The twelve hours had just expired.
He turned his head, and regret showed on his face.
The source of this feeling was the scene unfolding right in front of the sofa where he sat.
There stood his sister, Irene Skraivok, her arms bloody to the elbows.
That blood belonged to a suspended man — a former member of the Crimson Curtain gang.
Or rather, the last member of the Crimson Curtain gang.
Blood slowly dripped from his wounds, leaving indelible dark red stains on the carpet that continued to spread.
A thick smell of blood hung in the air.
Gendor took a deep breath of that bloody aroma, then stood up and said with elegant nonchalance: “I don’t think torturing this madman will get anything useful out of him, my dear sister.” Hearing him, Irene Skraivok turned and gave him a look.
“And I don’t think your choice to brazenly cling to me will do you any good,” she replied coldly.
“Oh, come now, dear sister.
We both know that in the Underhive right now, the only ones you can trust are the Glorious Warlords.
Was I supposed to run and seek help from other gangs?
I’m not as stupid as Leina.” “She wasn’t stupid,” Irene cut him off.
“The stupid one here is you, Gendor.” “…Well, what a disheartening assessment, my honorable sister.” Gendor covered his face in mock sorrow, but in the gap between his fingers, his dark eyes gleamed with malice.
“I have always cherished the tenderest love for you; why do you despise me so?” “There are many reasons, Gendor.” Irene looked at him and replied calmly: “Pomposity, posturing, self-satisfaction… Though for an aristocrat’s offspring, these are usual flaws.
But there is one trait in you I cannot stand.” “Hmm… because I appreciate exquisite delicacies from the Underhive?” Gendor asked, testingly.
“No, because you are too stupid.” Irene Skraivok finished coldly: “Stupid enough to think that I planned this attack.” Gendor slowly raised an eyebrow.
He lowered his hand, and a smile played across his face again.
Now you couldn’t recognize the one who, twelve hours ago, was trembling with fear.
Sometimes fear has an expiration date.
“But, dear sister, you can’t deny this is an astonishing coincidence.” “Coincidence?” “Yes, sister.
Let’s not even talk about how this man managed to slip unnoticed past the Glorious Warlords’ posts.
Let’s instead discuss your suggestion…” “If we had actually followed your advice and split up to flee alone, then you, without a doubt, would have survived.
I’m sure of it, dear sister.” “As for Leina… there I’m a pessimist.
I think she’s already dead.” Gendor smiled elegantly, showing not a trace of sorrow over his sister’s hypothetical death.
On the contrary, gloating showed on his face.
He had already changed clothes and even taken a bath.
Not a trace remained of his pathetic appearance from twelve hours ago.
Now, in this room whose furnishings rivaled the palaces of the Upper Hive, Gendor Skraivok was himself again.
With a natural, fluid gait, he walked up to Irene.
“My honorable sister, I know your abilities.
It’s always been clear to me that Father tolerates me because of our resemblance, but his trust in you I’ve never dreamed of.
And you’ve skillfully exploited that, haven’t you?
Brilliantly.” “Don’t shift the blame for your worthlessness onto me, Gendor.
And don’t attribute to me what I haven’t done.” Irene looked at him calmly.
“You yourself chose to spend the time meant for study and practice on tasting flesh.
You ruined yourself, so now keep quiet.” “Perhaps… perhaps so.
But, dear sister…” Gendor Skraivok gave a cold smirk and spread his arms.
“I may be inferior to you in everything, but on the path of mastering the art of the flesh, you won’t surpass me.” He extended his right hand, demanding the torture knife from Irene.
“Allow me to demonstrate something for you, my honorable sister.” “I don’t have time to waste on such nonsense, Gendor,” Irene snapped coldly.
“Interrogation is a means, not an end.
You’ve lost your way.” “Besides, this slave’s mind from the Crimson Curtain was broken long before the Glorious Warlords found him.
Do you really think that with just a blade, you can extract someone else’s spirit from the flesh?” Gendor shrugged with a deliberately impassive air.
“Maybe I can, dear sister.
You know, I picked up a few techniques from House Lokhars from ancient books.” “…You idiot.” After these words, clear emotion finally appeared on Irene’s face.
