The rooftop was a cold, windswept perch. Rain had begun to fall, a fine, grey mist that clung to Zero's cloak and slicked the mossy tiles beneath him. He remained perfectly still, a gargoyle of shadow overlooking the street below. He watched as Tarsus emerged from the abandoned tavern, the small, damning evidence pouch clutched in his hand. He saw the grim, triumphant set of the Captain's jaw, the new, predatory energy in his stride.
There was no panic. The [Callous] skill was a perfect emotional anesthetic, filtering out the hot spike of fear and leaving only the cold, clear data. He has evidence. A footprint. The link between the crime scene and the academy is no longer a theory; it is a fact. His investigation will now focus exclusively on the student body. The margin for error has just been reduced to zero.
The chaotic trail of the beast, a faint, sickly hum in his perception, was pulling him eastward, deeper into the warren of slums. But now, a new element had been added to his hunt. He was not just following the beast; he was now actively evading the man who was following him.
He slipped from the rooftop, melting into the labyrinthine alleyways, his movements silent and fluid. The game had changed. It was no longer a simple hunt. It was a race.
Tarsus walked through the rain-swept streets of the undercity, his mind a finely tuned engine of logic. The boot print was a revelation, the lynchpin that held his entire theory together. He was no longer chasing ghosts. He was hunting a specific, quantifiable target: a male student from the academy with access to forbidden magic and a penchant for theatrical violence.
He dismissed the idea of a direct investigation at the academy. That would be a fool's errand. The institution was a political viper's nest, and they would close ranks to protect their own, especially if the suspect was of noble blood. No, he would not knock on the front door. He would continue to stalk his prey in its preferred hunting ground. He would let the boy lead him to the next body.
He stood under the awning of a butcher's shop, the smell of blood and sawdust thick in the air. He unrolled his map, the paper already damp from the misty rain. He had the 'where'—the northern undercity. He had the 'who'—a student. Now he needed the 'why'. Why these locations?
He looked at the red pins marking the Chalk Murders. An alley. An abandoned attic. They seemed random. But Tarsus did not believe in random. He believed in patterns. He closed his eyes, visualizing the map, visualizing his quarry. A young, arrogant, and powerful magic user. What would a boy like that be drawn to?
The answer was a quiet, intuitive click in his mind. Power.
He wasn't just killing. He was performing a ritual. He was choosing locations with a specific, occult significance. Places of death, of strong emotion, of lingering magical energy. Places a normal person would avoid, but a student of the arcane would be drawn to like a moth to a flame.
His finger traced a path on the map, connecting the dots of his theory. His eyes landed on a dark, forgotten corner of the sector, a place that was a nexus of all his criteria. A place steeped in a history of violence and dark magic. The Crimson Altar. It was a former blood cultist lair, officially sealed a century ago, but everyone in the undercity knew its reputation. A place of bad energy, a place where ghosts were said to scream on moonless nights.
It was the perfect next stage for his theatrical killer.
"Ren," he barked at his subordinate, who was huddled miserably under the same awning. "Get the precinct's historical survey map. The one from the Purge era. I want to see all the old, decommissioned occult sites in this sector."
He was no longer just following a trail of bodies. He was following a trail of logic, a dark, intellectual breadcrumb trail that he was certain would lead him to his quarry's next performance.
The chaotic trail was growing stronger, the dissonant hum in Zero's mind becoming a low, insistent thrum. The beast was close. It was moving with a new sense of purpose, its path no longer a meandering hunt, but a straight, determined line. It had found what it was searching for.
Zero moved through the slums like a phantom, his [Aura of Obscurity]—a new, subtle skill he had been unconsciously developing—helping him slide through the periphery of people's notice. The rain was his ally, the grey mist a perfect cloak.
But he could feel the other hunter. Not with his glitched senses, but with a cold, primal instinct. Tarsus was on the board now, and his presence was a tangible pressure, a change in the very atmosphere of the undercity. Patrols were more frequent, their routes less predictable. Watchmen who were usually drunk or asleep were now alert, their eyes scanning the shadows with a new, unwelcome diligence.
Zero was forced to adapt. He could no longer move freely. He had to use the ghost paths Tarsus had so accurately mapped out. He slipped into a sewer entrance, the stench of filth a welcome price for the absolute concealment it offered. He moved through the darkness, the chaotic trail a clear, bright line in his perception, a beacon in the gloom.
The trail led him to a massive, circular iron grate set into the ceiling of the sewer tunnel. The chaotic energy was pouring down from it like a foul, invisible waterfall. This was the place. The beast's lair. He knew, from his own historical studies, what was above this grate. The main drainage access for the old temple district. The Crimson Altar.
It was a perfect, logical conclusion. The beast, a creature that fed on corrupted energy, had been drawn to one of the most infamously corrupt locations in the entire city.
He found an old, rusted ladder and began to climb, his movements silent and sure. He reached the grate and, using his skinning knife, carefully worked the corroded locking mechanism free. He pushed the heavy iron plate aside a few inches, just enough to peer out.
He saw a vast, circular chamber, its stone walls covered in faded, obscene murals of blood sacrifice. In the center of the room, a massive, black stone altar was stained with a century of old, dark rituals. And curled at the base of the altar was the beast.
It was a creature of nightmare, a shifting, semi-corporeal mass of shadowy limbs and too many joints, its form constantly flickering, unraveling and re-stitching itself like a piece of glitched code. A low, hungry hum emanated from it, the source of the chaotic resonance that had led him here.
He had found his quarry.
At that exact moment, he heard a sound from outside the Altar's main entrance. The sound of heavy, official boots crunching on gravel. The low murmur of voices. Tarsus.
Zero froze, his body pressed against the cold, damp stone of the sewer wall. His heart was a cold, steady drum. He had followed the trail of chaos. Tarsus had followed the trail of logic. And both paths, impossibly, had led to this exact same, dark, and forgotten place.
Tarsus stood before the massive, sealed bronze doors of the Crimson Altar, the rain dripping from the brim of his hat. His historical map had confirmed it. This was the geographical and occult epicenter of all the strange events.
"Breach it," he ordered his men.
They set to work with heavy crowbars, the screech of metal on ancient bronze echoing in the desolate courtyard.
Tarsus's gaze was fixed on the doors, his hand resting on the hilt of his heavy, Watch-issue blade. He could feel it. The cold, thrilling certainty of a hunter who has finally cornered his prey. His ghost was in there. He was sure of it. He was about to come face-to-face with the student who had been haunting his city.
Zero watched through the grate, his mind a razor's edge of calculation. Tarsus was outside. The beast was inside. And he was trapped between them.
He could retreat, flee back into the sewers and let the two forces destroy each other. It was the safe, logical option.
But the cold, pragmatic voice of the [Callous] skill whispered in his mind. No. This is not a threat. This is an opportunity.
An opportunity to eliminate both problems at once. An opportunity to let the City Watch and the chaos beast bloody each other, while he, the ghost, watched from the shadows, waiting to deal with whoever was left standing.
The heavy bronze doors of the Altar groaned, beginning to buckle under the force of the Watchmen's assault. The beast at the base of the altar stirred, its shadowy form beginning to unfurl, awakened by the intrusion.
The paths of the two hunters had not just converged. They were about to collide in a spectacular, bloody explosion. And Zero, the ghost in the machine, was perfectly positioned to orchestrate the chaos.