Fierce Spirits and Wraiths

Limping, Karyl arrived before a door and opened it in the usual way, the creaking sound making him frown.

In truth, calling this thing a door was a bit of a stretch.

A door ought to be sturdy, but if Karyl hadn't nailed a few wooden planks onto this one, it likely wouldn't even hold together, let alone keep the wind out.

He stepped inside, where a foul, filthy stench permeated the pitch-black room.

Karyl's frown deepened. He spoke to the empty room, "I recall telling you to keep it ventilated?"

"Rain." A soft, hissing voice suddenly sounded from the vacant room.

Nostramoan was like that—soft, melodic, and hissing, like poetry. Yet, most of those who spoke it were murderers.

"Rain?"

Karyl repeated, raising his eyebrows with a look of disdain on his pale face. "Is that your reason for not opening the windows?"

"Yes."

In the darkness, a tall shadow slowly stood up. He poked his head out from the gloom, and the neon light filtering in from the doorway illuminated his pale face.

Karyl scoffed, tiredly taking off his cloak and tossing it along with two knives at his feet, then pulled over a chair and sat down before the door.

The cold wind of the Nostramoan early morning blew past. He lowered his head as blood dripped down his right leg, spreading across the floor.

"You are injured," the shadow, who was tall enough to be frightening, said.

"Yeah, I'm injured," Karyl shrugged. "Because that bastard had cybernetic enhancements implanted in both his hands."

The shadow came before him, carefully examining the wound.

"You need treatment," the shadow hissed. "He broke the bone in your right leg."

"I know."

Karyl said wearily, adjusting his posture so he could lean back against the salvaged, rickety chair. While this position wasn't great for his injured leg, it was more comfortable.

"Then, why not treat it?" the shadow asked patiently. "If you cannot handle it yourself, I can assist."

A pale, slender arm slowly reached out from the darkness. The tips of the nails glinted, making them look as dangerous as blades.

And Karyl knew they were actually far more dangerous than blades.

"I'll pass," he said calmly.

The arm retracted, moving with a swiftness that formed an interesting contrast to the slowness with which it had emerged.

"Then, you may require an amputation."

The shadow said, "I have never had my bones broken; I have only been shot. Bullets lodged in flesh are truly difficult to deal with; I have to dig them out one by one. Laser pistols are actually more convenient. They only burn the flesh."

As he spoke, his voice suddenly shifted from a hiss to a dreamy, soft tone. "Besides, bullets stuck in the flesh... they hurt."

"Of course bullets hurt when they hit you."

Karyl laughed, unable to stop himself from feeling the absurdity of this monster's momentary innocence.

How ridiculous, he thought. A monster who could tear a man apart with a wave of his hand was actually this naive.

"Do you hurt as well?" the shadow asked.

Karyl shot him a look as if he were an idiot, then burst into loud laughter. "If even you can feel pain, why wouldn't I? I am merely a mortal, Wraith; I am not like you."

The shadow remained silent for a long time, clearly holding a different opinion.

Then, he stepped out of the darkness. Rags stitched together barely formed a robe on his frame, his filthy long hair hung behind his head, and traces of blood remained on his pale skin.

Wearing tattered clothes, looking filthy, unusually tall, with pale skin and eyes that were entirely pitch-black—these near-monstrous traits, when combined, made him look as terrifying as a ghost from a story.

An ordinary person would know at a single glance that he did not belong to the normal world.

In fact, an ordinary person probably wouldn't even think he was human.

Wraith frowned and asked, "What is the difference? We are both monsters."

"I only become a monster at certain times."

"You have killed one hundred and seventy-two people in the past month, every single day, every single night."

"Who taught you that phrase?"

"You."

"."

Karyl sighed, forced to compromise with the overly tall individual he called Wraith.

"Listen, Wraith. I have reasons for becoming a monster. I kill in this city because—"

"—Justice?" Wraith interrupted impatiently, asking with an eager look in his eyes.

"No," Karyl replied coldly. "Justice does not exist at all, Wraith. Justice is the greatest lie in this world."

Wraith nodded in disappointment and pointed again at Karyl's right leg. This time, Karyl could no longer ignore it.

Kael raised his right hand, and his pupils, pitch-black like those of all Nostramo natives, suddenly ignited with a blue glow.

The temperature plummeted, and deep, frigid frost began to crystallize on the legs of the chair. Night Haunter stared at them, following the path of the spreading frost until his gaze landed on Kael's legs.

The bloodstains, the wounds, and the grotesque shapes formed by twisted bone pushing against skin—at this moment, they all vanished.

"Haa."

Kael let out a deep, long sigh. His eyes returned to normal, the bottomless, pitch-black depths settling into a state of calm.

Night Haunter studied him, remaining silent for a time. Only after the silence had stretched on for a while did he speak again: "You shouldn't rely on this power too much."

"If it helps us achieve what we need to do, I will keep using it."

"It is dangerous."

"How would you know?"