She looked at Gendor angrily and said in an icy tone: “You’re acting so carefree… Let me guess, you think we’ll get reinforcements from the family, right?
And then you can go back and tell Father the ‘truth’ you’ve invented for yourself?” “And isn’t that right?” Gendor countered.
“The family can’t abandon us, dear sister…” He smiled again, and a smug expression appeared on his face, the look of a man who thought he had figured everything out.
He winked triumphantly, drawing out the last word.
Irene took a deep breath.
And spoke dully: “No, Gendor.
This is not my conspiracy.” “Father sent us here to deal with the coroner’s death.
This incident hit the reputation of House Skraivok.
And I have nothing to do with it; I would never have done such a thing.” “The honor of the family is above all, Gendor.
Father gave us the Iron Pride and forty guards, plus the support of the Glorious Warlords — loyal slaves who own a twenty-five-story tower and number thousands of members.” “What else do you expect from Father?
Our value isn’t as great as you think.
Yes, Father spent twenty years raising us, but he still has many more such twenty-year periods in reserve.” The smile slowly slid off Gendor’s face.
He tilted his head slightly, trying to maintain his composure.
And Irene continued, as if pouring out all her long-held hatred for him, surprisingly losing her usual composure.
Her face flushed crimson, her features contorted.
She looked both furious and terrified.
Unlike Gendor, she still remembered the events of twelve hours ago.
The fear in her heart had grown to the point where it was about to consume her sanity.
And Gendor’s behavior became the spark that ignited that fear.
“You took a bath, changed clothes, then sat yourself down in this fake palace built by slaves and smugly decided it was all my conspiracy?” “But don’t forget that twelve hours ago, you were a wretch lying on the ground, nearly pissing yourself with fear!
Gendor!
You’re a nobody!” Irene burst into loud, cold laughter that echoed through the room.
Gendor’s face went pale, then red; he couldn’t find words to answer.
And, as if by some sinister coincidence, at the very moment her laughter rang out, the tortured Crimson Curtain prisoner hanging behind her opened his eyes.
There was nothing in his dark eyes: no consciousness, no reason, no will to live, no fear of death.
Only a strange calm, and then a cold blue flame flickered in them for a moment and went out.
He raised his head and looked at the offspring of House Skraivok.
Then his mouth, with its cut-off lips and knocked-out teeth, parted slightly, and in a hoarse voice, he began to sing softly.
Low, drawn-out, with a distinct note of gloom.
The melody was smooth, but it felt like a blade gliding across the tender skin of a neck.
Irene Skraivok shuddered all over; her laughter broke off abruptly.
She turned around in disbelief, and the anger on her face began to shift into horror.
Gendor’s face changed instantly.
The memories of twelve hours ago surged back with renewed force.
The massacre in the pouring rain, the mountains of corpses, the cold, the monster’s gaze… In his ears, it was as if that whisper sounded again.
“Run.” “No… no…” Gendor Skraivok, muttering something, stumbled forward.
Fear had returned.
He snatched the knife from Irene’s hands and, trembling, approached the prisoner, then raised the blade high.
“Stop it!” Gendor roared.
“Shut up!” The prisoner didn’t react, only swayed his head slightly.
He was covered in wounds, covered in blood, but kept singing softly.
Gendor brought the knife down sharply.
The blade plunged into the prisoner’s belly, spraying a fountain of blood.
Then he twisted the blade furiously.
Shreds of flesh gushed from the wound widened by the serrations.
Gendor’s eyelids twitched.
He watched, desperately wanting to hear a scream.
He had often used this trick before, and it had always worked flawlessly.
But not this time.
The prisoner didn’t react.
The song flowed from his mutilated mouth, just as blood and life flowed from him.
Gendor, trembling, loosened his fingers and backed away — farther and farther, until he hit the wall.
He leaned his head back, pressing the back of it against the wall, and his face suddenly flushed red.
He turned and snarled: “Irene Skraivok, have you lost your mind?!
Make him shut up!
I knew it was all your doing!
You brainwashed him and put that song in his head, didn’t you?!” His sister didn’t answer.
Her face bore an expression Gendor had never seen before.
From his angle, he could only see Irene’s cheek, but that was enough.
He saw a crying eye.
“You…” In an instant, Gendor went cold.
