"He… he's at the Blackwater Bar, the one on East Street… he'll be there these two days… khh— there…" The man's voice weakened, halting in fragments.
The instant he finished, a crisp click sounded—the hammer of a revolver being drawn back.
"Lies won't buy your life. Seems my mercy was wasted."
A trace of "anger" showed on Shaer's otherwise calm face. Her left index finger rested on the trigger. She took a step forward, forcing the man to scrabble backward on hands and heels.
He stared wide-eyed, voice trembling into a near-wail that grew surprisingly loud, even breaking into sobs:
"No… I didn't lie—khh, khh, khh— I'm telling the truth! He really is at the Blackwater Bar on East Street!"
Shaer paused, then slowly eased the hammer down. She flicked the pistol toward the alley. "Go. Don't let me see you again."
"Th… thank you…" He staggered upright, shoulder to the wall, hobbling deeper into the lane and tripping several times in his panic.
Only after nearly ten meters did he work up the courage to glance back. Moonlight pooled at the alley mouth; the girl was already gone.
Panting hard, he yanked off his sweat-soaked undershirt, balled it up, and stuffed it into the puncture in his gut, barely stemming the blood.
Clutching the wound, he limped out the alley's far end. After another quick look to confirm no one was there, he veered left and hurried toward West Street.
He never noticed the figure on the rooftops, hidden beneath a black cloak, shadowing him at an unhurried pace.
He cut through alley after alley until the lit sign of a tavern reading "The Hammer" came into view. He quickened, spending the last of his strength to run toward that hopeful glow.
"Almost… almost there… Boss Blaide will get a doctor to fix me…"
His thoughts were muddled, lips bloodless from loss of blood, but he mumbled on, pushing toward the pinprick of light.
Thud…
A heavy object dropped in a side lane. He turned his head instinctively toward the darkness.
From the black mouth of the alley, a hand extended—holding a short knife slick with blood. The hand lifted, and under his despairing gaze, drove straight for his throat.
"Grrk…"
Too weak even to cry out, he crashed to the ground. His breathing became a wet hiss—blood frothing through a slit windpipe.
His body was dragged, inch by inch, into the shadowed lane—as if some unnameable thing in the dark had taken its prey.
After a few dull, meaty stabs, the street fell quiet again.
Twenty seconds later, a red-haired girl stepped from the alley's shade, a blood-red short knife dangling in her left hand, a handkerchief in her right wiping the splatter from her face.
Emerging, Shaer tipped her head back and drew a deep breath of air that, while still foul, at least was free of blood-reek. Her gaze was faintly unfocused.
She had already "killed" Ayan once in the notebook's run, but this was the first time she had done it with her own hands.
Even in a simulation, the sensation of warm spray on the face felt brutally real. Even after wiping, that rusty stench clung to her nose.
"I only wanted a quiet life…"
"I've tried so hard not to provoke anyone…"
"Why did you have to come for me…"
"To shatter this peace…"
Her voice was soft, not so much accusing any one person as questioning fate—or a god.
After a long moment, she pocketed the bloody cloth. A black revolver appeared in her left hand at some point. Shaer raised it and walked toward The Hammer.
Chapter 7 — A Broken Ritual, and an Unexpected Intruder
"How are the arrangements, Blaide?"
The tavern's bright lamps lit the black-robed man head to toe, yet could not scatter the shadow coiled under the hood across his face.
"Everything's in place. They're none the wiser." Across from him, Blaide Solari wiped a glass with a handkerchief, then pulled a bottle of strong liquor from the back bar, poured, and tossed it back in one swallow.
The empty tavern held only the two of them. The air felt tight, congealed. Neither spoke again for a while. At last the Blackwater Gang's leader broke the silence.
"Lord 'Shadow,' I'm showing the utmost sincerity here. This is my last piece on the board. I can't wait any lon— khh, khh…"
Blaide doubled over, hacking into his fist as if his lungs would tear free. When he came up for air, the black robe finally spoke.
"As long as everything follows the ritual's record, there will be no problem," the hooded man said.
"This is the third time." Blaide set the glass down on the bar with a dull thud. "First my son, then my own brother, and then my nephew. After tomorrow I'll have no kin left, Mr. 'Shadow'! You're sure all of this is part of the ritual?"
"It's not the kin. It's the feeling, Blaide." The one called "Shadow" tapped a finger on the bar, voice low. "You felt nothing for their deaths. That is why the Reenactment failed."
"This time we spent six months cultivating your bond with your nephew. When he is killed, your idea of revenge will be vivid enough, Blaide."
Blaide's hand tightened around the glass, veins bulging under weathered skin. He stared as if to pierce the mass of shadow hiding the other man's face.
Cruelty had made Blaide famous, but he had always been meticulous. In this chaos, he had clawed out status by selling anything—least of all family or friendship.
If there was anything whose loss could drive him to mad revenge, it would be his life and wealth.
No.
And this thing before him that had cost him half his fortune: a grotesque black-robed man claiming to grant power beyond the ordinary.
If this failed again, he swore he would fill whatever lay under that robe with lead—then burn it.
"You want to kill me?" The robed man laughed softly. "Over this little money? You could dump it all in a donation box and the Church's transcendents still wouldn't spare you a glance."
He reached up and drew back his hood. Warm gaslight fell over his face—and the cords of living flesh sprouting across it.
Those growths writhed under the skin like tiny tentacles, flicking furiously as if to rip through his cheeks and escape.
