The endless night, adorned with raindrops, had taken on a misty hue.
They fell vertically, shattering against the ominous buildings of Nostramo.
The rain wouldn’t stop.
Kariel sat silently on the head of a huge gargoyle, looking down at the Church of Repose.
The Ghost stood behind him, and his mere presence sent a chilling cold running down Kariel’s spine.
The Ghost wasn’t hostile to him; this natural feeling of threat came from their differences.
Kariel understood this perfectly — from the very moment he had met the Ghost six months ago.
“Well?” A hissing voice came from behind him.
When the Ghost spoke Nostramo Common, his voice was softer than most.
Kariel didn’t answer.
“What is it, Kariel?
Do we act?” the Ghost asked again, impatience in his voice.
“He’s in the church…
and his men too…
there won’t be a better chance…” “He was never the target,” Kariel finally said in a cold tone.
“At best, just a dog.” He didn’t say another word.
The Ghost fell silent.
He began to empty his mind, and along with that anxious silence, his eyes closed.
The next moment, countless visions crashed down upon him.
Ominous, dark, cruel…
terrifying.
They were fragments of the future, reflections in a shattered mirror.
But the Ghost remained unperturbed.
He knew that of all these visions, only one could become reality; the rest were mere interference.
Yet he rarely managed to see a clear picture of the future without distortion.
This was another of his gifts.
He hadn’t told Kariel about it, just like the other thing: the Ghost had never seen even a trace of Kariel in his visions.
Not once.
In those visions he could see, a person named Kariel Lokhars simply didn’t exist.
Kariel paid no attention to the Ghost’s silence; he was used to his companion, who was more like a monster than he was.
The Night Haunter mostly behaved more like a beast in human form, and Kariel had thoroughly studied his habits.
Kariel knew the Ghost usually preferred to stay silent.
And that suited him fine, since he also loved quiet when he was thinking.
Kariel watched the woman in the white cloak.
His vision was excellent, allowing him to see her clothing clearly.
The woman’s white cloak was trimmed with gold thread along the edges, strikingly different from the clothes of most Underhive dwellers.
Even some aristocrats probably weren’t entitled to wear such garments.
And that metal prosthetic…
She was clearly someone from the upper echelons.
Yet Razor, when speaking with her, showed not a hint of subservience.
At this, Kariel only chuckled calmly.
What else could he say?
He wasn’t surprised.
The woman stepped away from the church doors, got into a car, and drove off.
The rumbling machine started moving, making a terrible noise, and its size was even more intimidating.
The vehicle took up most of the street, and as it left, it even hit two children crossing the road.
But no one paid any attention.
Only a few hands reached out from the darkness and hastily dragged away the bloodied bodies.
Those two children were needed by the vagrants who had been thrown out of the factories due to illnesses preventing them from working anymore.
People are always hungry.
Behind him, a sharp grinding sound came, like two sharp pieces of metal rubbing together.
Kariel knew it was the monster gnashing its teeth.
“Don’t,” Kariel said.
“Your anger is useless right now, Ghost.
She must not die yet.
Did you see her clothes?” “An aristocrat…” the Ghost exhaled a cold puff of vapor.
“Yes, an aristocrat.” Kariel stretched his lips in a silent laugh and nodded.
He could have been handsome: with melancholic eyes and a high nose.
But his laugh completely ruined that attractiveness.
At that moment, sitting on the gargoyle, he looked like a monster ready to pounce on anyone who came near in the darkness.
“I’m going into the church to pray.” Kariel stood up, and the gargoyle beneath his feet silently bared its fangs at the sky.
“Keep an eye on that woman for now…
but don’t kill her.” He turned around and, raising his head, looked up at the tall, silent Ghost, asking patiently: “Can you handle it?” “I don’t promise…” the Ghost whispered.
“I can’t promise…” At his evasive answer, Kariel just chuckled.
“Just do your best.” “The main thing is, don’t kill her,” he said quietly.
“You know what I mean.” * * * “What the hell!” Razor furiously kicked the Father’s head.
It flew into the air, struck a nearby bench, and rolled onward.
Inside, the church now resembled a slaughterhouse.
The thick stench of blood made some of the eleven people present tremble.
Don’t misunderstand — they weren’t afraid.
How could they be afraid?
They had done far worse things with their own hands.
The reason was different.
A hallucinogen made from human blood was very popular on Nostramo.
Most gang members had tried it and were captivated by it.
As the addiction grew stronger, even ordinary blood began to act on them like a stimulant.
If this sounds absurd to you, then you still haven’t fully understood Nostramo.
There was no morality here; anything that brought profit could happen.
Razor stood beneath a bloodstained statue, the fury in his heart boiling endlessly.
He often had to exert tremendous effort to contain his emotions.
But when his gaze traveled upward and he saw the inscription on the statue, his rage finally broke free.
“Who the hell does he think he is?!” Razor roared, drew his pistol, and opened fire on the statue, shattering its featureless face into pieces.
He felt no reverence for this deity; after all, Razor knew that gods did not exist.
“‘I have come for your sins’?
What the hell!
This lunatic running around the city killing people thinks he’s so noble?” “I’ll kill him!
I’ll flay his skin off and carve a statuette from every one of his ribs!” Razor screamed madly, his temples pounding, veins bulging on his forehead.
