14 Fire Rain

Tujea shook his head vigorously and slowly lowered the gun in his hand. "6" "9" "s" "h" "u" "x" "." "c" "o" "m" His ears were ringing. This was what would happen if he fired a gun in a tunnel or a small room. If it was more serious, he might even lose his hearing.

While the Catachan MK3 isn't a particularly noisy gun, it's not like Lasgun that only makes a buzzing sound. It's a live-fire weapon, and from its invention to its evolution, it has always had the right to make noise.

Tujea pondered these things absentmindedly, then put the gun back in his coat pocket.

Yes, he changed back into his coat— the Moran Family had been completely wiped out, and the police officers sensed something else from the detective's death and the higher-ups' indifference.

In conclusion, Tujea won back his right to wear his own coat.

Sometimes, old clothes are just much more comfortable to wear than new clothes.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of candy, and leaned against the cold tunnel wall, using the emergency light to select some.

It took him a full half minute to pick out one from the pile of cheap gray candies. However, they all looked practically identical, tightly wrapped in gray wrappers. Even if you unwrapped them, you couldn't tell anything from their uniform pale white appearance.

In some ways, eating candy and killing someone are probably no different.

Both of these things require practice.

Tujea looked down at the ground. In the pale, dim light of the emergency lights, two bright red streaks of blood were spreading in front of him, completely staining the rough cement floor of the underground tunnel red.

He took a step forward, his boots clicking on the concrete, the sound echoing through the tunnel as it went.

A muffled groan came from ahead of him, accompanied by a slight scraping sound. The incandescent lights began to flicker; there seemed to be a problem with the voltage in the tunnel. Tujea's face was barely visible in the dim light. He followed the crawling man at a leisurely pace, then raised his foot and stepped on the right knee that had been pierced by the man's bullet.

He heard a scream very clearly.

"It's him," a soul whispered in his ear.

Tujea didn't speak, but simply rolled the candy under his tongue and pressed it down gently.

The unique sour taste from the chemical reaction continued to spread on his taste buds. He opened his mouth and inhaled a breath of cold air, and the sour taste transformed into a strange, chilly sensation.

He pulled a gun from his pocket, crouched down, and pointed the dark barrel at a sweating, terrified face.

"What exactly do you want?" the owner of that face asked in despair.

Tujea didn't say anything, he simply lowered the hammer.

He seemed to have fallen into a strange, dazed state, his green eyes unfocused, fixed on some point in the darkness, while his hand holding the gun remained motionless, unwavering.

At the same time, the murmurs of the dead that he heard were slowly changing, from whispers to roars filled with hatred.

Tujea inhaled another breath of cold air, then quickly exhaled. He lowered his gun, grabbed a handful of sticky hair, and began carrying the wounded man back.

He screamed incessantly, babbling incessantly, promising Tujea many things he thought would sway him. This futile struggle continued until Tujea threw him among three corpses, all his companions from the same gang.

They entered the underground from the surface of Zone 2 at midnight, fully armed, and were eventually shot by Tujea, who had been following them, inside the tunnel.

As for which gang it was, a face flashed before Tujea's eyes—a middle-aged man with a mustache, his face covered in blood.

"Listen, I have a lot of money in my pocket. I work for Elvis, okay? I sell placebos for him, so I have a lot of money. If you don't believe me, you can stop my bleeding first, and then take me back to my house."

"I have a safe hidden under my bed with six thousand dollars in cash inside. You can take it all. If that's not enough, I have more—"

"--Shh." Tujea shook his head at him, interrupting his struggle for survival with a soft shush.

At the same time, he raised his gun once again.

The man stared at him in fear, his body trembling, unaware that the eyes hidden beneath the brim of the hat were slowly changing. The original green had vanished without a trace, replaced by a pale blue filled with hatred.

"Tujea" gritted his teeth and said, "I'm just a delivery driver, why did you kill me?"

The man froze. Gunshots flashed the next second, followed by a deafening explosion. He fell backward, his face completely smashed.

Tujea closed his eyes and crushed the candy. He stood up sullenly, the whispers fading rapidly into the distance, and the chill returned, piercing his flesh and opening an invisible door.

A few seconds later, it closed, and the coldness transformed into a strange warmth that flowed through his body.

Tujea turned around and began walking towards the tunnel exit.

His gunshot wound from some time ago has completely healed. He didn't have any particularly good medical conditions, nor did he undergo any corrective surgery; his self-healing ability was still only at the level of an average person. But now, his injury has been fully recovered.

Not only that, he also

The investigator, his head throbbing, stopped thinking, sighed, and still couldn't understand what he had gotten himself into.

Horst didn't explain much to him, but simply showed him a badge from the Inquisition and told him that the Vindicators had actually existed for thousands of years and were a rather secretive organization.

Frankly, this explanation is worse than no explanation at all.

