The Long Night (Part 2, Combined)

Climbing.

Ten thousand meters high.

Karyl clenched his hands, rubbing them against the edge of the building to find a suitable grip.

The cold, rough exterior of the structure made his fingers ache, his palms stinging. But he was long since used to it.

Friction was an essential part of climbing, just as it was inevitable that one's palms would be stained with blood when wielding a blade.

The wind was biting.

The higher he climbed, the fiercer it grew. It was as if the gusts were trying to persuade Karyl to turn back in a relatively gentle manner.

Karyl offered no reply. He simply exhaled a breath of stale air and glanced down.

Within his current field of vision, thin clouds had already obscured Quintus. The city had become hallucinatory and eerie, the neon halos torn apart by distance reflecting upon Karyl's retinas.

He heard nothing but the howling wind and a strange, rhythmic echo emanating from deep within the massive spire. Karyl knew it was the sound of machinery in operation.

The Shadow's memories contained many things, including the strict security at the junctions between the upper and lower hives, and the precise locations of these machines. This spire belonged to the Skolevok Family; the Shadow had no reason to be unfamiliar with it.

A pathetic, artificial creation, flesh covered in metal, cognition and emotion blurred away.

A slave who never possessed a life of his own, viewed by others as a precious, replaceable commodity.

A sharp blade held in the hands of a monster, stained with blood through filthy means.

"No," Karyl whispered. "After tonight, there will be no need."

He continued upward, his movements light and agile.

His stamina and strength had never been so abundant; the meager nutrients in his paste had never made this body feel so powerful.

Now, a light exertion allowed him to vault three or four meters upward, and even the biting wind could no longer affect him.

It was simply incredible.

Karyl knew this was undoubtedly a side effect of that power. He had unchained it, and now it was cheering and leaping within his body.

The increased strength and stamina were likely only the beginning of its rewards.

However, in ancient fables, unearned luck and wealth usually came from the devil. The more you gained, the more you would eventually lose.

After climbing another three hundred meters, he reached a small circular platform. Twelve massive machines hummed around the perimeter, regulating temperature and purifying the air.

Karyl had seen many such platforms, but this was the only one worth his pause.

Standing at the edge of the ring, Karyl removed his cloak and tossed it into the abyss. It quickly vanished into the thin clouds, leaving no trace behind.

He stared into the void for a silent moment, then suddenly chuckled and shook his head.

"I shall complete your vengeance for you as well."

He muttered to himself, pulling back the sleeve of his right arm to reveal the tattoo of the Lohars family, which appeared to be dripping blood.

What did the fall of a noble house matter in Nostramo? Once power was lost, few would remember their names.

Yet, the workers of the Underhive were rarely remembered by anyone while they were still alive.

What an ironic contrast.

Karyl closed his eyes and took a brief, deep breath. When he opened them again, cold blue light had replaced the darkness, becoming the only color remaining within his sockets.

Then, he walked straight into the wall, like a true ghost.

A spear was thrust through a man's torso, pinning him completely.

He lay on a boulder with a vacant expression, the surface of the stone splattered with his blood. Light spilled down from the sky to illuminate him, while all around was darkness, where countless hungry eyes waited in the gloom.

Mantas Skraivok stared at the painting and shook his head lightly.

"The artistic taste of our ancestors is truly nothing to boast about."

He spoke to himself. "Whoever painted this should have been executed, and the work destroyed immediately, rather than preserved to this day."

After saying this, he paused deliberately, casting a sidelong glance at the darkness in the corner of the study.

Mantas Skraivok fell silent for a moment, then suddenly let out a dry laugh.

In the past, the Shadow would have answered his words during this brief interval. That had fostered this small habit.

He shook his head with a smile and slowly returned to his desk.

Several documents lay upon it, the difficult-to-read flourishes of the calligraphy beautifully intertwined, bright red ink resting quietly on the pale parchment.

Having been left for some time, the ink had set, no longer prone to smudging from the slightest friction and turning the words into a mess.

Mantas Skraivok picked up the first one. He spent a few minutes checking the document he had written himself, then set it back down with a lack of interest.

The deal with Tremor-Tooth had been struck. From this point on, there were only three noble factions left in Quintus that the Skolevok Family needed to deal with.

And in twelve hours, The Great Purge would arrive ahead of schedule.

The strength of those three families could not compare to the Skolevok Family at this time, no matter how one looked at it. Their only fate was to suffer massive losses in Quintus and eventually slink away from the competition in disgrace.

