No. 15 Cogsworth Street — 6:30 PM
"You didn't have to walk me this far, my dear…" thanked an elderly lady in her eighties, fragile as a dried branch in late autumn, balancing a pair of shopping bags.
In front of her, a tall and handsome young man with golden hair slightly falling beside his eyes, looking like a soap opera actor.
"Hehe, no problem," he replied lightly.
He tipped his head slightly and waved goodbye, heading into the sprawling city — a labyrinth of stone and steel, with gears in constant motion.
Soon, he stopped before an informational sign to orient himself. The map displayed an aerial view of the vast metropolis, its name worn by time: Ironveil.
The city was dome-shaped: a massive circle enclosed by colossal walls that seemed to scrape the sky. It was divided into five sectors, each with a towering central pillar.
The Eastern region contained the residential area, vertically structured in three numbered levels. The Northern sector held the commercial district, crowded with luxury shops and markets, also where aristocrats kept their residences. The Western side housed the industrial zone, where the toxic air could kill anyone without specialized masks.
To the South lay the military sector. Armed forces stood ready by the immense gate that separated Ironveil from the outside world, guarding against invasions and disasters.
Finally, at the center of the city, the ruling sector sprawled — home to Ironveil's leader and his closest subordinates. Little was known about the true happenings there; rumors whispered that those who ventured too close simply… vanished. Nothing was ever confirmed.
"Why do these guys always build cities so damn huge?" Ray muttered, scowling at the map with visible irritation. "Bet they don't even know where their own houses are…"
He lingered, studying the map, trying to make sense of the labyrinthine city. His gaze swept the diagram until, in his peripheral vision, a familiar figure caught his eye.
It was a man of average height, with a single green eye standing out even from a distance.
"Ed!!" Ray silently exclaimed, his eyes widening as he forgot the map entirely.
He quickened his pace to reach his old, grumpy friend, who wandered casually down a nearby street. Edward walked along the wide avenue, scrutinizing every storefront as if searching for something very specific.
Ray was about to call out when an unexpected voice interrupted him:
"Just watch from afar."
He turned to see a short man with a thick, neatly trimmed mustache, his expression cold and mechanical — as if every word had been measured with surgical precision. His voice was calm, yet carried something immutable, inescapable.
The face… was vaguely familiar. Too familiar.
Like a distorted reflection in a cracked mirror.
A sharp pang struck Ray's head. Subtle at first, then brutal.
He pressed his hand to his temple, trying to hold his skull together by sheer will. The sounds of the street faded as if someone had turned a knob.
He froze. Staring into nothing. Time stretched endlessly as his senses gradually disappeared, leaving only darkness.
…
No. 78 Velmorah Street — 7:27 PMAstarte Club
"Gravik!!"
A scream tore through the club.
At the same instant, the front window shattered, sending shards of glass across the sidewalk.
Across the street, a burly man lay unconscious, embedded in a crater on the neighboring wall — as if fired from a cannon.
Another impact followed from inside the building. A medium-built man was surrounded by a dozen brutish-looking guards, their black sclerae and red irises drawing the eye.
The man dodged the barrage with supernatural agility, leaping over them and landing firmly on tables. Preparing for another jump toward the stage at the far right, he reached out to the metal pole supporting the structure.
"This should do," Edward thought.
He pressed his palm to the cold metal. The stage shifted, flowing like molten magma into the veins of Edward's arm, darkening them as if black ink were injected beneath the skin.
As the hot metal merged with his body, the sclera of his eyes darkened like the attackers'. Seconds stretched torturously. The metal tore through his arm's arteries, slowly climbing to his shoulders — now silver like freshly forged blades.
Pain subsided, and Edward took an attacking stance. He clenched his metal-coated fist — solid as an industrial press — and scanned his surroundings.
The guards, swinging blindly, were losing their advantage.
"Fifteen seconds?" he thought, flexing his legs. "Need more training…"
With violent precision, he lunged at a grotesque, goat-like man.
The man regained awareness after a brief, agonizing interval. He felt adrift in darkness, a shapeless, ethereal prison slowing his mind. All he could do was swing fists into empty air, dominated by growing fear.
A glimmer of light cut through his vision — the silhouette of a one-eyed, red-and-green-eyed man blurring in motion.
