The Old City of Quintus was a curious jumble of buildings.
In fact, twenty years ago, it was the “new district.” And today, all the inhabitants of Quintus called it the Old City.
For no particular reason; that was just how it was.
The few who knew the reason kept their mouths shut.
And the dead, as is well known, do not speak.
Time is merciless.
The workers who once lived in the Old City disappeared without a trace; not even their bones can be found.
Everything they had is buried beneath the ruins – no graves, no headstones, no names.
Death means losing everything, doesn’t it?
But at least one person remembered them.
One wandering soul remembered.
Kariel jumped from a half-ruined roof, dodging a patrol vehicle of the Glorious Warlords.
The motorcycle rattled over the bumpy road, and the two riders burst into curses.
They had no idea that at that very moment, a dark shadow was streaking over their heads.
Watching them go, Kariel shook his head with slight regret.
The patrolmen were cautious.
Or rather, whoever had plotted these routes was cautious.
He had developed numerous intersecting paths, making silent murder a pipe dream.
The disappearance of any group would immediately attract the attention of the others.
Kariel could mask the sound of the kill, but not the aftermath.
Every swing of his blade brought death, and death cannot be hidden.
Kariel continued on his way.
He knew the Old City like the back of his hand.
Forward, turn, into the alley, onto the roof of the ominous pointed house – in just twelve minutes, he reached his goal.
The bell tower.
It had once been one of the symbols of the Old City.
Around it, neon lights and floating billboards blazed.
The dark night was colored with bright hues, and the wars for control of the bell tower never ceased for a single day.
Every gang wanted to own it.
Silent, tall, it rose in the darkness, like some sort of symbol, compelling everyone who saw it to strive to conquer it.
However, the Great Purge changed everything.
And the construction of the new district was the final nail in the coffin.
Today, this place could rightfully be called a ghost town.
Only half of it was still in use, and not even by workers.
“Very much in the spirit of Nostramo,” Kariel thought.
He couldn’t help but curl his lips in a cold smirk.
Kariel approached the ancient building and scaled it in a few agile leaps.
When he climbed to the very top and entered the heart of the bell tower through an arched opening, he saw, as expected, no huge copper bell.
Stolen?
Or did some aristocrat take it for his collection?
Kariel had no answer.
He walked to the other side of the opening, which offered a view of the highway.
Unlike the dark Old City, it was different.
Bright lamps hung every fifty meters, making the road so illuminated it seemed not to belong to Nostramo.
Here, the Glorious Warlords had concentrated their main defense.
The previous posts and patrols were just an appetizer.
The real feast was these blockades, set up every five hundred meters.
Armed men were everywhere.
They even had combat guard robots – primitive iron golems crafted by the artisans of Hive Prime and sold in vast quantities.
It was worth noting that the road surface was also in excellent condition.
Thanks for that went to the workers who were rounded up for repairs every two months.
But where were they now?
Kariel had no answer.
He exhaled quietly, then crouched down, moved aside the bricks that had accumulated at the edge of the opening, brushed off the dust, and sat on the floor.
He had to wait for them, as he had done before.
As soon as he caught their scent, he would leap out of the darkness and slit his prey’s throat.
But until then, patience was required.
A good hunter must be patient.
It’s a rare quality, indispensable in this line of work.
“Patience, Ghost,” Kariel muttered.
“Don’t get hurt, don’t disappoint yourself.” Yes, don’t disappoint yourself.
He lowered his head, clenched his fists so that the blades bit into his skin.
… “Don’t run,” said the Ghost.
“You must not run.
You must accept it.” “Get away, you monster!” The man screamed, standing in the middle of the blood-soaked attic.
A pistol was in his hands, but he no longer had the courage to pull the trigger.
His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the weapon.
Half a minute ago, he had emptied an entire magazine, but couldn’t even touch the edge of the Ghost’s clothes.
And if you went back another half a minute, you would have seen a dark shadow burst into the attic in an instant and, with two sweeps of its hands, tear the limbs off one of the guards.
If you had seen that scene, filled with screams and flying chunks of flesh, you might understand the terror this man was now experiencing.
In response to his scream, the Ghost merely tilted his head.
So that’s how fear works?
He nodded thoughtfully, finally beginning to understand why Kariel always acted silently.
Before, he had thought Kariel just liked it that way.
The Ghost had no idea he did it only because it was more efficient.
In the face of fear, they were helpless.
In fact, this was already the last post the Ghost was clearing.
But this crying man was not the first to break down before him tonight.
There had been many others before him.
“Don’t come near, don’t come near!” the man sobbed.
“I beg you, don’t come near, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to…” “You are not going to shoot at me anymore?” the Ghost asked calmly.
“I… I am…” “Shoot,” the Ghost said quietly.
“I want you to accept it.” “Accept what?!
Are you insane?!” The man screamed in despair, his voice echoing through the ruined attic.
