A large crimson double-decker bus rumbled through the streets, its paint faded into a mix of rust and red. Inside were twelve people—one the driver, the other known only as the Guide.
The remaining ten were called the Prisoners, or Sinners, of the Investigation Branch under the Hellflame Company, tasked with locating the thirteen Shards before anyone else could.
A man in his mid-twenties sat by the window, his gaze distant. His short black hair was neatly kept, and he wore a black coat over a white button-up shirt and black tie. A revolver rested in a holster on each side of his chest.
His skin was pale, and his tired, cold eyes carried no warmth. His face showed neither smile nor frown, only a fixed neutrality.
Beside him sat a large black coffin marked with a white cross, its locks sealed tight.
"John, you ever gonna stop staring out that window with that depressed look of yours, mate?"
The voice came from a man across the aisle, speaking with a stern tone. A scar ran down his left cheek, and his messy hair was neither too long nor short. His purple eyes burned like a flame.
He wore the same uniform as John, though his shirt and pants were torn at the edges. His darker skin and muscular build made him stand out. Resting across his lap was his weapon of choice—a metal bat wrapped in barbed wire.
"Leave him alone, Xini," a woman with green hair interjected.
Her tired yet relaxed expression contrasted with her sharp voice. Her skin held a golden hue, and her eyes shimmered like the ocean. She wore the same uniform, though her shirt was sleeveless. She wore knee-length shorts and walked barefoot, with a bow slung across one shoulder and a quiver on the other.
"Just mind your own business, Wrathe," John muttered, his tone low as he ignored Xini.
Xini sighed, only to flinch as the back of his head was smacked. He cursed but didn't need to turn to know who had struck him.
It was a woman with short black hair tipped in red, her gaze as cold as steel. A fiery glint burned in her eyes. She wore the standard white shirt and tie, though a hanfu draped over her shoulders. Her arms remained crossed.
"Be more gentle with our colleague, Lady Kara," a whimsical voice chimed.
The speaker sat beside Kara, dressed similarly but with a long black coat and white gloves. In his arms, he cradled a crimson lance. His blood-red eyes matched his long hair, streaked with black, and his delicate features could easily be mistaken for a woman's.
Kara sighed and flicked him on the forehead, earning a dramatic gasp.
"My, my, you must learn manners, Lady Kara," he said, feigning offense.
She gave him a brief look before replying flatly.
"And you need to learn when to shut up, Benedict."
A man sat alone in the front, just behind the driver, resting his head against the seat with a weary sigh. His coat was buttoned up so that only his black tie and a glimpse of his white shirt showed. His short, silver-white hair framed a calm face, and a sword hung at each hip.
A cigar rested between his lips as he slowly opened his eyes, revealing a clear shade of green. The scabbards at his sides were lavishly crafted—dragons coiled along their length, and the hilts gleamed with gold.
"Still quite the rowdy bunch we are…" he muttered under his breath.
To his left sat the Guide: a man with gray hair, fiery orange eyes, and a gray-and-white checkered tuxedo. His expression was cold and stoic, and in his right hand he held a book he read in silence.
At the far back corner of the bus sat a massive figure who took up two seats by himself. His towering build was bound in chains and wrapped in bandages, and a black cage covered his mouth. Despite his monstrous body, his eyes were calm—childlike. He stared longingly at the figurines arranged beside him, wishing he could touch them, though he knew he never would.
To his right lounged a man admiring himself in a mirror, captivated by his own reflection. His golden hair shone brilliantly, his bright eyes gleamed with vanity, and his handsome features were flawless. He wore a white tuxedo over a yellow shirt, topped with a white fedora tilted neatly on his head.
"Yes, yes, indeed… You are the man, Mr. Handsome," he whispered to himself with a smile.
Seated beside him was another man, likely the youngest of the group—no older than his early twenties. He wore a rainbow-colored jacket over a black shirt, a locket dangling from a necklace around his neck. A pair of rainbow-tinted shades with the word Hackl0rd scrawled across the rim rested atop his head. A sheathed blade hung at his hip, and behind him sat a stack of soda boxes.
