In a lavish room lit by soft light, Jando Skolevok slowly smiled. Then he slipped the pocket watch in his hand into his pocket.
Just then, twelve hours had passed.
He turned his head, regret appearing on his face. It stemmed from the sight before him, straight across from the sofa where he sat.
His sister, Irene Skolevok, stood there with blood all over her hands.
The blood had come from a man who was hanging up, a former member of the Crimson Finale gang.
Or rather, the last member of the Crimson Finale gang.
His blood slowly dripped from the wounds in his body, leaving indelible dark red marks on the carpet as it continued to spread.
Blood everywhere
Jando took a deep breath of the air, thick with the taste of blood, then stood and spoke in an elegant, ringing voice.
"I don't think you'll get anything useful out of torturing a madman like this, my esteemed sister."
At that, Irene Skolevok turned and looked at him.
"I don't think your choice to shamelessly stick by my side will do you any good either," Irene replied coldly.
"Oh, don't be like that, sister. We both know the Glory Warlords are the only ones in the Underhive we can rely on right now. Did you really expect me to go out and ask the other gangs for help? I'm not as stupid as Lena."
"She isn't stupid," Irene said. "You are, Jando."
"...That's a rather hurtful thing to say, my esteemed sister."
Jando pretended to cover his face in sorrow, but the black eyes visible between his fingers were full of malice.
"I've always admired you. Why do you despise me so?"
"For many reasons, Jando."
Irene looked at him and answered calmly.
"You're pretentious, affected, and full of yourself. Those are all fairly normal flaws in a nobleman's son. But there's one thing about you I can't stand."
"Mm, because I happen to have a taste for fine delicacies from the Underhive?" Jando ventured.
"No. Because you're too stupid."
Irene Skolevok replied coldly. "You're stupid enough to think I planned this attack."
Jando slowly raised an eyebrow. He lowered his hand, and his smile returned. At that moment, you wouldn't have guessed that his face had been gripped by fear twelve hours ago.
Sometimes fear had an expiration date.
"But, my sister, you can't deny how convenient all this is."
"Convenient?"
"That's right, sister. Never mind how that man managed to slip past the Glory Warlords' sentries without being noticed. Let's talk about your suggestion instead."
"If we really did what you suggested and split up, running in different directions through the Underhive, there's no doubt you'd be the one to survive the longest, my sister."
"As for Lena, I'm less optimistic. I'm afraid she's probably dead by now."
Jando smiled elegantly, feeling no sorrow over the death of the sister he had invented for himself. Instead, a sense of delight spread across his face.
He had changed clothes and even taken a bath. The wretched state he'd been in twelve hours ago had vanished completely.
Now, in this lavishly decorated room, as splendid as a palace in the Upper Hive, Jando Skolevok was acting just as he always did.
He strode naturally and calmly over to Irene.
"My esteemed sister, I know what you're capable of. I've always understood that Father tolerates me because I'm like him, but his trust in you is beyond anything I could hope to earn. And you used that trust at just the right moment, didn't you? Impressive."
"Don't blame your own incompetence on me, Jando. And don't pin things I never did on me."
Irene gazed at him calmly. "You chose to waste your time studying and practicing on the art of savoring flesh and blood. You ruined yourself. Don't say another word."
"Perhaps. Perhaps that's really true, but, my sister..."
Jando Skolevok sneered and spread his arms. "I may be inferior to you in every way, but there's one path where you could never surpass me: the art of exploring flesh and blood."
He held out his right hand, asking Irene for the cruel blade she had used to torture the man. "Allow me to show you a thing or two, my esteemed sister."
"I have no time to waste on that sort of thing with you, Jando," Irene said coldly. "Interrogation is a means, not an end. You've taken the wrong path."
"Besides, this servant of the Crimson Finale had already lost his mind completely before the Glory Warlords found him. Do you really think you can dig someone's mind out of their flesh with nothing but a blade?"
Jando shrugged, perfectly at ease.
"Perhaps I can, sister. You know, I learned a few tricks from House Lohars in some old books."
"...You idiot."
After saying that, Irene's face finally showed a clear emotion. She glared at Jando in anger and spoke coldly.
"You look so carefree. Let me guess: you think the family will send us more support, and then you can go back and tell Father the truth you've imagined?"