Mysteries piled up, but Tujea couldn't solve any of them, which was hardly a good job experience for an investigator. Moreover, the Vindicators on Litatera; a squad from the Space Marine Chapter was also active there.

A few days ago, Tujea met with Zel again in the chapel, where Zell revealed some things, such as the name of the Chapter and what they were doing.

Tujea never expected his investigation would become involved with Astartes. Even more bizarrely, they actually helped him resolve the aftermath of the incident. What was this all about? How could Astartes be so idle?

With this idea in mind, some guesses began to spread endlessly along with his chaotic thoughts, and many details were thus connected. For example, the language that both Horst and Zel had used, and the strange idol bleeding inside the church.

However, details are just details; he couldn't deduce the truth from them. To make matters worse, when Tujea came to his senses, he found himself naturally acting as a "Vindicators" rather than an investigator.

He completely forgot about his less-than-satisfactory previous job and began to focus intently on Vindicators. Sometimes it was simply about Vengeance, but other times it required meeting certain people and doing certain things Vengeance.

Now, Tujea can only console himself with the thought that "it's at least better than paperwork."

He quickly left the tunnel and returned to the surface of Zone 2.

Holy Spirit Month has just begun, and the usually quiet nights are now bustling. Slogans and symbols are plastered all over the streets, fluttering in the night breeze.

The dueling arena remains bustling with activity, as those who harbor mutual animosity eagerly await their turn to fight. This will, barring any unforeseen circumstances, continue from the beginning to the end of the Holy Spirit Month.

What could be better than being able to legally and legitimately murder your enemy?

Tujea coldly observed their commotion, then slowly left the street. As if guided, he effortlessly navigated through several winding alleys, leaving the second district and heading towards the third.

A gang leader named Elvis operated in that area. He won the duel during the day. The young Billy was ultimately inexperienced and made a fatal mistake at the last moment, falling into a trap and having his throat pierced.

Their feud was thus put to rest.

Elvis, beaming with excitement, immediately ordered his men, who were waiting in the crowd, to take over Billy's forces. The deputy inspector of District One surprisingly showed no reaction whatsoever; he even shook hands with Elvis, praising his performance as spectacular.

Tujea felt only absurdity about this, because he could clearly see the wronged souls in Elvis's Shadow. Without exception, they were all victims killed by Elvis himself, which also revealed a certain nature of this middle-aged man.

Tujea has met many gang leaders, and while some are indeed cold-blooded killers, they are a minority. The majority are driven by money—if not for that, why would they willingly embark on this terrifying path where their lives are constantly in danger?

Elvis, however, is probably different, and that's why he deserves some special treatment.

Tujea reached into his coat pocket with his right hand and grasped his gun. Night had fallen, but the world before him was not entirely dark; countless illusory souls were silently guiding him.

Tujea Aben thought these souls needed to stay by the killer's side indefinitely, but now it seems that's not the case. Or perhaps, it was simply the nature of his "profession" that gave them the power to leave?

As he pondered these matters, he gradually left the bustling streets of the Third District and the crowds celebrating the Holy Spirit Month, arriving at the edge of a semi-abandoned factory. If the guidance of the spirits hadn't gone wrong, then this was Elvis's lair.

This is quite rare; do ordinary Hive City leaders have the ability to use a factory as their the Nest?

Tujea frowned slightly, staring at the flickering firelight inside the factory for a while. He didn't immediately choose to go in, but instead took out another handful of candy and picked one for himself.

He had already killed many people that night; following Horst's advice, he had wiped out all the men Elvis had sent within the first three hours of the night.

He no longer needed to worry about ammunition; the people of District Two welcomed him warmly, now that he had free access to the church. Not long ago, he was an unpopular investigator, but now he seemed like a native of Litatera, having lived there for at least thirty years.

However, he didn't have this kind of fighting ability before.

Even with ammunition plentiful, finding twenty-six gangsters scattered throughout the Hive City in batches within three hours and killing them effortlessly was something he would never have dared to dream of before.

But now, he could see a group of dead souls. They pointed Tujea in the right direction with unparalleled accuracy, and even gave him a special vision that allowed him to see through walls.

This was like a high-tech-equipped nobleman's private assassin hunting down people in the Hive City who knew nothing of his existence—in other words, with minimal effort.

"This is fucking absurd, "Tujea thought. "It seems like I've suddenly become a Psyker who needs to register with the local Psyker administration. Maybe I really am? If I register, I might even be able to go to Terra."

He chuckled at his own thoughts. Although it was indeed an honor, he knew very well that this power had little to do with psychic abilities.

So, the question arises: what exactly is this power? Those connected to it are either Astartes or members of the Inquisition hidden within the Ecclesiarchy —oh, and now perhaps we should add one more: this low-ranking investigator from the Adeptus Arbites.