It was a sight beyond reason—so hideous it stunned Blaide all over again. The silent little things seemed to scream, and Blaide's thoughts stuttered.
This was undoubtedly someone with a special ability.
He was dying; this one could save him.
If he completed the so-called "Revenge" Reenactment, he too could wield divine power…
Blaide's grip eased. He began to calm.
Thump—
A body fell outside. Blaide flinched. The black robe instantly yanked his hood up and turned toward the street—left hand clenched, plainly angered by the interruption.
"Your men?" he asked sharply.
"Impossible. I sent them away," Blaide said, voice wandering, mind still adrift from the emotional whiplash. He eyed the glass, murmuring, "Maybe Pompey's come to report."
"I'll check." The black robe flicked him a glance, knew Blaide would be useless for a while, and strode to the door.
Jingle—
He pushed open the glass-paneled door, bell chiming, and peered up and down the street. No one. No shadows moving.
The quiet street carried the skitter of rats and bugs, even the snores from next door. All as usual.
Back to the door, he collapsed to his knees—abandoning the composure he'd shown inside. From within his robe he produced a half-transparent vial with one hand, and jammed the fingers of the other deep down his throat.
"Urrgh—!"
His stomach heaved and writhed as if prodded.
Then he hammered his own abdomen with frantic, brutal punches. With a gulp of black blood, a flesh-colored, writhing tendril slid out of his mouth.
Plap, plap—
It flopped on the cobbles like a stranded fish. The black robe grabbed it and stuffed it into the vial.
Through the yellowish glass, it filled only a fraction of the bottle—some of its length seemed to have vanished.
"Damn it… another failure…" The shadows withdrew from his face, revealing a gaunt, corpse-pale middle-aged man, skin sagging like a centenarian's.
Bluish veins pulsed under the loosened skin. His scalp was bare, save for a red-black mass of fist-sized cysts like parasitic eggs—a thing neither fully human nor ghost.
Swaying, he stood and pressed his fingers to his brow, wrestling a splitting headache.
When he finally steadied, he swept the empty street with a venomous glare, tucked the vial away, hissed a curse, and went back inside.
Hood up once more, he sat, dabbed the black blood from his lips, and asked as if nothing had happened:
"How are the arrangements, Blaide?"
Blaide, still fogged, froze at the question. After a long beat, something clicked, and he answered woodenly, "…In place… They don't suspect a thing."
The earlier dialogue repeated. But this time, rather than prod him into rage, the black robe guided him with gentle prompts, coaxing Blaide to recount the plan once more.
Jingle—
As the talk dragged on—enough to dull even the black robe's focus—the glass door opened.
"Who—?"
He whipped his head toward it. Before he could fully turn—or offer any explanation—a bullet screamed at his chest with the crack of a gunshot.
"Bang—!"
Pain flung him to the floor, body curling like a shrimp. He snapped his head toward the window and saw her: a red-haired beauty in a black cloak, revolver leveled, face unreadable.
How is it her?!
At the gunshot, Blaide jolted but only stood there, motionless.
The intruder was Shaer.
To avoid a miss on a headshot, she'd chosen the largest target: center mass.
With the robe down, she snapped the muzzle to Blaide and fired before his dazed mind could catch up.
"Bang—"
The round left the barrel in a puff of powder. Though she'd aimed at his chest, it veered at the last instant and tore into Blaide's throat.
Splut—
Blood fountained with bubbles from his windpipe. The focus that had begun to coalesce in his gaze dispersed again. Clutching his neck, he slid down behind the bar.
Shaer did not relax. Of three bullets, one remained. She swapped hands—left bringing the revolver to her own temple—right drawing the knife as she crept toward the black robe.
To avoid failure, she had saved the final round for herself—her guarantee of a clean exit.
Chapter 8 — A Night of Boiling Blood (Part 1)
How did she find us?!
She was supposed to die in ignorance!
Horror clenched the black robe's chest. With his skull already aflame from pain, he couldn't fathom how the girl had traced the line back here.
And after neatly blowing out Blaide's head, the red-haired girl had turned the gun on herself… Was she insane?
No… If not insanity, there was one other possibility.
A person who acted with such bizarre, inhuman resolve—if not mad—could only be a transcendent.
But how?
She was a lamb Blaide had handpicked for the ritual: no background, no connections, a nobody whose death would stir no ripples. By what right could she complete a Reenactment? On what path?
Unless… her apparent "ordinariness" had itself been part of the Reenactment?
Watching the girl approach, the black robe knew he couldn't stall.
His Reenactment wasn't complete. He refused to die here.
He thrust a hand inside his robe and crushed the test tube holding that flesh-colored feeler.
The half-clear glass shattered, slicing his fingers. The pink tendril writhed like a worm and drove for the cuts.
"Wait— madam… milady!"
"I… I have a complete set of Reenactment notes and a potion. I can give them to you! Consider it my ignorant apology!"
He lifted his eyes to the red-haired girl. The desiccated ugliness of his face began to fill again with tiny fleshy buds…
…
Shaer stared at the black-robed figure writhing on the floor, heart rate ticking upward.
When the shot knocked him flat, his hood had flipped back, revealing a head that was nauseating to behold.
Cheeks caved with starvation, skin drooping uselessly from bone and muscle, and atop it all—clusters of pustule-like, pulsing tumors bobbing as if breathing.
One glance was enough to unnerve anyone. The steps she had been taking toward him slowed.
(Chapter 8 continues in your source; this is where your excerpt ends.)
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