"Isn't that right?" Jando retorted. "The family would never abandon us, sister."
He laughed again. A self-satisfied sense of superiority spread across his face, as if he had seen through everything. He blinked smugly, drawing out the last word until it lingered.
Irene took a deep breath.
She spoke in a low voice.
"No, Jando. This wasn't my scheme."
"Father sent us here to deal with the coroner's death. It's damaged the Skolevok Family's reputation. And I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I would never do something like that."
"The family's reputation matters more than anything, Jando. Father gave us the Iron Pride and forty bodyguards. He also gave us the support of the Glory Warlords—a loyal congregation of servants with a twenty-five-level spire and thousands of members."
"What more do you think we can get from Father? We're not as valuable as you think. Yes, Father spent twenty years raising us, but he has plenty more twenty-year periods to spare."
Jando's smile slowly faded. He tilted his head slightly, trying to appear calm.
But Irene kept going, as though she meant to lay out all the resentment she had held toward him over the years. For once, she lost her usual composure.
Her face flushed red, her features twisted. She looked furious and terrifying.
Unlike Jando, she still remembered what had happened twelve hours ago. Fear had swelled inside her until it nearly swallowed her reason.
And Jando's behavior had just happened to set that fear ablaze.
"You took a bath, changed your clothes, and sat in a false palace built by servants, smugly convinced that everything was my scheme?"
"But don't forget, twelve hours ago you were a pathetic wreck sprawled on the floor, so terrified you almost wet yourself! Jando! You're nothing but a pathetic wreck!"
Irene laughed aloud, her voice echoing through the room. Jando's face turned first pale, then red. For once, he had nothing to say.
Perhaps it was a coincidence, but just as her laughter erupted, the survivor from the Crimson Finale, tortured to the brink of death, opened his eyes behind her.
There was nothing in his pitch-black eyes. No awareness, no reason, no will to live, and no resistance to death.
Only an eerie calm. Then a flash of icy blue light appeared and vanished.
He raised his head and looked at the Skolevok Family scions. Then he opened his mouth—his lips had been cut off, and many of his teeth had been pulled out—and began to sing softly in a hoarse voice.
The tune was low and drawn out, steeped in unmistakable gloom. Its melody was gentle, yet it sounded like a blade scraping against the tender skin of the neck.
Irene Skolevok shuddered all over. Her laughter stopped abruptly.
She turned around in disbelief, anger on her face gradually giving way to fear. Jando's expression changed in an instant, and the memories of twelve hours ago came rushing back.
The slaughter in the pouring rain, the corpses strewn everywhere, the cold, the monster's gaze.
In a daze, he seemed to hear that whisper in his ear again.
"Run."
"No, no..."
Jando Skolevok mumbled and stumbled a step forward.
Fear came rushing back.
He snatched the cruel blade from Irene's hand, trembling as he approached the survivor, then raised the blade high.
"Stop!" Jando roared. "Stop singing!"
The survivor didn't react. His head swayed slightly. Though covered in wounds and blood, he continued to sing softly.
Jando swung the blade hard. It plunged precisely into the survivor's chest and abdomen, sending a spray of blood into the air.
Then he twisted the blade viciously. Shredded flesh spilled from the opening made by its wicked barbs.
Jando's eyelids twitched as he stared at it all, desperate to hear a scream. He had often used this little trick in the past, and it had always worked well.
But not this time.
The survivor didn't react.
The song continued to pour from his ruined face, just like his flesh and life's blood.
Trembling, Jando let go of the blade, then retreated—stumbling backward until he hit the wall. He tipped his head back and leaned it against the wall. After that, his face abruptly flushed red.
He turned around and snarled at her.
"Irene Skolevok, what the hell is wrong with you?! Make him stop! I knew this was all your doing. You brainwashed him and put this song in his head, didn't you?!"
His sister didn't answer.
His sister only wore an expression Jando had never seen before in all his life. From where he stood, he could see only her profile. But that was enough.
He saw one tearful eye.
"You..."
In an instant, Jando went ice-cold.
He had thought this was nothing but a scheme cooked up by Irene Skolevok and the Glory Warlords. Such things were commonplace. In the history of the nobility, killing one's siblings was as simple as eating or drinking.