Thinking of this, Mantas Skraivok could not help but sneer—he was already looking forward to the opening of the noble council in half a month.

At that time, he would reasonably, logically, and legally propose compensation at the council, and if they disagreed—

No, there were no "ifs."

He began to laugh out loud.

They had to agree. There was no other choice.

However, my progeny.

Count Tattoo closed his eyes and sighed in his expensive, comfortable chair.

At first, there were seventeen; twenty years later, that number had dwindled to three.

Now, that number was zero.

Zero.

It could represent a fresh start, or it could represent the total loss of wealth.

At this moment, Mantas Skraivok was inclined toward the latter.

Deep wrinkles began to appear between his brows. This matter had to be thoroughly investigated; the murderer had to be executed in front of everyone, and the person behind it all had to pay a heavy price.

He opened his eyes indifferently, ending his thoughts, then stood up, intending to leave the study to rest. The night was still long, and he did not intend to wait any longer.

After all, shadows do not fail.

Arriving at the study door, he pushed it open—the hinges, maintained daily, were incredibly smooth. The gilded door was pushed open easily with one hand, meeting no resistance at all.

Servants could only touch its surface with their foreheads and wait for the built-in machinery to slide the door open automatically. But Mantas Skraivok preferred manual operation; doing things himself was one of his labels.

He stepped onto the long corridor and walked slowly, as if taking a stroll.

The lights turned on spontaneously, the soft yellow glow making the space feel very cozy. Even the expressions of the ancestors glaring from their portraits seemed to soften; in Mantas's perception, his ancestors were looking at him with pride.

This made him reveal a smile.

Yes, you should be proud of me.

In my lifetime, I will make the Skolevok Family the only noble house in Nostramo; everyone else will bow down.

Ancestors, you will surely cheer for me.

The gloom of losing his painstakingly cultivated progeny was even dispelled by this emotion. He walked down the corridor with a smile, only to be splashed with hot blood from the corner ahead.

Mantas Skraivok's right hand trembled violently.

What was happening?

"Oh, good evening."

A soft voice rang out in the darkness, carrying a hint of sincere apology.

"I didn't mean to splash blood on your clothes; it's just that your timing is quite unfortunate. I've only just finished dealing with the last hidden sentry."

"Though, you lot really are suspicious, keeping so many traps, mechanisms, and security measures inside your own spire."

"You—"

Mantas Skraivok spoke in shock and anger, only to be immediately interrupted.

"—Shh."

A cold, blood-stained hand suddenly reached out from the darkness, closing Mantas's jaw with immense force, with the middle finger and thumb positioned perfectly on his cheeks.

Then, the owner of the hand applied gentle pressure.

With a crisp click, Mantas Skraivok suddenly felt a surge of agonizing pain.

His jaw hung slack, the muscles stubbornly pulling at it against gravity, while the nerves burned as if on fire.

Mantas's body shuddered violently, instinctively wanting to cry out in pain, but a blade was thrust into his throat the next second.

The blade was withdrawn, but a frigid current followed, wreaking havoc in his mouth; the blood that would have gushed from the wound was frozen solid.

It turned into pillars of blood containing countless tiny ice shards, continuing to damage the owner's body.

Mantas Skraivok collapsed to his knees. He was not like Tremor-Tooth and those who craved carnal pleasure; his tolerance for pain was not exceptional. Thus, he was now in too much pain to stand.

"Shh," the voice said softly. "It's late, everyone is asleep. Be quiet, okay?"

Hearing this, Mantas lifted his head, trembling. A surge of immense rage prompted him to do this, briefly ignoring the pain.

He had to see the true face of someone so audacious.

At the same time, he was still searching for a way to break the deadlock.

This highly skilled assassin clearly came from another family, just like the shadows of the Skolevok Family—one of the trump cards belonging to every house.

Furthermore, he displayed a familiarity with the internal structure of the family, as well as a bizarre sense of humor. The latter was easy to explain: he was simply mentally unstable. The shadows had it too; all "shadows" likely suffered from such issues.

But how to explain the former? Especially the timing of this assassination, which happened to occur on the very day the shadows were away—

No, that wasn't right. How did he bypass the layered security inside the spire?

I didn't hear any gunfire; had the sentry robots all malfunctioned? And what about the built-in alarm system? Why didn't it sound?!

Could there be a traitor? Did they collude with another family to stage an assassination at this hour? Is it Tremor-Tooth? The probability is high; they could have guessed I would make a move.