"Yo, Retribution, why don't you stop admirin' yo handsome self and tell me some o' yo cool storiez!" he said, dragging his words in exaggerated slurs.
The man with the mirror—Retribution—sighed and slipped the mirror into his breast pocket.
"If it keeps you quiet, lowly peasant… so be it."
"Hey, hey, my name ain't peasant—it's Robert. You already know that."
Another man slept soundly, a calm expression on his face and a confident smile lingering even in slumber. He wore a black tuxedo with a red tie, a black fedora tilted forward, and a fake rose tucked neatly into his breast pocket.
Beside him sat a woman with wide, unblinking eyes and long brown hair tied into a bun. A pair of round glasses rested on her nose as she flipped through a newspaper detailing recent experiments in Sector M. Her attire was a lab coat draped over the standard white shirt and red tie, paired with black jeans. Pens and scalpels poked from her pockets, along with a strange flesh cube that twitched faintly when touched. Her gaze was manic, yet sharp—cold and calculating.
The Guide closed his book with deliberate calm and spoke in a low, commanding tone.
"Everyone, off the bus. We've arrived."
The brakes screeched, and the bus came to a halt. The passengers stumbled to their feet, some muttering under their breath as they peered out the windows. The world outside was nothing but a dense expanse of trees, grass, and bushland.
"Wait… Boss, are we in the outskirts?" Xini asked, pressing his face to the glass.
Atalanta, seated nearby, narrowed her eyes. Her head tilted slightly, ears keenly catching the faint rustle of something moving in the underbrush—sounds no one else could hear.
"Yo, yo, so this is really what the outskirts look like, huh bossman?" Robert chuckled as he hopped off the bus, his rainbow shades flashing in the sunlight.
All of them began to exit except for the driver: an old bald man with weathered skin that shimmered faintly like scales. His azure eyes glowed dimly, and he wore a faded blue militaristic coat over a dirt-stained white shirt. A cross necklace dangled from his neck, swaying with each movement.
"Pablo and I will stay behind," the Guide announced from the entrance, his fiery orange eyes sweeping across the group. "Your task is simple. Find a girl in a blue dress. She carries a white rabbit doll."
The Prisoners exchanged glances and nodded, though none looked thrilled by the assignment. All except Benedict—whose crimson eyes lit up with unrestrained excitement at the thought of being beyond the City's walls.
The outskirts were a forbidden place, a land of mysteries even those at the very top of the City knew nothing about.
As the group ventured deeper into the forest, a faint, acrid scent drifted on the wind. Smoke.
The Prisoners paused, their eyes darting to one another. Without a word, they gave a collective nod. Xini twirled his bat in anticipation, a grin splitting his scarred face.
"Finally… some well-needed action," he said, his voice brimming with hunger.
The air was thick with anticipation as the prisoners pressed on. When they reached a clearing, the sight that awaited them was horrific—a young girl hung lifeless from a tall wooden pole.
Flowers of many kinds surrounded the base, and seven torches burned brightly at its sides. It was a ritual. Before the sacrifice stood figures cloaked in rags, their faces hidden beneath hoods.
"Bloody hell…" Xini muttered, stepping into the open.
Whoosh!
Clang!
Sparks flew as a ragged old man lunged from the shadows, his gleaming silver saber clashing against Xini's barbed bat. The weapon was far too polished, far too perfect, for someone dressed in such tattered clothes.
The clash rang out across the clearing, waking the rest of the cloaked figures. They howled with rage, arms thrashing as they rushed forward, silver blades flashing in the firelight. Not a single one showed a speck of rust or age.
Two cultists leapt into the air, sabers raised to cut Xini down. Just as their blades descended, black bullets struck them midair. On impact, each shot burst into a swarm of pale moths that scattered into the night.
John stood with his revolvers raised, his expression unreadable. A quiet poem slipped past his lips before he clicked the hammers back and fired again, dropping three more cultists where they stood.
Their comrades didn't falter. Unfazed, the rest pressed forward, screaming as they charged.
With a long sigh, the man with the cigar rose from his seat on a fallen log and unsheathed both longswords. The blades were rusted, jagged, and yet deadly in his hands.
"Couldn't we have settled this with words…" he muttered, weaving past three attackers with practiced ease before driving his swords through their torsos.