He had been sure it was all a conspiracy between Irene Skraivok and the Glorious Warlords.
Such things happened all the time; in the history of the aristocracy, fratricide was as commonplace as eating and drinking… But… The one who had arranged all this couldn’t feel such terror in the face of their own doing.
“It has come…” Irene Skraivok muttered.
“It has come.” “Impossible!
Even if I believed your made-up story!
That creature spoke of twelve hours, but twelve hours have already passed!” Gendor furiously pulled his watch from his pocket and hurled the precious item at Irene’s feet.
“Look, look!
Do you see?!
Twelve hours have already passed!” He screamed shrilly: “Stop this farce, sister!
I won’t fight you for the Black Mark anymore!
I was wrong!” Under Gendor’s pleading gaze, Irene Skraivok slowly picked up the watch and closed its lid.
She turned to him, and on her distorted face blossomed a smile torn to pieces by horror.
“What makes you think…” she said, sobbing, “that I am capable of such a thing?” Gendor’s mind finally clouded.
With a roar, he lunged at the source of the singing and yanked his knife out of it.
… “Left!” “No, not there — right!” Ghost was jumping, dodging bullets.
If these had been lasguns, he might not have bothered to dodge.
But the bullets from regular weapons often drove scraps of clothing into his flesh, and if they weren’t removed in time, he could get an infection.
It was annoying, having to extract the bullets after the fight.
By then, the wounds had healed over, and to get the bullet out, he had to cut the flesh open again.
Ghost wasn’t afraid of pain, but he didn’t like it either.
His targets’ conversations were clearly audible; he could even pinpoint their exact location by the direction of the sound.
Kariel said it was a rare gift.
Ghost didn’t quite understand.
Couldn’t others do the same?
Thinking about this, Ghost jumped high and landed on the ceiling.
Sharp claws and superhuman strength allowed him to easily hook onto the surface above his enemies’ heads.
He quickly tucked, and the next moment, he pushed off sharply.
Like a monster falling from the heavens, Ghost, arms spread wide, tore through the gangsters’ defenses mid-flight.
Yells rang out, the shooting immediately died down.
Then Ghost heard someone scream.
“Behind!
Behind!” the man howled madly.
“There’s another one behind!
God!” “Ah, that’s Kariel.” Ghost tilted his head joyfully and jumped again.
He focused and looked back.
At that moment, time seemed to slow down, letting him clearly make out Kariel’s figure.
He moved left and right, sliding through the crowd with unnatural ease.
Kariel wasn’t dodging the bullets, but the bullets seemed to dodge him — none found their mark.
He surged forward, swinging his blades, and each swing took a life.
A cold blue light flickered beneath his cloak’s hood.
His movements were so swift that the glow merged into one elongated streak.
Seeing this, the joy vanished from Ghost’s face for a moment.
“Why do you need this power, Kariel?” he thought silently.
Five minutes later, the massacre was over.
Shaking his hand to get rid of the bits of flesh stuck under his nails, Ghost walked up to Kariel.
Kariel glanced at his hand and asked: “Where’s that knife you made?” “It broke.” “Broke?” “It wasn’t very sturdy,” said Ghost.
“It snapped.” “It’s okay.
I’ll make you a new one, a better one sometime.” “Really?” “I’ve never lied to you.” “Good!
Thanks, Kariel!” Kariel smiled silently, not wanting to dampen Ghost’s enthusiasm just yet.
In human speech, the word “sometime” had a vague, ambiguous meaning.
But right now… He raised his head, looked at the ceiling, and the blue light in his eyes suddenly dimmed.
At that moment, his gaze shifted to the very top floor of the tower, to one of the rooms.
He saw a sobbing woman, who seemed already resigned to her fate, and a man who, muttering to himself, tirelessly waved a knife, covered in blood, with a mad expression on his face.
Both targets broken… What fragile people.
Kariel gave a cold smirk, then lowered his head and spoke to Ghost, who was counting the bodies.
“Our work for today is almost done, Ghost.
But before that, I have a question for you.” …Huh?
“What do you think about fear?” Kariel asked softly.
Ghost blinked and quickly gave his answer.
Even though he didn’t understand why Kariel had asked the question, he had no reason not to answer.
“It’s a good weapon?” Ghost ventured cautiously.
