A long time ago, Kariel had realized something.
The bandits of Nostramo, despite their outward resemblance, were not people.
They simply did not deserve the title.
In Kariel’s eyes, they were at best something like distant, completely crazed relatives of humans, devoid of any concept of morality.
Their minds were almost destroyed by psychotropic substances and the madness of the surrounding world.
They thirsted for blood, violence, others’ servility, and fear.
All these factors, layered on top of each other, meant that they no longer needed a reason for murder without cause.
But worst of all was that on Nostramo, this was considered normal.
To Kariel, this seemed absurd — until one day, it dawned on him.
They are not human.
Yes, exactly.
They are not human.
Having realized this, Kariel set to work.
Yes, he called hunting bandits in the hives work.
From his perspective, the work was quite tolerable — if you didn’t count that it was a bit specific, unpaid, and took place in disgusting conditions.
He approached his work with utmost caution, fully understanding how dangerous the gangs were.
They had pistols, cannons, they had everything necessary for killing, and, most importantly, they weren’t usually afraid of death.
To make them afraid, special methods were required.
But the young Ghost obviously didn’t understand this.
His strength made killing as easy as playing in the water, and therefore he didn’t see what was visible only to mortals like Kariel.
He didn’t know what a rare virtue caution was.
“My time is limited, Ghost, so you’d better be worth the minutes I’ve spent on you.” With a sigh, Kariel jumped off the gargoyle and plummeted downward like a stone.
Piercing the icy clouds, he fell; his cloak fluttered in the wind, his black hair danced wildly, and his eyes burned with an almost frightening brightness.
Twenty-five seconds later, he landed without making a sound.
The blue glow in his eyes froze the falling raindrops, turning them into ice crystals.
Hovering for a moment, they fell again and shattered.
But he didn’t.
Standing still, Kariel took a calm, deep breath.
He closed his eyes, and the familiar blackness was illuminated by an inner light.
Nearby, in an abstract space, a blurry shadow writhed and contorted, full of despair.
He knew who it was.
Kariel sighed silently.
‘Can you truly bear this burden, you naive little monster?’ Kariel opened his eyes, and at that same moment, an icy nausea rose in his throat.
Then, from afar, a muffled voice came, as if from beyond the Veil.
It was soft, fatherly, and muttered something indistinct.
It tried to make Kariel answer, and he almost gave in.
Kariel suppressed the urge again and smirked coldly.
‘No, not today.
Don’t get your hopes up.
It won’t work, you creature hiding in the darkness.’ He gripped his blade tighter and ran across the roofs of the ominous spires.
As if by unspoken agreement, everyone who had the right to build houses on Nostramo chose this grim style.
Well, at least it suited the Ghost perfectly.
The tiles trembled under his feet, the curtain of rain was torn apart by his speed.
With icy cold and rising fury, Kariel approached his target.
He leaped silently through the night, like a floating spirit.
And then…
at the end of this frantic run…
The Ghost burst into wild laughter.
…
“Did you hear something?” a man asked.
“All I hear is the sound of failure,” a woman replied lazily.
She leaned against her motorcycle and lazily poked a bone knife into her left forearm.
Her arm was already covered in bloody cuts, but the woman seemed to enjoy it and had no intention of stopping.
“No, no, Dir, I’m serious,” the man said, turning his head.
“I really did hear something.” “Do me a favor, Carlo, and shut your fart-hole.” Dir glanced at Carlo just as lazily and snorted contemptuously.
“We missed the convoy, and that means we screwed up.
So just shut up, alright?” “Don’t remind me.” Carlo frowned, anger creeping into his voice.
His face was split in two by some kind of paint: the upper half was deathly pale, the lower half scarlet.
This bizarre contrast gave his face a terrifying look.
But Dir wasn’t impressed.
She snorted coldly again.
“If you, you bastard with a face like an ass, hadn’t said you saw that thing run this way, we’d still be cutting people up with everyone else.
Maybe we’d have gotten a couple of doses out of it afterwards.
And you still have the nerve to talk?” “I said, shut up!” Carlo roared and, pulling a shotgun from his motorcycle, aimed it at Dir.
The weapon was crude, with splinters sticking out of the fore-end.
Breathing heavily, Carlo looked at her and bit out: “I said, I heard something…
you stupid bitch!” He suddenly screamed.
The burst of emotion was completely unexpected, without any build-up — it seemed he had gone from mild annoyance to raving fury in an instant.