Instinct stiffened his hair. He tried to twist his torso, desperately attempting to evade.
But then… the world flipped upside down.
His thoughts scrambled. Consciousness wavered.
In that instant, the others regained awareness, only to see their comrade hurled to the second floor. They regrouped, ready to exploit any opening.
At the formation's center, a medium-built man stood out, silver hair framing cyan eyes that gleamed unnervingly. A small iron-brand tattoo on his nape hinted at an ancient, painful ritual.
He fixed Edward with a chilling gaze, observing every agile move with a faint, enigmatic smile. Slowly, he bent, hands joined before his mouth, whispering a forgotten prayer laden with secrets and shadows. The neck mark pulsed as if alive, whispering sinister promises beneath the skin.
From his left eye, a putrid green tear ran down, while the neck tattoo writhed, cracking and squelching like something crawling beneath the flesh. Illusory scales spread over his skin like layered shadows. He opened his mouth, chanting in a foreign tongue:
"חתם…"
Immediately, the ground beneath split into symmetrical curves, revealing a crimson pentagram. Dark, viscous tendrils crawled upward, sniffing the air like hungry beasts, tracking every movement and heartbeat.
Edward followed, landing before the man crouched over the pentagram.
"A cultist?" he thought, dodging two tendrils before reaching the staircase.
"Clever woman," he muttered cynically, analyzing why a cultist would appear here. Normally, fanatics lurked on Ironveil's outskirts, outside the walls. Even when avoiding military inspections, their satanic rituals never went unnoticed for long.
He weaved through destroyed furniture, evading every trap, thinking, "Did the girls escape? Tsk… need to end this quickly."
Spotting an intact chair, he used it as leverage, propelling himself into the nearest thug. His silver fist struck fiercely.
A dozen tendrils tried to ensnare him but were sluggish. Planting his right foot and twisting his hips, he drove his left arm between the enemy's ribs and hip.
The man attempted to block, but Edward's punch was steel. A crisp snap — bone broken. Before reacting, sharp pain pierced his right side: the liver had been struck.
The body crumpled, airless, powerless.
Edward leapt over, delivering an uppercut to the next thug. Impact echoed like muffled thunder.
Two more guards hesitated — just enough for Edward to advance like a slicing shadow.
He spun, sweeping the first down with brutal force. Before the second could react, Edward kneeled on his chest, crushing it, the sound muted by stifled screams.
From the altar, the pentagram glowed crimson. The cultist's mark wriggled violently as sweat dripped from his brow.
Edward turned, shoulders heaving, metallic fist stained with blood and ink. Pain seared his abdomen — the mark was growing.
"Shit…" he muttered, rushing toward the remaining guards.
Fear trembled in their hands, but they tried to maintain formation, claws marked with blasphemous symbols raised.
Edward didn't hesitate. He charged like a wounded beast. His metallic fist smashed the first in the jaw, flinging him backward unnaturally before collapsing.
The second recoiled, but Edward grabbed his cloak, ramming his forehead into the man's. Blood ran from his nose; he collapsed with a muffled groan.
The pentagram pulsed deeper red, the cultist's neck mark vibrating violently, eyes rolling in ecstatic agony.
Edward stopped a few meters away, tense, breath heavy, sweat streaking his face. The mark burned in his abdomen, writhing as if to escape… or take control.
"Enough…" he growled. "If you continue, you'll become a Drifter. That's not what she sent you to do."
Something was wrong. The cultist's desperate effort made no sense.
He laughed, interrupted by spasms.
"That woman means nothing to us… in the end, she's just another offering for Him."
The ground trembled. Hairs rose. Air thickened like a storm approaching. Edward's voice, hoarse and controlled:
"Why go this far?"
The cultist laughed, skin melting black, viscous as burnt wax, revealing twisted muscles and pulsing nerves. Extra eyes appeared, spinning in convulsions — windows to a maddening abyss.
Suddenly, his face froze, puppet-like, devoid of humanity. Black skin fused to bone, extra eyes glowing cold, ancient.
"The Predestined walks among us, and He, the Lord of Ruin, desires Him," the cultist proclaimed, voice deep and resonant, echoing like distant thunder before a storm, mercilessly cold.
The floor cracked beneath, smoke rose from the crimson pentagram, thick, viscous, choking the room in despair and corruption.