But...
When faced with a situation they had caused themselves, the instigator couldn't possibly be this afraid.
"It's here," Irene Skolevok murmured. "It's here."
"That's impossible! Fine, let's go with your made-up story! That thing said twelve hours, but twelve hours have already passed!"
Jando roared as he pulled the pocket watch from his breast pocket and hurled the priceless treasure at Irene.
"Look, look! Look! Twelve hours have passed!"
He shrieked hoarsely. "Stop this farce, sister! I won't try to take the Black Mark from you! I was wrong!"
Under Jando's pleading gaze, Irene Skolevok slowly picked up the pocket watch and closed it.
She turned around. On her twisted face, a smile was blooming, torn to pieces by fear.
"What makes you think," she sobbed, "I could do something like this?"
Jando's reason finally shattered completely. He roared and lunged at the source of the song, drawing the blade at his side.
"On the left!"
"No, no, the right!"
Wraith leaped about, dodging bullets.
If they were lasguns, he might not have bothered dodging. But solid rounds always tore bits of clothing into his flesh. If he didn't get them out in time, there was a risk of infection.
That was pretty annoying. After all, he could only remove bullets once the fighting was over. By then, all his wounds would have healed, and he'd have to cut his flesh open again to get them out.
Wraith wasn't afraid of pain, but he didn't like it either.
The voices of his targets sounded incredibly clear in his ears. He could even work out their precise positions from the direction of their voices alone. Karyl had said it was a valuable talent, but Wraith didn't understand.
Couldn't everyone do that?
Thinking this, Wraith leaped high and landed on the ceiling.
His sharp fingernails and superhuman strength let him cling easily above everyone's heads. He quickly adjusted his position, then sprang into action the next second.
Like a monster dropping from the sky, Wraith spread his arms and tore through the gang members' defensive line as he surged forward. Screams erupted, and the gunfire quickly died down. Then Wraith heard someone shout.
"Behind us! Behind us!" the man cried hysterically. "There's another one behind us! God!"
Oh, it was Karyl.
Wraith tilted his head happily, then jumped again. He focused his attention behind him. Time seemed to slow, and he saw Karyl's form clearly.
He darted left and right, gliding through the crowd with effortless grace. Karyl didn't dodge a single bullet, yet the bullets screaming through the air seemed to dodge him. Not one hit.
He surged forward, swinging his blade again and again. Every swing took a life, and an icy blue glow shone beneath his hood. He moved so fast that Radiance seemed to stretch into a long, straight line.
At the sight of this, the happiness vanished from Wraith's face for a moment.
Why do you have to use that kind of power, Karyl? he thought silently.
Five minutes later, the slaughter was over.
Wraith shook his hand, trying to dislodge the bits of flesh caught beneath his nails. He went over to Karyl, who glanced at his hand and asked, "What happened to the knife I made you?"
"It broke."
"It broke?"
"It wasn't very sturdy," Wraith said. "It snapped."
"That's all right. I'll make you a better one another day."
"Really?"
"I've never lied to you."
"Great! Thank you, Karyl!"
Karyl smiled silently, not wanting to dampen Wraith's enthusiasm just yet. The word "another day" had a certain hard-to-define ambiguity in human conversation.
As for now...
He looked up at the ceiling. The blue light in his eyes abruptly dimmed.
At that moment, his field of vision shot upward, arriving in a room at the very top of the spire.
He could see a woman sobbing, seemingly resigned to her fate. He could also see a man frantically swinging his blade before him, muttering to himself, covered in blood and utterly deranged.
Both targets had broken down.
They sure were easy to scare.
With a cold laugh, Karyl lowered his head and spoke to Wraith, who was counting the bodies. "We're almost done with our work for today, Wraith. Before we finish, I have a question for you."
"...Huh?"
"What do you think of fear?" Karyl asked gently.
Wraith blinked and soon gave him an answer. Though he didn't understand why Karyl was asking, he had no reason not to answer.
"A useful weapon?" Wraith said cautiously. "It works well. It works well on everyone, and it always works fast. Most people are afraid as soon as they see me."
"What else?"
"What else...? Uh, it...it should be used carefully?" Wraith said hesitantly. "Sorry, Karyl, but I can't help thinking...fear and fear aren't the same thing."
