Limping, Kariel approached the door and opened it in the usual way.
The creak made him frown.
Calling this thing a door was a stretch, really.
A door should be sturdy, but this one, if Kariel hadn’t nailed a few boards to it, would barely hold together and wouldn’t even protect against the wind.
He went inside.
In the pitch-black room, a filthy stench hung in the air.
Kariel’s brows drew together.
He addressed the empty room: “I believe I asked for the place to be aired out?” “Rain,” a quiet, hissing voice suddenly sounded in the empty room.
Such was the Nostramo language — soft, melodic, and hissing like poetry.
Yet most who spoke it were killers.
“Rain?” Kariel repeated, raising an eyebrow contemptuously.
“And that’s a reason not to open the window?” “Yes.” A tall shadow slowly rose in the darkness.
Its head emerged from the gloom, and the neon light filtering through the doorway illuminated a pale face.
Kariel smirked, wearily took off his cloak, threw it together with the two blades at his feet, then pulled up a chair and sat by the door.
A cold night wind from Nostramo blew.
He lowered his head, and blood from his right leg dripped onto the floor, pooling at his feet.
“You’re wounded,” said the tall, frightening shadow.
“Yes, wounded,” Kariel shrugged.
“That bastard had mechanical augmentations implanted in both his arms…” The shadow approached him and examined the wound carefully.
“You need treatment…” the shadow hissed.
“He broke the bone in your right leg.” “I know,” Kariel said wearily, settling more comfortably onto the decrepit chair he’d picked up somewhere.
The position wasn’t ideal for his injured leg, but it was more comfortable.
“Then why aren’t you treating it?” the shadow asked patiently.
“If you can’t do it yourself, I can help.” A pale, long hand slowly extended from the darkness.
The tips of its nails glistened, making them look like dangerous blades.
And Kariel knew they were far more dangerous than blades.
“Much appreciated, but no,” he said calmly.
The hand retracted swiftly, which created an amusing contrast with its slow emergence.
“Then you might need amputation,” the shadow said.
“I’ve never had a bone broken, only been shot.
Bullets stuck in flesh are very hard to remove; you have to dig them out one by one.
Laser weapons are more convenient…
just a burn.” His voice suddenly changed, turning from a hiss into something soft, as if in a fever dream.
.”..And when bullets get stuck in your flesh, it hurts a lot.” “Bullets in the body always hurt.” Kariel laughed.
He couldn’t help it, at the absurdity of such naivety from a monster.
“How funny,” he thought.
“A monster that can tear a man apart with a single sweep of its hand, so naive.” “Do you hurt too?” the shadow asked.
Kariel gave him a look like he was an idiot, then burst out laughing: “If even you feel pain, what about me?
I’m just a mortal, Ghost.
Not like you.” The shadow was silent for a long time, clearly having a different opinion.
Then he stepped out of the darkness.
Clothes stitched together from rags vaguely resembled a long robe.
Dirty, long hair hung loose down his back, and traces of dried blood were visible on his pale skin.
Tattered clothing, filthy appearance, unnaturally tall stature, pale skin, and pitch-black eyes — these monstrous features combined made him look like a terrifying ghost from legends.
One glance was enough to tell he was not from the world of ordinary people.
In fact…
an ordinary person would hardly consider him human.
The Ghost frowned and asked: “What’s the difference?
We are both monsters.” “I become a monster only sometimes.” “In the last month, you’ve killed one hundred and seventy-two people.
Every day, every night.” “Who taught you that line?” “You.” .”..” Kariel sighed, forced to concede to this excessively tall man he called the Ghost.
“Listen, Ghost.
I don’t become a monster for no reason.
I kill in this city because…” .”..Justice?” the Ghost interrupted impatiently, his eyes burning with the question.
“No,” Kariel replied coldly.
“Justice doesn’t exist, Ghost.
Justice is the greatest lie in the world.” The Ghost nodded in disappointment and again pointed at Kariel’s right leg.
This time, Kariel could no longer ignore it.
Kariel raised his right hand, and his eyes, black like every Nostraman’s, suddenly flashed with blue light.
The temperature plummeted.
Frost formed on the legs of the chair.
The Ghost watched, tracking the frost as it crept further, toward Kariel’s leg.
The bloodstains, the wound, the unnatural shape created by the broken bone beneath the skin — all of it vanished in that instant.
“Phew…” Kariel took a deep, deep breath.
His eyes returned to their normal state at that moment, and in their bottomless blackness lay calm.
The Ghost looked him over and was silent for a while.
Only after some time did he speak again: “You shouldn’t rely on that power too much.” “If it helps with what we have to do, I’ll use it always.” “It’s dangerous.” “How do you know?” “I…” The Ghost didn’t answer.