“It’s effective.
It works on everyone…
and always fast.
Most people get scared just from seeing me.” “What else?” “Else?..
Uh…
it…
it needs to be used carefully?” Ghost said uncertainly.
“Sorry, Kariel, but I think…
fear comes in different kinds.” He stole a glance at Kariel.
The man was patiently waiting, with not a trace of impatience or disapproval on his face.
Ghost relaxed.
“That’s it, Kariel.
That’s what I think.” “You understood everything well, Ghost.
Really, very well.” Kariel smiled slightly.
“Fear is indeed a weapon that must be handled with care.
We must choose carefully who to use it on, and of course, how to use it…” “How?” “There are many ways to instill fear, just as there are twenty-three ways you know to cook rats.
The methods are varied, and we must choose them deliberately and carefully.” “I don’t really understand,” Ghost said honestly.
“But I’ll remember.
I’ll figure it out later, won’t I?” “Of course.” “Really?” “Of course, really,” Kariel replied and headed toward the exit of the blood-soaked hall.
The “Glorious Warlords” tower had a complex elevator system, but Kariel had disabled it from the very start.
So, as ridiculous as it sounded, they had to climb the stairs all the way to the twenty-fifth floor.
To the top floor.
Ghost followed him.
After a brief silence, he spoke again.
“Kariel?” “Mhm?
Don’t talk too much, Ghost, we’re on the job.” “Oh…
but did you remember those twenty-three ways?
Which one do you think tastes best?” …..
“I think stewed wouldn’t be bad…” “Ah…” “Kariel?” …Mhm?
“Why did you sigh?” …..Fried.
Fried rat.
That’s it, be quiet now, Ghost.
“Oh, alright!” … A piercing wind raced through the streets.
Early morning on Nostramo, crowds of workers hurried to their shifts.
They were dressed in rags, their faces lifeless.
No one looked at life with hope, no one walked with their head up.
They were thin and moved slowly, many stopping to catch their breath.
Eighteen hours of labor destroyed everything, not to mention the accompanying illnesses.
Yes, once every six days the factories gave a day off, but it was only done to squeeze even more out of the workers.
There was no kindness to expect from the overseers.
The day off was deducted from their wages and their ration of nutrient paste.
The cold wind tore at their exhausted bodies and wills.
These numbed people instinctively huddled together, walking shoulder to shoulder to keep warm.
Their breath mingled — foul, confused — and the exhaled vapor dissipated in the air.
Their gazes were empty and full of despair, showing indifference to life.
Many thugs stood on the roadside, but no one paid the workers any attention.
“People like that aren’t even fit to be merchandise.” They walked and walked, still needing to cross three more blocks to the factory.
They trudged along dirty streets, through dark-red muck, past the cursing of thugs, past the tall tower.
And then one of the workers lifted his head.
His neck was stiff, and he wanted to stretch his aching bones.
And in that moment, as he raised his head, he stopped abruptly.
…What is that?
he muttered.
His comrades walked past indifferently.
Few paid him any attention; only a handful stopped beside him.
As one, after a brief glance, they began rubbing their eyes, trying to be sure they were seeing reality.
They opened their mouths in disbelief.
They saw two people in luxurious clothes hanging above the entrance of the tall tower.
The neon lights of the tower and the nearby lamps made it clearly visible.
They also saw the gaping wounds on their necks.
Blood was dripping down from them.
Around the two bodies, with horror frozen on their faces, an inscription had been made in blood.
The workers couldn’t read; they didn’t understand what was written there, but that didn’t stop them from knowing who these two were.
All residents of the Underhive learned this in their short lives and remembered it firmly.
Luxurious clothes meant aristocracy.
And aristocrats were like gods.
In that moment, countless questions arose in their minds, their bodies began to tremble slightly, and strange expressions appeared on their lifeless faces.
But they didn’t linger long.
Soon they were moving again, heading to the factory.
They needed work, they needed food.
And among those few who had witnessed the death of gods, there was one man who memorized the shape of every letter.
He couldn’t read, but he remembered them.
A piercing wind blows, the morning on Nostramo is still indistinguishable from night.
No one knows what happens every night, and no one knows where it will lead.
Two shadows silently vanished from the top of the tower.