"Don't bother thinking, Count."

The voice in the darkness spoke, and the speaker crouched down so that Mantas could see his face more clearly.

It was a pale face.

With melancholic eyes and a high bridge of the nose, he was smiling gently, appearing quite mild.

"You won't guess the truth unless I choose to reveal the answer. All those guesses you're making now are actually meaningless—though, if they help distract you and let you ignore the pain for a while, I don't mind."

Mantas opened his mouth, and a broken sound forced its way out of his throat. It sounded like a whimper, and fresh blood seeped from the corners of his lips.

"No, I am not an assassin. Killing you is not my primary purpose for being here."

Kael explained patiently. He crouched beside the kneeling Count, his posture relaxed, as if they were engaged in a conversation between old friends.

If one ignored their identities and the setting, one might truly think they were friends.

After all, Mantas Skraivok had responded to Kael's question with nothing but a few whimpers.

"You see, Count, you have your own set of rules for dealing with the world."

"You turn everything into a simple exchange of interests, although a large portion of you prefers the fleeting pleasure of the flesh—but interests remain the primary factor."

"I like this attitude of using rules to keep the world running, but your rules..."

Kael sighed softly.

He reached out his right hand, grabbed Mantas by the chin, and dragged him toward the other end of the corridor.

Pain followed, and Mantas struck repeatedly at that hand, which was as cold as a corpse's, but it was entirely futile.

He couldn't even manage to bite down on the fingers; his jaw was now useless for anything other than causing him agony.

As he walked, swaying from side to side, he displayed an extreme familiarity with the place, as if he had lived here for decades.

At the same time, he did not forget to finish the second half of his sentence to Mantas Skraivok.

"...Your rules are truly rotten to the core, so much so that even someone like me, who shouldn't care, can't stand it. Do you know what that feels like, Count?"

Kael shook his head, swung his arm, and threw the supreme Count of the Skolevok Family violently into a room.

The door had already been opened; the Count spun as he flew inside, knocking over a row of tables and chairs.

He lay on the floor in unbearable pain, feeling the world spinning and his mind a complete blur.

He had ascended to the position of Count through his intellect, having sent the thirty-two siblings who competed against him into death traps. He didn't like using violent means either; it was too vulgar.

Therefore, although he still wanted to stand up and resist, his body simply refused to obey.

Kael ignored him, merely wiping the blood from his hands onto his own clothes before closing the door.

He then dragged over a chair, sat down in front of Mantas Skraivok, tilted his head to look at him, and waited patiently.

How easy, Kael thought. Unleashing the constraints, casting aside the rules—is it really this simple to make a mastermind who poisons the Hive City suffer to this extent?

He couldn't help but laugh.

Yes, killing is indeed simple.

Humans are born knowing how to exercise violence, not to mention someone like him. Violence can achieve goals at the fastest speed, but what comes after that?

Mantas Skraivok tremblingly crawled up, interrupting Kael's thoughts.

He glanced at Kael, then surprisingly pulled over a chair for himself and sat down. During this process, his gaze swept over the right wrist Kael had deliberately exposed.

He narrowed his eyes.

Kael saw it.

Mantas Skraivok took a deep breath and slowly raised his hands, intending to find a way to fix his dislocated jaw.

Just then, a hand with a tattoo on the wrist reached out, brushing against his cheek with a chilling temperature.

—The wounds and the pain vanished instantly.

Count Tattoo's cheek twitched violently.

"Surprised?" Kael asked.

"...A little," Mantas Skraivok replied in a low voice.

"Are you surprised by this power of mine, or by my identity?"

"Both."

Count Tattoo shook his head, feeling a strange sense of emotion.

He had, conversely, become eerily relaxed, leaning back against the chair. This change in posture made Kael smile silently.

He could roughly guess what Count Tattoo was thinking.

"You are actually still alive, Kael Lohars," Mantas Skraivok said in a low voice.

Kael did not answer; he knew Mantas still had many things to say.

For a dying man, he was willing to show a little respect.

"You've come to ask me for the truth of those years, haven't you?"

Mantas Skraivok spoke slowly.

"That's right. It was that traitor who brought about your family's ruin. Given that he is already dead, I assume someone has already told you?"

Kael remained silent.

Mantas brushed the matter aside with a calm expression, continuing his narrative. However, his mind raced, frantically calculating the answer to that very question.

"Your father, Gaius Lohars, begged us to spare you at the cost of your family's hidden treasures. That heartless butcher demanded, in his final moments, that a path be left for his son. We agreed."