Tujea reluctantly crushed the candy, picked up his gun, and walked into the abandoned factory yard. It was desolate; all the telephone poles had been knocked down, the cement ground covered in moss was cracked, and there wasn't a soul in sight.

The residents of the third district probably all knew who owned this factory, and even during Holy Spirit Month, no celebratory procession dared to pass by here.

The main body of the factory was illuminated by faint firelight in the darkness, resembling the head of a giant beast. Tujea approached its gate silently, his steps remarkably calm.

In the past, even if he were recklessly determined to raid a gang's the Nest alone, he would have had to spend a considerable amount of time figuring out whether there were any of their sentries nearby.

Now, however, there's no need for that anymore. Amidst the rising phantom arms and murmuring whispers, he has completely grasped all the information about the area around the factory.

He could even tell exactly how many people were inside—twenty-four, not one more, not one less.

These were all the remaining members of Elvis's gang, celebrating in their the Nest. Faint noises drifted from the broken windows and closed doors. Tujea raised his left hand and pounded on the door.

With a dull thud, the revelry inside immediately ceased. Tujea didn't move aside; he simply calmly raised his gun.

That power was roaring within him, transforming from a warm current into a frenzied, boiling molten iron, surging wildly through his blood vessels and flowing into his heart and brain.

The world before him changed instantly; the walls and doors vanished, and a humanoid silhouette, outlined in pale white lines, was slowly walking towards the door, holding a gun.

After a while, accompanied by the sound of hinges moving, the door was pulled open, and the man who opened the door walked out looking displeased and reeking of alcohol. Then a gun was pressed against his forehead.

Tujea pulled the trigger without any expression.

He was unwilling to admit that he preferred the job of Vindicators to that of an investigator, but his actions had left him no room for argument.

He simply prefers revenge and settling scores. He wants to see those damned people die one by one; he's endured it for far too long. Besides, he doesn't need to violate any principles to do so.

The unjustly killed were roaring in his ears. This wasn't a personal grudge, nor was it for money or status; it was simply Vengeance — the Vengeance of the dead. They used his body and his gun to fire bullets filled with hatred at those who had committed heinous crimes.

Tujea didn't notice that he was smiling.

But his enemies noticed.

Of the twenty-four men, twelve were killed instantly by the bullets of the Catachan MK3 in the first round of shooting. Tujea's bullets never missed; it was as if his bullets could find their own enemies.

The remaining people were immediately forced out of their revelry by a cold sweat, and at Elvis's roaring command, they raised their guns and began to return fire.

Bullets flew everywhere; shotguns and large-caliber Autogun sent concrete pillars and wild decorations flying all over the factory. The sex workers brought back from the nearby brothel screamed and stood frozen in place.

Regardless of gender, they all wisely refrained from wandering around, secretly praying that the gang shootout would end quickly—and their prayers soon came true. The firefight lasted less than three minutes before all the survivors were dead.

Torches hung on the walls inside the factory, their light illuminating distorted faces and corpses scattered on the floor.

Tujea, carrying his gun, slowly walked out from behind a thick concrete pillar while changing bullets. He heard running sounds, but he didn't need to look up. A hateful and somewhat familiar voice whispered in his ear.

That was young Billy's voice.

"The second pillar from the left, he's trying to run. Kill him!"

Tujea slowly raised his head, flicked his wrist, and the magazine spun back into the gun. He raised the gun, cocked the hammer, and aimed at Elvis, who was fleeing, but did not fire immediately.

I have no grudge against you. This sudden attack, this inexplicable massacre, my killing of you has nothing to do with justice, nor is it because I can't stand the existence of people like you in the world.

The Imperium has millions of Hive City, and in Hive City there are countless people like you. You have become a natural law, a part of the established order.

Tujea closed his eyes, and half a second later, when he opened them again, the green had vanished. The pale chestnut brown that belonged to Billy Pasen boiled and burned, and he roared, his voice echoing throughout the factory.

"Elvis!"

The running man suddenly stopped and turned around in disbelief. In the flickering firelight, those bloodstained eyes came into view.

But how is that possible?

"I killed you! I've already killed you!" Elvis suddenly roared in response.

He acted bravely, but his forehead was already covered in cold sweat, and he even quickened his pace. He couldn't believe this could happen; Billy Paison was dead, just like the man who had stabbed his parents to death and stolen all their money.

He stabbed Billy in the throat with another knife and watched him die.

How could he possibly come back? His body has already been burned to ashes.

Billy didn't answer him, perhaps he wanted to, but Tujea didn't give the order. There were other people present, and he didn't want Billy to reveal too much.

So the vengeful, crazed spirit didn't utter those words aloud; it simply began to run. It ran much faster than Elvis, or rather, much faster than any normal person.

He quickly caught up with Elvis, tackled him to the ground, and began punching the terrified face with his fists and the butt of his gun.