His fat belly was covered in blood, and behind him, the dismembered body silently watched the proceedings.
“Your death, Barry.” The Ghost replied quietly, slowly and calmly.
His voice didn’t sound threatening or commanding.
In fact, he spoke as if he were simply having an ordinary… …conversation with Barry.
“We heard your conversation with Yovan, Barry.
You accepted being a servant of House Skraivok, you gave them everything…” “So why can’t you accept your death?
You don’t want to die like this, but why?
Why don’t you want to?” The Ghost asked this question sincerely.
He couldn’t find the answer himself and didn’t want to bother Kariel with it.
And Barry… Barry’s eyes bulged wide, and he froze.
The next moment, his legs gave way and he collapsed to his knees.
“We… heard… your… conversation with Yovan…” “We.” “We.” The Vengeful Spirit.
So that’s how it was.
No wonder the bullets didn’t hit him, no wonder he was so tall, no wonder my screams didn’t attract the attention of the other groups, no wonder… Yovan had suddenly turned into… They came for me.
Barry’s face began to twitch; he started greedily gasping for air, but it brought no relief.
His breathing grew faster and faster, his expression more and more desperate.
In the end, he simply sobbed, kneeling.
The sobs were intermittent.
“Don’t cry,” the Ghost said softly.
“Shoot at me, Barry.
Accept it.” Clack.
The pistol fell to the floor.
That was Barry’s way of refusing.
The Ghost frowned, recalling Kariel’s words… “Why… did this happen to me?” Barry asked, sniffling.
“Why don’t you go after them?
The Vengeful Spirit?
Why don’t you go after the ones who make us do all this?” “After whom?” the Night Haunter asked, deciding to correct the mistaken form of address later.
“After House Skraivok!” Barry screamed, his eyes bloodshot, and his cloudy pupils seemed to the Ghost like glass eaten away by acid rain.
“Why don’t you go after them?!” In response to his question, the Ghost merely crouched down.
He lurked in the dark corner of the attic, like a predator waiting in the darkness.
His face was calm and patient.
Kariel had taught him that in a conversation, one must show respect to the interlocutor.
And now he was conversing with Barry.
“What did they make you do?” he continued.
Barry froze.
He had asked the question, but he didn’t seem to have thought about what would come next.
But the Ghost had thought.
Or rather, Kariel had thought.
The Night Haunter’s hissing voice sounded again in the darkness: “They made you exploit the workers, collect taxes, suppress resistance, didn’t they?” “Yes!
Yes!” As if grasping at a straw, Barry nodded vigorously, a strange, insane expression appearing on his tear-stained face.
“Yes!
They made us do all of it!” “And did they make you eat people, open butcher shops, kill, kidnap, slit throats in the streets, and loot?” the Ghost asked again.
Barry froze again.
He was stunned.
In his mind, all of this was self-evident.
Becoming a gang member meant obtaining these privileges.
He had never thought that one day he would have to answer for it.
And that he wouldn’t be able to find the answer.
“And did they make you, in imitation of them, drive the poor who couldn’t pay out of the hive, condemning them to death in the wastelands, to be eaten by beasts?” “And did they make you, in imitation of them, consider yourselves above others?” The Ghost slowly rose.
“You have long since accepted being a servant of House Skraivok.
In fact, you were in your element in that role, Barry.
You accepted the benefits this status gave you, so accept the responsibility too.” “No, no, it’s not like that…” Barry stammered.
“It is, Barry,” the Ghost said quietly.
“It is.” “No!” Barry roared, his face contorted.
“I did it because I had to!
Had to!
Otherwise I wouldn’t have survived!
I didn’t want to waste away with consumption like the workers in the factories, I didn’t want to cough up blood and be forever in the dust like them…” The Ghost nodded silently.
He knew what Barry was talking about.
The workers in the factories got sick.
They got sick with everything.
Most commonly consumption, and if one got sick, the whole family got sick.
Passing through the slums, he had seen it many times: a family or a single person lying on the street, on moldy boards where someone had already died, coughing blood, in agony, waiting for death.
Suddenly, irritation washed over the Ghost.
He cut Barry off, ending the conversation.
“Shh… Be quiet, Barry.
Accept it.” The Ghost said this gently and stepped forward.
Barry screamed in terror, as if he were already being disemboweled.
Tears and snot ran down his fat face.
The Ghost, paying no attention, kept walking.
“No, I beg you, don’t…” Barry sobbed.
“I really didn’t want to, really…” The Ghost stopped and looked at him.
He thought Kariel had been right.
They really do cry, they really do pretend to repent.
“But we cannot forgive them.
We have no right to forgive on behalf of the victims.” The Ghost stepped closer, reached out his right hand, and lifted Barry’s chin.
“Don’t cry, Barry,” the Ghost said softly.
“Crying is a privilege of people.
And you are not human.” Outside the window, a downpour began.