Staring into Kael's eyes, Mantas paused for a moment, intending to use the time to observe any possible reaction.

"And that 'path' meant throwing a seven-year-old child into the Underhive with nothing but two daggers from the Lohars estate?" Kael asked with a smile.

"You couldn't have asked for more," Mantas replied calmly.

"The crime of murdering a Count should have seen you all put to death; even the traitor had his name erased. After that, he lived in the Underhive as an obscure priest, far removed from the life a nobleman deserves."

"Yet it was still better than the lives of those in the Underhive."

Kael shook his head with a smile. "You don't know the half of it, Count. The traitor you forced into the Underhive still held sway there. To be frank, he remained a nobleman; he simply lived in the Underhive."

Inevitably, Mantas Skraivok frowned.

He had failed to elicit the reaction he wanted.

This meant his entire assessment of Kael Lohars had to be discarded. The man hadn't come for profit—at least, not yet. This last descendant of the Lohars family had shown no desire to reclaim his name or status.

More crucially, Kael Lohars had survived.

This meant that one of the families involved in that conspiracy had secretly protected and raised him.

It also meant that, in their version of events, Mantas Skraivok must be the source of all hatred.

Though, that was indeed the case.

It was Mantas who had single-handedly orchestrated the fall of the Lohars family.

Yet, why was Kael Lohars so indifferent? He could even still laugh with ease, and Mantas could tell that the mirth was no pretense.

He couldn't help but swallow, his throat still tasting of blood. Invisibly, the initiative of the conversation had shifted once again.

"Confused, are you?" Kael asked softly.

"But, as I said, Count. Unless I choose to speak, you will never be able to guess the truth."

"You seem very confident, descendant of the Lohars," Mantas said in a low voice.

"Hmm, I'm actually not confident," Kael said. "I just know what I have to do."

"And what is that?"

Kael smiled faintly and stood up. Silver light flickered at his wrists; he raised his hands, and the two daggers spun into his palms, held in a reverse grip.

Immediately after, he turned and threw them. The blades pierced the air with immense force, emitting a dangerous whistle. The thick wall was instantly punctured, and the clicking sound of machinery followed.

Then, another section of the wall flipped open, revealing a massive black machine.

Mantas Skraivok's face changed abruptly.

The nobles of Nostramo had many ways to communicate; they could send messengers, letters, or use communication systems for convenient but undignified instant messaging.

Among all these methods, there was one used only in times of dire emergency.

"You see, Count, I know many things. I know how you indulge in your pleasures, and I know how you murder one another. And this, without a doubt, is the most interesting piece of information I possess."

Kael burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the room.

"What are you doing?" Mantas asked, leaning forward, his hands gripping the armrests.

This was the first time he felt he had lost control of a situation, even more so than when he had been dragged through the corridors earlier. A terrible sense of unease began to surge within him, gnawing at his heart.

"What do you think?" Kael countered. "What do you think I'm doing? Weren't you full of confidence just a moment ago, Count? Didn't you think this descendant of the Lohars had come to seek revenge?"

"Isn't that the case?!"

"No, it isn't, Count. You aren't worth such a grand, costly effort."

Kael turned and walked slowly toward the machine. "The descendant of the Lohars died long ago, Count. Standing before you now is nothing but a ghost."

"What exactly are you going to do, Kael Lohars?!"

The ghost stopped, looked back, and smiled gently, cold blue light igniting in his eyes.

He answered softly, speaking in a language entirely distinct from Nostramo, his words ringing out with finality.

"I am going to light a fire, Count. I am going to burn you damned animals to death. I've had enough."

In the cold night, a voice rang out abruptly across the Upper Hive of Nostramo.

It came from afar, hissing through the night via ancient machinery. It passed through the ornate, grim palaces of the nobles, through the dark and blood-stained dungeons, through the vaults piled high with gold and treasures.

Finally, it reached the ears of every single noble.

In that moment, whether they were sleeping soundly in their beds or dancing slowly to soft music while draped in human skin, they all heard that gentle voice.

"Noble lords and ladies."

"Monarchs of the Eternal Night Court."

"Good evening."

"Remember my voice, and prepare yourselves. You may flee, you may resist, you may hide. Do whatever you wish, but I shall bring everything to an end tonight."

"Of course, there is one final thing."

A faint laugh echoed, swirling around their ears, carrying a chill and a madness from some unknown source, gradually swelling like a peal of thunder.

"Remember, I have come for you."