The slaughter had continued for hours. Scarlet blood no longer merely dotted the streets; it splashed and flowed like paint, gathering in low-lying places into viscous pools.
Severed limbs and mutilated bodies were no longer isolated horrors. They had become grisly decorations in every alley and square, silently testifying to the brutality and thoroughness of this purge from below.
The air was filled with the heavy tang of rust, Smoke, and the stench of excrement, almost suffocating.
Yet the people of Nostramo walking through this slaughterhouse generally showed no fear on their faces—at least, no fear of the sights before them.
The fire in their eyes had yet to die. Beneath their taut nerves lay a sense of release that left them almost drained, yet utterly exhilarated.
Centuries of resentment, humiliation, and hatred over ruined homes and murdered families had built up like lava beneath a volcano. Once it erupted, the destruction was horrifying, but it also brought a twisted, overwhelming sense of "relief."
Every scream from an enemy seemed to soothe the old wounds in their hearts.
Every dead aristocrat seemed to lift an invisible boulder from their backs.
The efficiency was astonishing.
With the people's spontaneously organized network of reckoning and the limited tactical guidance provided by the Word Bearers, Nostramo's aristocracy, spanning dozens of generations, was being physically erased at a rate of tens of thousands per hour, along with its core network of retainers.
The upper districts of the City, once filled with song, dance, and prosperity, now held nothing but burning villas, shattered shop windows, and wreckage strewn everywhere.
For the downtrodden masses who had been exploited to the marrow, this was undoubtedly the best day since the dawn of creation.
The sky had never been so "clear." Smoke had stained it dark red, but