The distorted cultist arched unnaturally, extra eyes spinning. From the altar, a monstrous shadow emerged, radiating pure threat.
Edward shivered, darkness coiling around him, tightening his chest. His eyes narrowed at the abomination. Air thick, stifling, stealing breath — yet he did not falter.
The mark burned fiercely, pulsing in rhythm with hell's silent drum. Doubt tried to creep in, but he crushed it; retreat meant death.
With a swift leap, he dodged a brutal strike — a claw slicing through the air like ebony, grazing his armor with black sparks.
He countered, striking the beast's arm with a metal-coated punch. Impact echoed like distant thunder. The creature stepped back, growling gutturally.
But the threat was far from over. From the pentagram's shadows, black tendrils slithered like hungry serpents toward Edward.
He rolled aside, the mark on his abdomen drumming like a warbeat, scorching, demanding action.
He lunged at the beast, metal fist ready for a decisive strike. The damage was minimal — the creature seemingly armored by an invisible shield. Fighting a dozen Latents weighed like chains, draining energy.
Pain flared in his abdomen, burning as if hell itself consumed him, cracking his focus.
And at that moment — when agony clouded his mind — the creature struck, hitting him full force and hurling him backward.
His body shook, bones rattled; air left his lungs. Darkness swallowed sound, light, time. Edward felt the cold embrace of defeat.
But in the abyss, he heard a familiar voice.
"Man, you're toast."
Ray. Calm, unnervingly confident.
Edward tried to curse, but weakness overtook him.
Through blurred vision, Ray's silhouette appeared.
"Want me to handle him?"
Edward swallowed, the mark's drumbeat echoing in his abdomen. Pride almost stopped him, but reality spoke louder.
"…Can I pay in installments?" he rasped, voice rough but determined.
Ray grinned confidently.
"Leave it to me," he laughed, stepping forward, sclera darkening, eyes glowing red in the dim light.
Edward gazed vaguely at the ceiling, half-lidded with exhaustion. A roar shook the hall — strong enough to rattle bones. Moonlight flooded in like the night itself had split.
When the pain eased slightly, he dragged himself to a broken pillar, sitting with effort. His senses dulled, until a familiar voice broke the silence:
"All set."
Lifting his head, Edward saw the absurdity: half the bar gone, swallowed by a crater. And there was Ray, sitting atop the rubble, bathed in moonlight, smiling as if he'd swept the floor — not battled a hellish monster.
Ray stood calmly, cracking his shoulders, red glow fading from his eyes.
"That was fun," he said, ruffling his hair. "Next time, try not to get your ass kicked before calling me, okay?"
Edward chuckled weakly, more of a gasp.
"Fuck you…"
Ray extended a hand.
"Later. Now get up — the floor's starting to smell like sulfur."
Edward grabbed his friend's hand, staggering upright. He surveyed the ruined hall — bodies, smoke, destroyed altar… the mark still burned, weaker but alive.
Leaning on Ray, he headed to the second floor. Each step a victory over pain, the silent corridors contrasting with chaos below. Moonlight filtered through shattered windows. They passed several closed doors.
At the corridor's end, before the last door, he inhaled sharply. The dark wood seemed to absorb the faint light; a subtle aura pulsed around it.
With trembling hand, Edward knocked twice. Silence — then the knob turned, the door creaked open.
A pair of ruby eyes peeked through, trembling slightly — not fear, but recognition.
Edward steadied himself, voice hoarse:
"Hey, brats."
The door opened fully, revealing two young figures, around ten years old. Faces marked by fear and distrust — the "brats." Yet seeing him limping and injured, their eyes sparkled with something rare in this world: hope.
Edward leaned against the wall, exhaling, voice rasping:
"Grab anything valuable you can carry. We're leaving."
Ray, silently following, released his friend's arm and joked in his typical tone:
"I guess it's time to fetch ice."
Edward glanced at him, eyes half-closed with fatigue, still carrying that insolent spark.
"Just bring cigarettes. I didn't ask for a sermon… or medical care."
The door clicked shut, muffling the world outside.
Edward sank into a surprisingly intact chair, letting out a hoarse sigh, closing his eyes for the first time in ages.
Pain remained. But for now, silence was all that mattered.