"I..." Night Haunter did not answer.

He did not know how to explain it to Kael—Night Haunter simply knew many things by nature, as if by instinct. He even knew a specific term to describe this talent.

Born with knowledge.

"Is it more dangerous than anything else in this city?" Kael did not seem to care about the hesitation in Night Haunter's voice. He stood up and asked this.

He walked out of the room with a stride that was powerful and agile, showing no signs that half a minute ago he had been injured to the point of potential amputation.

Outside the room, it was vast and empty, swept by cold winds.

This was the rooftop of a towering building. A year and a half ago, Kael had personally constructed a small, unauthorized shack here. The security personnel responsible for inspections had never discovered it; in fact, whether they even existed at all was another matter entirely.

Just like that, he had a small sanctuary.

And six months ago, the Haunter arrived. Or rather, the Night Haunter.

A moniker that, for now, only circulated within a small circle in Quintus, far less renowned than the "Vengeful Spirit." After all, the Vengeful Spirit had been genuinely killing throughout the city for a year and a half.

Every day, every night, without fail.

"The streets are crawling with gangs, and everywhere you look, there are twisted monsters. The nobles in the upper spires only need to sit securely in their luxurious chairs to collect taxes from the dogs they keep."

"As for the workers sleeping in the shantytowns, the impoverished people, they only have two paths. First, work themselves to death in the factories, trapped in poverty, constantly facing beatings and exploitation, unable to even feed themselves. Second, join a gang and oppress others."

Kael turned his head with a mocking smile: "Which one do you think most people choose?"

Night Haunter did not answer; he remained standing at the doorway, not stepping out. The darkness behind him was incredibly thick.

"Without a doubt, they choose the second. And those who don't, it doesn't mean they don't want to; they simply can't. Oppressing others requires a sturdy body, or at the very least, youth. Otherwise, the gangs won't even take you."

Kael stopped speaking, suddenly falling into deep thought.

A terrible fire, more soul-searing than poison, began to burn and spread across his pale, young face, forcing him to grit his teeth and furrow his brows.

Night Haunter did not disturb him.

After a long while, Night Haunter rejoined the conversation.

He asked in a soft, hissing voice: "Can killing solve everything?"

"No," Kael answered without hesitation.

"Killing only brings more killing. I eliminate one corrupt official, and twenty more will sharpen their heads to squeeze into his position. I kill one gang leader, and more than forty gangs will come to fight over his territory."

"Then, can we find another way?"

"We cannot, Haunter," Kael said, then paused.

He turned his head, his black hair gently stirred by the filthy winds of Nostramo: "Not right now."

"If you find one, please tell me," Night Haunter said earnestly. "Nostramo is sick. I can see it, and I want to make it better."

Once again, Kael laughed mockingly at his naivety. But this time, after the laughter faded, he nodded.

"Fine," Kael Lohars said.

He did not even ask for the reason, just as he had never asked why Night Haunter possessed such immense power.

However, Kael Lohars did not yet know who he was making this promise to.

The priest of the Church of Rest was dead.

At six in the morning in Hive Quintus, in a world devoid of any light, this news spread like wildfire.

Most people did not actually care. For one, they did not know who the priest in the Church of Rest even was. For another, on Nostramo, there was effectively no difference between morning and night.

Nostramo was a world of eternal night. The reason had long been forgotten; perhaps the nobles in the upper spires knew, but how many people would care?

Most people did not even care about the alternation of day and night, so why would they care about the death of a priest? They didn't even know who he was.

Well, Razor cared.

And Razor knew exactly who the priest was.

Razor—a gang leader who was unremarkable in the grand scheme of Nostramo—treated everyone in his territory as he pleased, just like every other gang leader.

On Nostramo, there were no laws or law enforcers, only gangs. They pledged loyalty to the upper-tier nobles, maintained a facade of order, and collected taxes. The gangs had replaced the nobles, carving up and ruling every corner of Nostramo.

Beyond this, they would also kill without reason, or even commit deeper atrocities. To Razor and his gang, these acts were merely a way to establish their authority.

Just as wild animals must constantly mark their territory with scent, gangs must constantly slaughter civilians to ensure their rule—as for how many civilians died in the process, no one cared.

In Nostramo, all gang members did exactly this.

However, Razor, who was known for his brutality, was now feeling a headache.

"How did he die?"

Standing outside the church, Razor asked. Diagonally across from him stood a woman draped in a white robe, wearing a mask. Her right hand was made of metal, looking quite exquisite.

"He was sliced open," the woman said, her tone thoughtful.

"Or rather, taken apart. Everything inside his stomach was removed and sorted neatly; the technique was highly skilled. The person even extracted half of his spine and hung him beneath the statue."

Razor cursed under his breath. The woman shook her head, removed her mask, threw it on the ground, and spoke her final words: "Oh, right, there are a few lines written in blood on the statue. It looks like they were left for you."

"For me?"

Razor's eyes widened. A moment later, he stormed into the church in a rage.