He glanced furtively at Karyl. Karyl waited patiently, showing no sign of impatience or disapproval.
So Wraith relaxed. "That's it, Karyl. That's what I think."
"Your understanding is quite good, Wraith. In fact, it's very good."
Karyl smiled faintly. "Fear is indeed a weapon that must be handled with care. We need to carefully choose who it should be used on, and, of course, how to use it."
"How to use it?"
"There are many ways to make people afraid, just like the twenty-three different ways of cooking rats you know about. There's quite a variety, so we have to choose carefully."
"I don't really understand," Wraith said honestly. "But I'll remember it. I'll understand someday, right?"
"Of course."
"Really?"
"Of course it's true." As he spoke, Karyl headed for the exit of the blood-soaked hall.
The Glory Warlords' spires had a complex system of self-operating elevators. Karyl had destroyed it right at the start, so, ridiculous as it sounded, they had to take the stairs to reach the twenty-fifth floor.
The top floor.
Wraith followed close behind. After a brief silence, he spoke again.
"Karyl?"
"Hmm? Don't talk so much unless you have to, Wraith. We're working."
"Oh, but do you remember those twenty-three ways? Which one do you think would taste best?"
"..."
"I think braised rat would be pretty good."
"Sigh."
"Karyl?"
"...Hmm?"
"Why are you sighing?"
"...Fried. Fried rat. That's it. Stop talking, Wraith."
"Oh, okay!"
--
The cold wind swept through Nostramo's morning as a crowd of workers hurried to their jobs.
They were thinly dressed, their expressions vacant. Not a single face showed any zest for life, and no one walked with their head held high. They were weak and slow-moving, and many had to stop and rest after walking only a short distance.
Eighteen hours of labor was enough to destroy anyone, to say nothing of the illnesses that came with it.
Yes, the factories gave them a day off every six days, but that was only so they could squeeze even more out of them. Don't expect the foremen to be kind.
Taking a day off meant having their wages and nutrient paste rations docked.
The cold wind battered their thin bodies and feeble spirits. The numb crowd instinctively gathered together and walked shoulder to shoulder, huddling for warmth.
Their breaths mingled, foul and listless, and white clouds drifted into the air. Their eyes were vacant and despairing, filled with indifference to life.
There were plenty of gang members along the street, but none of them paid the workers any attention.
People like these weren't even fit to be sold as cargo.
They kept walking. They still had three blocks to cross before reaching the factory. They crossed filthy streets and dark red ground slick with sewage, passed amid the gangs' curses, and went by a towering spire.
Then one of the workers looked up. His neck ached, and he needed to ease the strain on his bones. The moment he lifted his head, he stopped dead.
"What's that?" he murmured.
His companions continued forward indifferently, passing him by. Few paid him any mind; only a handful stopped where they were, just as he had.
After staring for a moment, they all rubbed their eyes, trying to confirm that what they saw was real.
They gaped in disbelief.
They saw two richly dressed people hanging above the entrance at the base of the towering spire. The spire's neon lights and the nearby incandescent lamps made it perfectly clear.
They also saw gaping wounds in the two people's throats. Blood was running down from them.
Beside the two terrified corpses, a line of bloody writing had been left.
The workers couldn't read. They had no idea what it said, but that didn't stop them from recognizing who the two people were.
Every Underhive resident learned this during their short life and remembered it well.
Fine clothes meant nobility.
And nobles were no different from gods.
At that moment, countless questions arose in their minds. Their bodies began to tremble, and an unfamiliar expression started to bloom on their lifeless faces.
But they didn't stay long. Soon they moved on again, continuing along the road to the factory.
They needed to work. They needed food. And among the few workers who had witnessed the death of gods, one remembered the shape of every character.
He couldn't read, but he remembered them.
The bitter wind howled. Nostramo's morning was still no different from night. No one knew what happened each night, and no one knew what this incident would bring.
At the top of the spire, two shadows vanished without a sound.
This chapter is best read with "Man with a Harmonica." Be sure to find the old version.
Also, although Count Tattoo certainly deserved to die, there's little point in devoting a lot of words to describing his torture. In this timeline, he was just a rotten young nobleman, not the one who would ultimately shatter the Night Lords.
Before you continue