Carlo abandoned his motorcycle and, staggering, walked over to Dir.
He pressed the barrel so hard against her forehead that she almost fell off her bike.
“I said, I heard something!
I heard it!
Heard it!
I wasn’t lying!
I heard it!” “Alright, alright, you heard it…
damn it,” Dir swore quietly.
“Get that fucking thing away from my head, Carlo.
Damn it, that paint has completely scrambled your brains.” “I heard it!
I heard it!” Carlo squealed and, clutching his shotgun, ran off.
Dir frowned, watching him inexplicably disappear into the rain curtain, and swore again.
“What a fucking moron.
Got nothing but shit in his head?” Feeling insulted, Dir shook her head, started her motorcycle again, and decided to go back to the gang’s territory to get some sleep.
As for Carlo’s bike…
let it stay here.
Civilians wouldn’t dare touch it — the sign of the Crimson Finale was clearly visible.
They knew what awaited them.
And the other gangs…
Ha.
Dir would have been glad if they took it.
Then the Crimson Finale would have a reason for a war.
And Carlo…
honestly, she wasn’t even thinking about him.
In fact, right now, she wished he were dead.
But a piercing scream, cutting through the noise of the rain, shattered her plans.
Dir frowned and looked in that direction.
The darkness and rain hid everything from her, and the roar of the downpour hitting the ground drowned out any other sounds.
She got off her motorcycle and carefully pulled an automatic rifle from a side bag.
Staring into the curtain of rain, she shouted: “Carlo!
Is that you?!” No one answered.
Only the sound of acid raindrops hitting the ground.
Dir felt a chill run down her spine — the sensation came out of nowhere, in that very first second, and made her go cold.
“What the hell…
that idiot…” Muttering to herself, she froze in place with her rifle at the ready, not knowing what to do: go forward or turn around and forget the whole thing.
As she hesitated, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the rainwater flowing at her feet had changed color.
The murky streams washing over her leather boots had turned from dirty brown to a deep crimson.
Icy cold surged again, but this time not from her back, but from in front of her.
Trembling, she looked up.
“Who’s there?!” Dir squealed.
“Who?!
Come out!
Come out!” “Shh…” A quiet voice came from behind the curtain of rain, piercing the noise of the downpour and reaching her ears unmistakably: “Quiet, someone’s sleeping.” Dir’s face twitched.
She wanted to pull the trigger, but her fingers wouldn’t obey her.
A silver flash beat her to it, piercing both the curtain of rain and the hand gripping the weapon.
Her rifle clattered to the ground and was immediately carried away by the stream of water into some dark corner, leaving her no chance to pick it up.
“No!” she screamed.
Through the pain and fear, Dir heard a quiet laugh.
Then the voice spoke again.
“Yes,” it said softly.
“By the way, would you like to see your companion?” A head flew out from behind the rain curtain and hit Dir squarely.
Her eyes flew wide open, and she caught it instinctively.
Lifeless eyes stared at the sky.
Its chin was split, a tongue dangling between the two halves of its lower jaw.
Bits of meat were stuck in its yellow-brown teeth.
The upper half of the face was deathly pale, the lower half completely scarlet.
It was Carlo’s face.
No, it was Carlo’s head.
In the last moments of her life, Dir began to sob.
She fell to the ground, not trying to run or resist.
She just cried, like all the innocents who had died by her hand.
Carlo’s head fell beside her and stared at her lifelessly.
Fear crushed her.
Completely.
Then a pale hand appeared and lifted her chin.
“Don’t cry,” Kariel said softly.
“Crying is a privilege of humans.
And you are not human.” A silver flash.
The headless body collapsed to the ground.
Its limbs still twitched in death throes, but it no longer mattered.
Kariel tilted his head slightly, and the blue light in his eyes flowed quietly.
From behind the curtain of rain, the Ghost emerged, covered in blood.
He was unconscious, his eyes closed, his brows furrowed, streams of water running down his face.
“In theory, I should thank them for the motorcycles — but I only say ‘thank you’ to people.” Kariel smirked, deciding to end this night with his favorite form of humor.
He wiggled his fingers, and the Ghost sat on one of the motorcycles, even starting the engine.
“Let’s go, Ghost, but be careful,” Kariel said with a smile.
“It’s your first time on a motorcycle.
Safety first.” A few seconds later, two motorcycles, tearing through the curtain of rain, sped off into the distance.