"Tch. Just fuck off," Kara snapped.
She raised her hand, crimson energy gathering in her palm before shaping into four knives of solid blood. With a flick of her fingers, the blades shot out. One intercepted an incoming strike while the others arced forward, carving through cultists' throats in clean, red lines.
"Tone it down with the blood, will you?!" Ret barked, slamming two cultists into the ground with his gloved hands. He weaved through the chaos, sidestepping splashes of blood with practiced disgust. Not a single drop touched his immaculate suit.
A cultist lunged at him, but Ret pivoted sharply and drove his fist forward. His hand pierced straight through the man's skull, yet the gore vanished on contact, flesh and blood disintegrating against the studs of his gloves. For someone who loathed filth, it was the only way he could bear the fight.
Robert, meanwhile, moved with an entirely different rhythm. He slipped past every strike with fluid grace, laughter bubbling from his throat as if it were a game. His katana, designed to resemble a glowing blade of light, swept through the air in dazzling arcs, cutting down cultists as though he were dancing among them.
Two cultists lunged at Rob, their blades aimed for his throat. He leaned back with a grin, spinning his body as he deflected both strikes, then countered in one swift motion. His katana pierced the first man's neck before slicing clean across the second's.
Giggling, Rob sidestepped another attacker and lopped his head off in a single stroke, the blade shining as the body crumpled.
"…Now, now, let's not be rash," Viktoria murmured, tossing a flask toward a group of three.
The glass shattered on impact, spraying a thick, viscous liquid across their skin. Screams tore through the air as flesh peeled and burned, the corrosive mixture eating through muscle and bone with ease.
One by one, cultists collapsed in pieces—bodies split, bones shattered, limbs severed, heads rolling across the grass. By the end, not a single one remained standing. All were drenched in blood except Ret, who stayed remarkably spotless.
"I was half expecting this the moment we reached the first sector on our list," Chance remarked with a chuckle, brushing blood from his cheek. He adjusted his fedora and crouched over a corpse, rummaging for valuables.
Before he could go further, Xini yanked him back with a deadpan look.
"You're not finding any credits on these half-naked bastards, mate," he muttered, turning his gaze instead to Kara and Benedict, who now stood before the wooden pole.
Kara raised her hand and swung it down, flames bursting before fading into tiny glowing particles.
Benedict's eyes narrowed, his brows drawn low as he let out a long sigh. Watching such a young girl die in such a horrific way gnawed at the sinner's heart.
"Damn… I get this is normal in the City, but even in the Outskirts?" Chance muttered, lowering his voice before turning away.
"We are not heroes. Don't forget why we're here." Kara's gaze was stern, cold—but it carried no malice.
It was a reminder of the truth: the country they lived in, the City itself, was a place of horror. Cleaners were sent on jobs that often ended in their deaths, or erased entire organizations from existence.
Not an ounce of true light or warmth could be found here. And even if it existed, it was far too small, too insignificant for the City to ever care.
Silence fell over the group, broken only by Viktoria's giggling. She prodded at the corpses with a branch, acid dripping from it, sizzling as it hit the ground.
She smiled—not out of joy or cruelty, but at the success of her experiment.
Atalanta groaned, folding her arms as she walked past the scientist with visible disdain. Viktoria only grinned wider at the sound.
"At least cut the poor girl down," Xini said, wiping sweat from his cheek as he watched Benedict carefully pull out the nails and loosen the ropes.
Benedict lifted the corpse into his arms, his expression heavy with grief.
"I shall bur—"
He stopped mid-sentence, caught by Robert's bewildered stare. The man's sunglasses slid down his nose, his mouth hanging open in shock.
Benedict followed his gaze and froze. The supposed dead girl in his arms had her eyes open. They were wide and unfeeling, locked in a cold, empty expression.
Her skin was smooth, her face strikingly youthful. A blue dress clung to her frame, stained with blood, but not a single tear or burn marked it.
"Care to put me down, mister?" she asked softly, her voice low and strangely gentle.
The question stunned everyone. A girl they had all seen die was asking to be set down—calmly, almost carelessly, as if what had just happened to her was nothing at all.