Blood splattered out, and Elvis roared, struggling and asking, "I killed you! How could you come back?!"

Billy still didn't answer, only pointing the gun at Elvis. He should have pulled the trigger, but he had already wasted too much time.

As if cold water had been poured over his head, Tujea regained control of his body, but Billy Paison's soul was no longer in his sight.

This is the price one must pay for seeking personal Vengeance.

"Wait, you're not him!" Elvis suddenly shouted.

Beneath the wide-brimmed hat, in the flickering firelight, he saw a pair of green eyes that seemed to glow. His fear subsided slightly, and Elvis mustered his strength, using the implanted enhancement in his right hand to shove Tujea away from him.

He stumbled to his feet, pointed at Tujea, and roared, "You charlatan! Billy Paisson is dead!"

"Yes, he just died." Tujea pressed his hat and slowly stood up from the ground.

He glanced at Elvis, where the resentful spirits gathered around him, silent yet with black flames burning in their eyes.

If they could touch Elvis, the man would likely be utterly destroyed. Unfortunately, they lacked that ability; the line between life and death was clear, and they needed the help of others to reach their enemy.

Tujea didn't want to do that, so they pointed to Elvis's right sleeve, as if it contained something.

Tujea squinted his eyes.

"Who sent you?"

Elvis asked warily, while constantly backing away. He seemed to have misinterpreted Tujea's act of leaving him behind as something else, and began to utter many other names.

They all sounded like gang leaders like him, and he assumed Tujea was the assassin they had hired. However, no matter how many names he mentioned, the "assassin" remained silent, expressionless, and utterly speechless.

But he did not raise his gun.

Then Elvis suddenly realized—or at least that's what he thought.

"I understand. The person who sent you didn't offer enough, did he?" he quickly said. "How about this, I'll offer three times that amount? No matter how much he offers, I'll offer three times!"

"In the name of the God-Emperor, we have no grudges against each other; we're just trying to make a living! I have a house in the city, and my personal treasury is inside—in the wealthy district! Think about it, sir! I have a house in the wealthy district!"

As he spoke, he slowly raised his hands. His wrinkled suit was stained with blood and dust, making him look extremely disheveled. Tujea, however, didn't care about any of that; he simply stared at Elvis's right hand without saying a word.

"We can cooperate—" Elvis said, his expression quickly turning ferocious.

He swiftly swung his right hand, and a miniature pistol suddenly appeared from his sleeve and was grasped in his hand. This series of movements was incredibly fast; he had practiced at least tens of thousands of times to achieve such speed, and even his finger was on the trigger in an instant.

However, Tujea was faster than him.

With a gunshot, Elvis fell backward, and the Catachan MK3, without discrimination, turned his head into a pile of mangled flesh.

Tujea silently sheathed his gun and shook his head. The door rose again, and countless sharp knives pierced through him once more.

At the same time, he heard the sound of running behind him. The people who had been invited to have fun had taken this opportunity to escape; they were clearly not fools.

Tujea sighed, silently uttering the words in his heart, and the door closed naturally. He then found a rock and sat down. After a while, Horst's voice came from the darkness.

"Well done," he praised. "Besides, did you know I was coming?"

"I don't know, but they do," Tujea said without looking up.

The priest chuckled and stepped out of the darkness. As footsteps echoed, Tujea finally looked up at him. He noticed that the priest's black robe was very wide at the cuffs; without a doubt, he knew that the two knives were probably inside them.

But in what way? Is it close to the wrist, or tucked inside the sleeve?

His speculation was naturally interrupted by Horst's next sentence.

"You're really talented, you know that?" the pastor said very seriously.

"What talent? Psionic talent?" Tujea countered. "Do you think I have psionic talent? If so, can I go to Terra?"

The pastor chuckled at his words, shook his head, and said, "No, I meant your talent in this line of work. You seem born for it, Tujea. Look at yourself, working seamlessly with the unjustly killed."

Is it difficult?

"That's certainly not difficult, but the real challenge lies in the fact that you've begun to adapt to it."

The pastor paused for a few seconds, then looked at him meaningfully. Tujea felt a tightness in his chest under his gaze. He shook his head reluctantly, wanting to refute, but suddenly a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his mind.

He instinctively looked up at the sky. The factory ceiling had long been corroded clean, leaving only steel bars dividing the sky into irregular large and small pieces.

The night in Litatera should have been peaceful, but now it was lit by twinkling firelight. Tujea covered his forehead and stood up in pain. He wanted to ask Horst what had happened, but found that the latter's expression was even more distorted than his own.

At first, he didn't understand why, until five seconds later, until the sky suddenly became as bright as day, and countless, overwhelming souls suddenly filled the sky.

They shouted a name in unison.

"Erebus!"

Tujea collapsed unconscious.

(End of this chapter)

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