Wraith and the Ghost

Limping, Karyl came to a door and opened it the usual way. Its creaking made him frown.

Calling this thing a door was being generous.

A door was supposed to be sturdy. If Karyl hadn't nailed a few planks onto it, it probably wouldn't even have held together, let alone kept out the wind.

He stepped inside. A foul stench filled the pitch-black room.

Karyl's frown deepened. He spoke to the empty room. "I thought I told you to keep the place ventilated?"

"Rain," a soft, hissing voice suddenly answered from the empty room.

That was the way Nostraman sounded: soft and lilting, with a hiss, like poetry. Yet most of the people who spoke it were murderers.

"Rain?"

Karyl repeated the word, raising an eyebrow. A disdainful look crossed his pale face. "That's your reason for keeping the windows shut?"

"Yes."

In the darkness, a tall shadow slowly rose. He leaned his head out of the shadows, and neon light spilling through the doorway illuminated his pale face.

Karyl scoffed wearily, took off his cloak, and tossed it on the ground at his feet along with his two knives. Then he pulled over a chair and sat down by the door.

The cold midnight winds of Nostramo swept past. He bowed his head as blood dripped down his right leg and spread beneath his feet.

"You're hurt," said the shadow, so tall he was frightening.

"Yes, I'm hurt." Karyl shrugged. "Because that bastard had mechanical enhancements implanted in both hands."

The shadow came over and examined the wound closely.

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

"I know."

Karyl spoke wearily. He shifted in his seat so he could lean against the rickety old chair he'd salvaged. It wasn't good for his injured leg, but it was more comfortable.

"Then why not treat it?" the shadow asked patiently. "If you can't handle it yourself, I can help."

A pale, slender arm slowly emerged from the darkness. Light glinted off its fingernails, making them look as dangerous as blades.

And Karyl knew they were far more dangerous than blades.

"I'll pass," he said calmly.

The arm withdrew swiftly, a curious contrast to the slowness with which it had reached out.

"Then you might have to lose the leg," the shadow said. "I've never had anyone break my bones. I've only been shot. Bullets lodged in the flesh are terribly difficult to deal with. I have to dig them out one by one. Lasguns are more convenient. They only burn the flesh."

As he spoke, his voice suddenly changed, shifting from a hiss to a soft, dreamlike murmur. "And bullets lodged in the flesh hurt."

"Of course getting shot hurts."

Karyl laughed. He couldn't help finding the brief innocence of this monster absurd.

How ridiculous, he thought. A monster who could tear a man apart with a wave of his hand, and yet he was so innocent.

"Do you feel pain too?" the shadow asked.

Karyl glanced at him as if he were an idiot, then burst out laughing. "If even you feel pain, why wouldn't I? I'm only a mortal, Wraith. I'm not like you."

The shadow fell silent for a longer while, apparently unconvinced.

Then he stepped out of the darkness. His clothes, pieced together from rags, barely passed for a robe. His long, filthy hair hung loose down his back, and bloodstains remained on his pale skin.

Dressed in rags, filthy, abnormally tall, with pale skin and eyes entirely black—his monstrous features combined to make him as terrifying as a ghost from a story.

An ordinary person would know at a glance that he didn't belong in the normal world.

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

The Ghost frowned and asked, "What's the difference? We're both monsters."

"I only become a monster at certain times."

"In the past month, you've killed a hundred and seventy-two people. Every day, every night."

"Who taught you that phrase?"

"You did."

"..."

Karyl sighed. He had no choice but to give in to the overly tall man he called Wraith.

"Listen, Wraith. There's a reason I become a monster. I kill in this city because—"

"—Justice?" Wraith interrupted eagerly, asking with fervor in his eyes.

"No," Karyl answered coldly. "Justice doesn't exist, Wraith. Justice is the biggest lie in the world."

Wraith nodded in disappointment, then pointed at Karyl's right leg. This time, Karyl couldn't ignore him.

Karyl raised his right hand. Like all Nostramans, his eyes were pitch-black, but now they abruptly lit up blue.

The temperature dropped sharply, and bitter frost formed on the legs of the chair. Wraith watched it, following the frost as it spread until his gaze reached Karyl's leg.

The blood, the wound, the grotesque shape of the broken bone pressing against the skin—all of it vanished.

"Hah."

Karyl let out a long, long sigh. His eyes returned to normal, and his fathomlessly black gaze was utterly calm.

Wraith studied him without speaking. After the silence stretched on for a while, he finally spoke again. "You shouldn't rely too much on that power."

"If it helps us do what we need to do, I'll keep using it."

