Limping, Kariel approached the door and opened it in the usual way. The creak made him frown.
In fact, calling this thing a door would be an exaggeration.
A door should be sturdy, and this one, if Kariel hadn't nailed a few planks to it, would hardly have held together and wouldn't have protected even from the wind.
He entered. In the pitch-dark room, a foul stench hung.
Kariel's brows furrowed. He addressed the empty room:
"I thought I asked you to ventilate?"
"Rain," a quiet hissing voice suddenly sounded in the empty room.
Such was the Nostraman language – soft, melodious, and hissing, like poetry. However, most who spoke it were murderers.
"Rain?" Kariel repeated, curling his brow in disdain. "And that's why you don't open the window?"
"Yes."
A tall shadow slowly rose in the darkness. A head emerged from the gloom, and the neon light filtering through the doorway illuminated a pale face.
Kariel chuckled, wearily removed his cloak, threw it with the two blades at his feet, then pulled up a chair and sat by the door.
The cold Nostraman night wind blew. He lowered his head, and blood from his right leg dripped onto the floor, spreading at his feet.
"You are wounded," said the tall, frightening shadow.
"Yes, wounded," Kariel shrugged. "This bastard had mechanical enhancers implanted in both hands…"
The shadow approached him and carefully examined the wound.
"You need treatment…" the shadow hissed. "He broke the bone in your right leg."
"I know," Kariel said tiredly, settling more comfortably in the dilapidated chair he had found somewhere. Such a position was not 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 and long hand slowly emerged from the darkness. The tips of his nails gleamed, making them look like dangerous blades.
And Kariel knew they were actually far more dangerous than blades.
"I'm very grateful, but no," he said calmly.
The hand retracted swiftly, creating a funny contrast with its slow appearance.
"Then perhaps amputation will be necessary," the shadow said. "I haven't had bones broken yet, only shot. Bullets stuck in flesh are very difficult to remove, I had to dig them out one by one. Laser weapons are more convenient in this regard… just a burn."
His voice suddenly changed, from hissing to soft, as if in delirium.
"...And also, when bullets get stuck in flesh, it hurts a lot."
"Bullets in the body always hurt."
Kariel laughed. He couldn't help but find the absurdity of this naivety shown by the monster amusing.
'How funny,' he thought. 'A monster capable of tearing a man apart with a single swipe of its hand is so naive.'
"Does it hurt you too?" the shadow asked.
Kariel glanced at him as if he were an idiot, then burst out laughing: "If even you hurt, what can I say? I'm just a mortal, Ghost, not like you."
The shadow was silent for a long time, clearly having a different opinion.
Then he emerged from the darkness. The clothes, sewn from rags, vaguely resembled a long robe. Dirty long hair was loose down his back, and traces of dried blood were visible on his pale skin.
Torn clothes, a dirty appearance, unnaturally tall height, pale skin, and completely black eyes – these monstrous features combined made him look like a terrifying ghost from legends.
One glance was enough to understand – 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 only become a monster sometimes."
"In the last month, you have killed one hundred and seventy-two people. Every day, every night."
"Who taught you that phrase?"
"You."
"…"
Kariel sighed, forced to yield to this excessively tall man he called Ghost.
"Listen, Ghost. I don't become a monster for no reason. I kill in this city because…"
"...Justice?" the Ghost interrupted impatiently, asking the question with fervor in his eyes.
"No," Kariel replied coldly. "Justice does not exist, Ghost. Justice is the greatest lie in the world."
The Ghost nodded in disappointment and pointed again at Kariel's right leg. This time, Kariel could no longer ignore it.
Kariel raised his right hand, and his black eyes, like all Nostramans', suddenly flashed blue.
The temperature dropped sharply. Cold frost formed on the chair legs. The Ghost looked at him, tracing the frost as it crept further, towards Kariel's leg.
Traces of blood, the wound, the unnatural shape created by the broken bone under the skin – at this moment, all of it disappeared.
"Phew…"
Kariel took a deep, deep breath. His eyes returned to their normal state at that moment, and a calm reigned in their bottomless blackness.
The Ghost looked at him and was silent for a while. Only after some time did he speak again:
"You shouldn't rely too much on this power."
