Don't talk too much if there's nothing important, Wraith. We are working."

"Oh, but did you remember those twenty-three ways? Which one do you think would taste the best?"

"."

"I think braised would be pretty good."

"Sigh."

"Karyl?"

".Hmm?"

"Why are you sighing?"

".Fried. Fried rat. That's it, stop talking, Wraith."

"Oh, okay!"

A cold wind blew through the morning of Nostramo, where a group of workers hurried on their way to work.

They were thinly clad, their expressions dull. Not a single person had any vitality for life on their face, nor did anyone lift their head as they walked. They were gaunt and moved slowly; many even needed to stop and rest after walking only a short distance.

Eighteen hours of labor were enough to destroy everything, not to mention the diseases that followed in its wake.

Although, yes—the factories gave a day off every six days, but that was only to squeeze them even harder; don't expect the foremen to have any kindness.

Taking a day off meant deductions from wages and nutrient paste rations.

The cold wind ravaged their thin bodies and spirits. These numb people spontaneously huddled together, walking shoulder to shoulder to share warmth.

Their breaths intertwined, foul and vacant, the white mist dissipating into the air. Their eyes were dull and desperate, filled with an indifference toward life.

There were many gang members along the street, but none of them cast a glance in their direction.

--Such people were not even qualified to be treated as cargo.

Walking, continuing to walk, they still had to cross three blocks to reach the factory. They traversed the filthy streets, stepped over the dark red ground flowing with sewage, and passed by a tall spire amidst the jeers of the gangs.

Then, one of the workers lifted his head. His neck was sore, and he needed to relieve the pressure on his bones in this way. Immediately after this upward glance, he slammed to a halt.

".What is that?" he muttered to himself.

His companions continued forward indifferently, passing him by. Not many paid him any mind; only a few stood still just like him.

After a brief, collective stare, they rubbed their eyes, wanting to confirm if what they saw was real.

They opened their mouths in disbelief.

They saw two people dressed in luxurious clothing hanging above the entrance at the base of the towering spire. The neon lights of the spire and the nearby incandescent lamps allowed them to confirm this clearly.

They also saw that there were gaping wounds on the throats of these two people. Blood was still seeping down from the gashes.

Around these two terrified corpses, there was a line of bloody characters.

The workers were illiterate; they could not understand what it meant, but that did not prevent them from understanding the status of these two people.

Every person in the Underhive learned this during their short lives and kept it firmly in mind.

To be dressed in luxury was to be a noble.

And a noble was no different from a god.

In this moment, a multitude of questions appeared in their minds. Their bodies began to tremble slightly, and a strange expression began to bloom on their lifeless faces.

However, they did not linger for long. Soon, they left again, continuing on the road to the factory.

They needed to work; they needed food. Yet, among those few workers who had witnessed the death of a god, one man remembered the shapes of every single character.

He was illiterate, but he had memorized them.

The wind was biting; the morning of Nostramo was no different from the night. No one knew what happened every night, and no one knew what this event would bring.

At the top of the spire, two shadows quietly vanished.

This chapter is recommended to be accompanied by "Man with a Harmonica"; remember to find the old version.

Additionally, although Count Tattoo truly deserved to die, spending too much ink describing the process of torturing him has little meaning. In this timeline, he is just a damn rich kid, not the one who completely broke the Night Lords.