Hey guys! I want to apologize for the lack of uploads recently. I'm having some health problems with a medication I have to take, so I've been getting sick frequently. I didn't want to try to rush out chapters either to avoid burning out, so I just waited until I felt up to it. I can't say for sure when I will be back to full health, but my goal is to return to either daily uploads or every other day.
On that note, please enjoy, leave a comment, review, and some power stones.
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Back at the church, the atmosphere had turned dense and suffocating. Rain still tapped against the broken windows, a ceaseless rhythm that only added weight to the silence.
Everyone had gathered again, seated or standing around the long table in the center of the room. The light through the stained glass painted everything in fractured reds and blues, like bruises across the floor.
Loki stood with his back to the window, arms crossed, his face hidden beneath the cold smile on his mask. The others waited, the air taut with anticipation.
"Loki," Chrollo said, his voice calm but sharp, like a knife pressed gently to the skin. "Shalnark said you found something worth checking out."
All eyes turned toward him.
Loki tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if trying to find the right words written there. Then he let his gaze fall back to the others.
"I thought it prudent to share some new findings," he said evenly. "One of the smaller gangs I visited recently for some information... they mentioned something that stood out. Apparently, there's been a trend among some of the newer groups."
He paused.
"Red Rooms." (Red Rooms are streams on the dark web that involve torture and murder. Yes, I know they might not be real, but we can imagine that they are in this universe.)
The words hung in the air like a weight on their chests.
Even those unfamiliar with the term could sense the shift in temperature. But the ones who knew, such as Feitan, Phinks, Machi, and even Franklin, all stiffened as if struck.
Red Rooms... Live-streamed torture and murder for the masses to enjoy.
Chrollo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers closed together. His eyes had gone empty in that way they sometimes did when he was thinking deeply.
Phinks slammed a fist into the wall beside him, causing a loud crack that echoed through the church.
"You saying they recorded it?!" he growled.
Loki nodded once.
"Either that, or they streamed it. I can't confirm which, but the implication was clear. They most likely made a show out of their deaths..."
Feitan's aura flared, a dark veil of malice coating the room.
Uvogin gritted his teeth, fists balled so tight his knuckles cracked.
Nobunaga looked like he was ready to get up and start killing right then.
Even Machi's usually calm expression had darkened, her gaze heavy.
Loki let his gaze sweep across their faces. He saw his own reflection in each of them. Sarasa and Sheila weren't just lost, but were humiliated, stripped of dignity by monsters who turned their deaths into amusement.
"Does anyone know of any new groups in the area?" Loki asked, his voice quieter now, but it carried like a razor.
There was silence for a few seconds before Chrollo finally spoke.
"I think I might know who it is."
Everyone turned toward him.
"According to the elders, there's been talk of a new gang that recently gained traction. Not from the usual trash heaps either. A few of their members are rumored to be from the Kurta clan."
Loki's eyes widened slightly behind the mask.
"The Kurta... here? In Meteor City?"
Chrollo nodded.
"That's what I heard. Apparently, they're gathering funds for their tribe, or that's the cover story, at least. The elders aren't fully convinced. But these guys... they came equipped. Nen users, weapons, organization. Not the usual street scum."
Loki's thoughts spun as pieces clicked into place.
'No wonder they became targets later on. The Phantom Troupe must've traced this back and retaliated. That's why the massacre happened.'
His hands clenched at his sides.
'Because they were involved in this... in her death...'
His jaw tensed beneath the mask. His voice came out low.
"Do we know where they are now?"
Chrollo didn't answer immediately. Then, a slow, cold smile crept across his lips.
"I think I do."
Silence followed before they all stood up and started to head out.
************
Carl exhaled slowly, the breath visible in the cold morning air. The wind cut sharply across the desert outside of Meteor City as the group of Kurta men gathered the last of their things.
Cans and broken tools were tossed into the fire pit without care as they walked away from the other gang members. None of them spoke unless they had to.
They had finally finished with this type of work.
The last transaction had gone through the night before, and their final payment was wired.
The accounts were full enough to last the tribe for a long time if they were used wisely. Medicine, food, and any other essentials would be easy to provide. Everything they needed to be safe, to be free.
It was all over, and they should feel happy, but it didn't feel like a victory.
After they walked for a while, they all took a break at a couple of gutted vans and a small campsite before continuing.
Carl sat on a rusted barrel outside one of the gutted vans as he glanced up. His eyes, which had an eerie red hue, were fixed on the gray sky with a dull gaze. There was no warmth in them or joy in having finished, just numbness.
Jairo approached, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "We should leave here before noon. I don't want to be out here when the gangs start circling again."
Carl nodded. "Let's rest for another fifteen minutes then..."
"Sounds good..."
Another silence settled between them.
Jario shifted awkwardly as his boots scraped gravel. The whole group was silent.
"It was all for the Tribe... Were we supposed to let them starve?" Someone said after a long pause. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Carl didn't answer.
Behind them, a few others finished eating and stood up. Hara, the youngest among them, sat on a folded tarp staring into the ground like it might open and swallow him. No one had spoken much in days.
They had done what they came to do, but it had broken something inside each of them.
"You think they'll forgive us if they know how we made the money?" Jario asked, voice low.
Carl looked at him, finally. "They won't need to because we will never tell them."
Jario grimaced, then nodded. "You're right."
Carl stood, brushing ash from his coat. The red scarf around his neck fluttered slightly in the wind, half-torn, stained in places. A gift from his younger sister before they left.
He had promised to bring back enough to fix everything. But look at the cost...
He remembered every scream and every tear. Every deal is made in backrooms or in front of cameras. He remembered holding down a crying boy whose name he never learned, just so the feed wouldn't cut off. Just so the buyer wouldn't complain.
It haunted him.
But he had known what he was getting into when he agreed to the deal. It was either them or the tribe...
They strolled out of the small camp like a group of living dead, away from the edge of Meteor City and toward the far hills. Behind them, the distant skyline smoldered with morning haze.
It would be a long journey to get to the Kurta Tribe.
And once they got there, they would never speak of this again.