"If it helps with what we need to do, I will always use it."
"It's dangerous."
"How do you know?"
"I…" The Ghost did not answer.
He didn't know how to explain it to Kariel. The Ghost knew many things from birth, as if instinctively. He even knew the word to describe this gift.
"Born with knowledge."
"More dangerous than anything else in this city?" Kariel paid no attention to his confusion. He stood up and asked the question.
He left the room. His gait was firm and confident, and one could not imagine that just half a minute ago he was so injured that amputation might be threatened.
It was empty outside, and a cold wind blew.
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 had not found it. In fact, their very existence was questionable.
Thus, he had a small Sanctuary.
And six months ago, the Ghost arrived. Or rather, the Night Ghost.
This nickname was known only in the narrow circles of Quintus for now and was not nearly as famous as the "avenging spirit." After all, the avenging spirit had indeed been killing in the city for a year and a half.
Every day, every night.
"Gangs everywhere, twisted monsters everywhere. The aristocrats of the Upper Hive can sit peacefully in their luxurious chairs and collect taxes from these dogs they keep."
"And those workers who sleep in the slums, these poor wretches, have only two paths. The first is to die in the factory in poverty, constantly facing beatings and exploitation, and not even having enough to eat. The second is to join a gang and oppress others."
Kariel turned his head with a crooked smile: "What do you think most will choose?"
The Ghost did not answer. He was still standing in the doorway, not coming outside. The darkness behind him was impenetrable.
"Without a doubt, they will 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 young. Otherwise, the gang won't even accept you…"
Kariel fell silent, suddenly lost in thought.
A flame, more burning than poison, began to ignite on his pale young face, forcing him to clench his teeth and frown.
The Ghost did not disturb him.
Only after a long time did he re-enter the conversation.
His voice was soft and hissing: "Can murders solve everything?"
"No," Kariel answered without hesitation.
"Murders only breed more murders. 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," said Kariel, then paused.
He turned his head, and his dark hair slightly swirled in the dirty Nostraman wind: "...Not yet."
"If you find one, tell me," the Ghost said seriously. "Nostramo is sick. I see it. I want it to get well."
And again, Kariel gave a sarcastic smirk at his naivety. Only this time, after the laughter, he nodded.
"Alright," said Kariel Lohars.
He didn't even ask why. Just as he never asked where the Night Ghost got such immense power.
Kariel Lohars simply did not yet know whom he was making this promise to.
…
Father from the Church of Tranquility is dead.
At six in the morning in Hive City Quintus, a world devoid of light, this news spread like wildfire.
Most people, however, didn't care. Firstly, they didn't know who Father from the Church of Tranquility was. Secondly, 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 didn't even care about the change of day and night, so why would they care about the death of some priest? They didn't even know who he was.
Well, Razor cared.
And Razor knew who Father was.
Razor is an unremarkable gang leader on Nostramo. Like everyone else, he disposed of lives in his territory as he saw fit.
On Nostramo, there were no laws, no law enforcement – only gangs. They served the aristocrats, maintained the illusion of order, collected taxes… Gangs replaced the nobility, dividing and ruling every corner of Nostramo.
Moreover, they committed senseless murders and even more horrific atrocities… For Razor and his gang, all this was just a way to assert their authority.
Like wild animals marking their territory with scent, gangs constantly killed civilians to ensure their dominance. And how many civilians died in the process, no one cared.
This was how all bandits behaved on Nostramo.
But now Razor, known for his cruelty, was confused.
"How did he die?"
Standing at the entrance to the church, Razor asked. Opposite him stood a woman in a white cloak and mask. Her right hand was made of metal and looked very elegant.
"He was disemboweled," the woman said thoughtfully.
"Or rather, taken apart… All his insides were removed and neatly categorized. The technique is very skillful. The killer also pulled out half of his spine and hung the body under the statue of the deity."
Razor cursed softly. The woman shook her head, removed her mask, threw it on the ground, and added, "By the way, there are a few words written in blood on the statue. It seems to be a message for you."
"For me?"
Razor's eyes bulged, and a moment later, he burst into the church in a rage.
***
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