He didn’t know how to explain it to Kariel.
The Ghost was born knowing many things, as if by instinct.
He even knew the word to describe this gift.
“Born with knowledge.” “More dangerous than anything else in this city?” Kariel ignored his hesitation.
He stood up and asked the question.
He left the room.
His gait was firm and confident; no one would have guessed that just half a minute ago, he was so badly injured his leg might need amputation.
Outside was empty, a cold wind blowing.
They were on the roof of a tall building.
A year and a half ago, Kariel had built a small illegal extension here with his own hands.
Security inspectors hadn’t found it.
In fact, their very existence was highly questionable.
That’s how he got himself a small Sanctuary.
And six months ago, the Ghost had come.
Or rather, the Night Haunter.
That nickname was still known only in narrow circles of Quintus and was nowhere near as famous as “the Vengeful Spirit.” After all, the Vengeful Spirit had been killing in the city for a year and a half already.
Every day, every night.
“Gangs everywhere, twisted monsters everywhere.
The aristocrats of the Upper Hive can sit comfortably in their luxurious chairs and collect taxes from the dogs they keep.” “And those workers sleeping in the slums, those poor souls, have only two paths.
The first is to die at the factory in poverty, constantly facing beatings and exploitation, not even able to eat their fill.
The second is to join a gang and oppress others.” Kariel turned his head with a crooked grin: “What do you think most will choose?” The Ghost didn’t answer.
He was still standing in the doorway, not coming out.
The darkness behind him was impenetrable.
“Without a doubt, they’ll choose the second.
And those who didn’t choose — it doesn’t mean they didn’t want to; they just couldn’t.
To oppress others, you need a strong body, at least a young one.
Otherwise, the gang won’t even accept you…” Kariel fell silent, suddenly lost in thought.
A flame, more biting than poison, began to kindle on his pale young face, making him clench his teeth and furrow his brows.
The Ghost didn’t disturb him.
Only after a long time did he speak again.
His voice was soft and hissing: “Can killing solve everything?” “No,” Kariel answered without hesitation.
“Killing only breeds more killing.
I remove one corrupt official, and twenty others will bend over backward to take his place.
I kill one gang leader, and forty other gangs will come to divide his territory.” “Then, can we find another way?” “We can’t, Ghost,” Kariel said, then paused.
He turned his head, and his dark hair slightly lifted in the dirty wind of Nostramo: .”..Not yet.” “If you find one, tell me,” the Ghost said seriously.
“Nostramo is sick.
I can see it.
I want it to get better.” And again Kariel smirked sarcastically at his naivety.
Only this time, after the laughter, he nodded.
“Alright,” said Kariel Lokhars.
He didn’t even ask why.
Just as he’d never asked where the Night Haunter got such immense strength.
It was just that Kariel Lokhars didn’t yet know who he was making this promise to.
…
The Father of the Church of Repose is dead.
At six in the morning, in Hive City Quintus, in a world devoid of light, this news spread like wildfire.
To most people, however, it didn’t matter.
First, they didn’t know who the Father of the Church of Repose was.
Second, on Nostramo, morning and night were practically indistinguishable.
Nostramo was a planet of eternal night.
No one remembered the reasons for this anymore.
Perhaps the aristocrats of the Upper Hive knew, but who cared?
Most people couldn’t even care less about the change of day and night, so why would they bother about the death of some priest?
They didn’t even know who he was.
Well, Razor did care.
And Razor knew who the Father was.
Razor — an unremarkable gang leader on Nostramo.
Like all the others, he disposed of lives on his territory as he saw fit.
On Nostramo, there were no laws, no peacekeepers — only gangs.
They served the aristocrats, maintained the illusion of order, collected taxes…
The gangs had replaced the nobility, dividing and ruling every corner of Nostramo.
Moreover, they committed wanton murder and even more horrific atrocities…
For Razor and his gang, all of this was just a way to assert their authority.
Like wild animals marking their territory with scent, the gangs constantly killed civilians to secure their dominion.
How many civilians died in the process, no one cared.
That’s how all gangsters operated on Nostramo.
But now Razor, known for his brutality, was confused.
“How did he die?” Razor asked, standing at the entrance of the church.
Opposite him stood a woman in a white cloak and mask.
Her right arm was made of metal and looked very elegant.
“He was opened up,” the woman said thoughtfully.
“Or rather, taken apart…
All his internal organs were removed and neatly sorted by category.
The technique was very skilled.
The killer also removed half his spine and hung the body under the statue of the deity.” Razor cursed softly.
The woman shook her head, took off her mask, threw it on the ground, and added: “By the way, there are a few words written in blood on the statue.
Looks like a message for you.” “For me?” Razor’s eyes bulged, and a moment later, he stormed furiously into the church.