His anger was fueled not only by uncontrollable emotion but also by the chemical he constantly used.
It was an old concoction, a special amusement of the aristocrats.
And the price for serving one of them.
You see, on Nostramo, everyone could find their own amusement.
But what was the cost?
“I am not noble, Razor… but I truly have come for your sins.” A voice rang out, and the next second, the lights inside the church went out.
The lighting had previously been controlled by the Father; without his consent, no one could turn the lights on or off.
But now he was dead.
In the darkness, a quiet, rasping voice spoke.
The words were melodic, like a romantic poem, but those who heard them felt a chill run down their spines.
“Murder is the most common crime on Nostramo, my dear Mr.
Razor.
When the fire of rage ignites in the heart, anyone can commit such a sin… but personally, I find this method distasteful.” “Killing in a fit of anger is inefficient.
And I hate inefficiency.” Razor didn’t answer the voice from the darkness.
He stared into the void, gripping his pistol, his anger gone without a trace.
This gang leader, who two minutes ago was roaring about torturing someone, was now surprisingly calm.
His ten men were, too.
They didn’t even need a command to instinctively stand back-to-back.
“Well trained, Mr.
Razor.” The voice spoke again, this time with an audible smirk.
“So whose private soldiers are you?
Has someone decided to clear out the lower levels again?
Ah, every twenty years, the same thing, almost like a law of nature… a law of nature that yields enormous profit…” “Show yourself!” Razor shouted into the darkness.
“Since you’ve figured it out, there’s no point in being enemies with us!
You can’t afford the price!” “The price…” The voice from the darkness laughed lowly, echoing off the stone walls of the Church of Repose, distorting into the growl of a monster.
The temperature began to drop.
Cold sweat dripped from Razor’s forehead.
He didn’t understand why he was so nervous.
Was it because of the darkness?
But darkness was familiar to every inhabitant of Nostramo.
He was used to walking in the dark.
But he couldn’t stop the trembling in the hand that held the pistol.
And the next second, a soft sound behind him stretched his nerves to the breaking point.
Razor spun around, and together with his men, unleashed a hail of gunfire in that direction.
Gunshots rang out.
“Wrong direction, Mr.
Razor.” The voice sounded right above Razor’s head, and then he felt warm breath.
His eyes bulged.
He raised his hand to pull the trigger, but a sharp pain in his wrist stopped him.
Then came the sharp whistle of a blade cutting through the air again, and the dull thud of flesh being pierced.
That sound was all too familiar to the gangsters.
And finally, Razor’s scream.
With the most terrifying scream of his life, he began this massacre.
Gunshots rang out again.
Realizing what had happened, the gangsters started firing wildly at the ceiling, but to no avail.
They had trained in the mansions of aristocrats and knew that in such a situation, some men needed to stay alert, not empty all their magazines at once, or the enemy would seize the moment.
But they forgot that.
They just wanted to keep pulling the trigger.
An irrational, illogical fear that crawled out of the darkness completely destroyed their training.
Fear erased every detail from their memory, their will that they thought was unshakeable.
Fear crushed everything.
And death came again.
Kariel burst out from behind them.
His blades moved unhurriedly, but every strike was perfectly precise.
The first blow pierced the cheek of one of them from behind.
The victim screamed in pain, trying to break free, but in vain.
The blade, lodged in the flesh, immobilized him at the same time.
Then Kariel twisted his right wrist.
Tremendous force drove the second blade up under the jaw and out through the top of the skull.
Blood gushed.
He squinted and licked his lips with satisfaction.
“Behind us!” someone shouted in the darkness.
But Kariel was no longer going to give them any chances.
He knew no pity and missed no opportunity.
He easily withdrew the blade from the flesh, took a step back, and with a powerful kick from his right foot sent the lifeless body flying straight into the crowd.
They immediately collapsed to the floor.
A few lucky ones managed to reload their weapons.
They pulled the triggers with trembling hands.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the darkness, and a smiling monster came into their sight.
Kariel began to glide.
His steps allowed him to move easily in the dark.
He didn’t even need to bother dodging the bullets fired by the terrified men.
Too simple, too easy.
Murder… for him, it was as natural as breathing.
A lunge forward, right hand extended, the blade tracing an arc, leaving a trail of blood.
Another lunge, a kick breaking a neck.
A crack was heard, and Kariel laughed loudly.
A stop, a twist of the wrist, the blade piercing an eyeball and the brain behind it, then a twist.
Withdraw the blade, drive it into another’s throat.
Dodge a grapple, with a reverse grip slash the soft throat of the attacker.
A throw with his left hand, the weapon embedding itself in one man’s chest.
A spin, with his free left hand, tear the cartilage and trachea from the slashed throat.
“Ahh…” The monster stopped with a smile, shook the sticky flesh in his hand, shook his head, and took a deep breath as if in relief.
“Three more.” He spoke quietly, counting the enemies, but didn’t even look at the trembling gangsters.
He had already caught the sharp smell of urine mixed with the smell of blood.
A moment later, another scream echoed in the church, and a low laugh, reflecting off the walls, became the accompaniment to their death.
Amidst the chaos of overturned benches, the Father’s head silently watched it all in the darkness, gazing indifferently at what was happening.
The dead do not judge.