The night sky of Shangri did not offer the comfort of darkness. Instead, it was cloaked in the suffocating beauty of a Crimson Moon a heavy, blood-colored orb that hung over the spires of the city like a lid on a coffin. Under its rhythmic, red pulse, the city of Talandria buzzed with a frantic, artificial life.
To a stranger, it would not have felt like midnight. It felt like a feverish morning. The streets were choked with the hiss of steam-carriages and the rhythmic clatter of leather boots on cobblestone. Gaslamps flickered with a chemical green tint, illuminating thousands of citizens who hurried about their business, driven by a desperate, unspoken energy. In this era, the night was no longer for sleeping; it was for surviving.
Challenges continue to test us. In the quiet corners of his mind, the boy remembered the tenets of the old world. All members of our familyhood are strong and mighty individuals, yet even as one, we find ourselves cast into the crucible of trials and dangers.
He leaned back in his chair at the corner café, his eyes scanning the crowd with a predatory stillness. He thought of the words of a scholar from a life he was no longer supposed to remember a man named "Charles Darwin" from a world of glass and silicon. It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent, the memory whispered. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.
Ethan Burn now living as Yuri Jaeger fingered the rough wood of the staff tied to his waist. He was a tall teenager, built with a lean, deceptive strength. His long, messy blue hair was tied into a low, functional ponytail, save for a single, stark white streak that fell near his left eye.a permanent scar left by the Truthlines during the massacre of his home. He wore a pale blue, fur-lined coat over dark denim, a bright blue scarf wrapped tight against the Talandrian chill, and a green jacket knotted carelessly around his waist.
He looked like a student or a traveler. He felt like a ghost.
Getting up, Yuri left his half-cold coffee and stepped into the flow of the street. He didn't have to wait long. A sleek, black Chevrolet a mechanical beast of chrome and iron honked as it pulled to the curb, cutting through the smog.
Inside the car, the air smelled of ozone and expensive tobacco. A man with hair as white as bone sat in the back seat, his eyes fixed on the ticking pocket watch in his gloved hand. He didn't look up as the door opened.
"You arrived at the precise moment, Yuri," the white-haired man said, his voice as cold as a scalpel. "It is time we begin the operation. The Truthlines are vibrating in a discordant key tonight."
From the front seat, a woman with black hair styled in tight, intricate noodle-curls turned around, a wicked grin stretching her lips. "Hope you're ready, Yu-ri. Let's make this one go off with a loud bang."
Yuri slid into the leather seat, the door clicking shut with the finality of a prison cell. "I think it would be better if we kept it on the quiet side tonight," he replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
The woman laughed, a sharp, grating sound. "Oh, you're one to talk, Yu-ri. I assume you actually bothered to read the mission dossier this time? Or are you planning on winging it again?"
Yu-ri didn't answer. He simply stared out the window as the Black Chevrolet lurched forward, watching the red moonlight dance on the ripples of the city's canal. He hadn't read a single word of the details. He didn't need to. The pact etched into his soul told him everything he needed to know: somewhere in the city, Deviants were gathered. And where there were Deviants, there was blood to be spilled.
While the Chevrolet sped through the industrial districts, a different kind of gathering was reaching its zenith in the heart of Talandria's aristocratic quarter.
The Grand Hall of the Silver Swan was crowded, but the air was thick with a scent that had nothing to do with perfume. It was a gathering of the elite men in silken coattails and women in layered lace gowns all standing in a tight, breathless semi-circle. They faced a man who stood upon a dais, his presence commanding the very shadows of the room.
"This world will soon change," the man announced. He was a striking figure with long, golden hair that seemed to shimmer with an unnatural light. "The authorities cling to their old laws, their 'Truthlines' of order and restraint. But there is no reason for us to care for their stagnant peace. We will not adapt to the world. We will change the world to our liking. It will adapt to us."
The crowd murmured, a sound like a nest of disturbed hornets. These were the Deviants those who had tasted the forbidden frequencies of the Truthlines and found them sweet.
"It is only a matter of time before we seize what is rightfully ours," the golden-haired man continued, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory amber. "The prosperity of the Deviant is at hand. Look upon the horizon, my brothers. A New Dawn is breaking."
He picked up a crystal flute of wine, the liquid inside a deep, viscous crimson. "Let us toast to the end of the old world."
He drained the glass in a single gulp. It was the signal.
The atmosphere in the hall shifted from celebratory to nightmarish in a heartbeat. The men, their faces suddenly contorting into masks of jagged hunger, turned upon the women standing beside them.
There was no romance in the act only a brutal, predatory harvest. The men lunged, their teeth lengthening into serrated needles as they bit into necks, wrists, and shoulders. They didn't just kill; they drained. They drank with a frantic, rhythmic gulping, their throats bobbing as they consumed the life-force of their companions.
The transformation was horrific. As the blood was siphoned away, the women's eyes turned a milky, sightless white. Their pupils vanished into the pale void of their sockets. Their skin, once flushed with the heat of the party, shriveled into a grey, parchment-like husk.
Screams erupted, echoing through the Grand Hall, bouncing off the marble pillars and the painted ceilings. It was a symphony of agony that the golden-haired man watched with a look of divine boredom.
One by one, the candles began to flicker and die. It wasn't the wind. The very shadows in the room seemed to be reaching out, snuffing the flames with cold, invisible fingers.
As the last light failed, the Hall was plunged into a thick, absolute darkness. The only sounds remaining were the wet, tearing noises of the feast and the distant, rhythmic honk of a black Chevrolet approaching the gates.
In the dark, the Deviants waited. And in the car, Yuri Jaeger felt the string on his back vibrate. The hunt had begun.