"It's dangerous."

"How do you know?"

"I..." Wraith didn't answer.

He didn't know how to explain it to Karyl. Wraith had always known many things, the way one knew things by instinct. He even knew a word for this gift.

Innate knowledge.

"Is it as dangerous as everything else in this city?" Karyl asked, unconcerned by Wraith's hesitation. He stood up.

He walked out of the room with strong, steady steps, showing no sign of the injury that might have cost him his leg half a minute ago.

Outside the room was an open space swept by cold wind.

They were on the roof of a towering building. A year and a half earlier, Karyl had built a small, unauthorized structure here with his own hands. The security guards responsible for inspections hadn't noticed it—or whether they even existed was another matter.

And so he had himself a little Sanctuary.

Six months ago, Wraith had arrived. Or rather, the Night Haunter.

It was a name that, for now, had spread only within a small circle in Quintus. It was still far from matching "Vengeful Spirit." After all, the Vengeful Spirit had been killing in the city for a year and a half.

Every day, every night.

"The gangs are everywhere, and twisted monsters lurk on every corner. The nobles in the upper reaches of the Hive City need only sit securely in their luxurious chairs to collect taxes from the dogs they keep."

"And the workers sleeping in the Shantytown, the poor people—they only have two paths. First, work themselves to death in the factories, living in poverty, constantly beaten and exploited, sometimes unable to feed themselves. Second, join a gang and oppress others."

Karyl turned his head with a half-smile. "Which path do you think most people will choose?"

Wraith didn't answer. He was still standing in the doorway and hadn't come out. The darkness behind him was impenetrable.

"Without a doubt, they'll choose the second path. And those who don't choose it aren't necessarily unwilling. They simply can't. Oppressing others requires a strong body, and you have to be young at the very least. Otherwise, the gangs won't even take you."

Karyl fell silent, abruptly lost in thought.

A terrible flame, more searing and penetrating than poison, began to burn across his pale, youthful face. It spread, forcing him to grit his teeth and furrow his brow.

Wraith didn't disturb him.

Only after a long while did Wraith join the conversation again.

His voice was soft and hissed as he asked, "Can killing solve everything?"

"No," Karyl answered without hesitation.

"Killing only leads to more killing. If I eliminate one corrupt official, twenty more will claw their way into his position. If I kill one gang leader, more than forty gangs will scramble to seize his territory."

"Then can we find another way?"

"We can't, Wraith." Karyl spoke, then paused.

He turned his head, his black hair stirring in Nostramo's filthy wind. "...Not now."

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

Once again, Karyl laughed at Wraith's innocence with open derision. But this time, after laughing, he nodded.

"Fine," Karyl Lohars said.

He didn't even ask why, just as he had never asked the Night Haunter why he possessed such power.

But Karyl Lohars didn't yet know to whom he was making that promise.

The priest of the Church of Rest was dead.

At six in the morning in Quintus Hive City, the news spread through a world utterly devoid of light.

Most people didn't care. For one thing, they didn't know who the priest at the Church of Rest was. For another, in Nostramo, morning was no different from night.

Nostramo was a star of eternal night. No one remembered the reason anymore. Perhaps the nobles knew, but how many people would care?

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

Well, Razor cared.

And Razor knew exactly who the priest was.

Razor—a gang leader of little consequence on Nostramo—treated everyone in his territory however he pleased, just like every other gang leader.

On Nostramo, there were no laws or law enforcers, only gangs. They were loyal to the upper-class nobles, maintained a false sense of order, and collected taxes. The gangs took the nobles' place, dividing up and ruling every part of Nostramo.

Beyond that, they also killed without reason and committed even worse atrocities. To Razor and his gang, all of it was just a way to establish their authority.

Just as wild animals constantly marked their territory with their scent, the gangs continually killed civilians to maintain their rule. No one cared how many civilians died in the process.

Every gang on Nostramo did the same.

But Razor, notorious for his brutality, was now deeply troubled.

"How did he die?"

Standing outside the church, Razor asked the question. Across from him stood a woman in a white robe and a mask. Her right hand was made of metal, and looked very intricate.

"He was cut open," the woman said thoughtfully.

"Or rather, he was taken apart. Everything inside his belly was removed and neatly sorted. Whoever did it was very skilled. They also pulled out half his spine and hung him beneath the statue."

Razor muttered a curse. The woman shook her head, took off her mask, and tossed it to the ground. Then she added, "Oh, and there were a few lines on the statue, written in blood. They seemed to be meant for you."

"For me?"

Razor's eyes widened. A moment later, he stormed angrily into the church.