Limping, Kariel approached the door and opened it in the usual way. The creak made him frown.
Strictly speaking, calling this thing a door would be an exaggeration.
A door should be sturdy, but this one, if Kariel hadn't nailed a few boards to it, would hardly have been a single whole and wouldn't even have protected from the wind.
He went inside. A filthy stench hung in the absolutely dark room.
Kariel's brows drew together at the bridge of his nose. He addressed the empty room:
"I believe I asked to air the place out?"
"Rain," a quiet, hissing voice suddenly rang out in the empty room.
Such was the Nostraman language—soft, melodic, and sibilant, like poetry. However, most who spoke it were murderers.
"Rain?" Kariel repeated, arching an eyebrow contemptuously. "And that is the reason why you do not open the window?"
"Yes."
In the darkness, a tall shadow slowly rose. A head emerged from the gloom, and the neon light filtering through the doorway illuminated a pale face.
Kariel smirked, tiredly removed his cloak, threw it along with two blades at his feet, and then pulled up a chair and sat by the door.
The cold night wind of Nostramo blew. He bowed his head, and blood from his right leg dripped onto the floor, spreading around his feet.
"You are wounded," said the tall, frightening shadow.
"Yes, wounded," Kariel shrugged. "That bastard had mechanical augmentics implanted in both arms..."
The shadow approached him and carefully examined the wound.
"You need treatment..." the shadow hissed. "He broke a bone in your right leg."
"I know," Kariel said tiredly, settling more comfortably on the decrepit chair he had scavenged somewhere. Such a posture was not the best for his wounded leg, but it was more comfortable.
"Then why do you not treat it?" the shadow asked patiently. "If you cannot yourself, I can help."
A pale and long hand slowly reached out from the darkness. The tips of the fingernails glistened, making them look like dangerous blades.
And Kariel knew they were actually much more dangerous than blades.
"Much obliged, but no," he said calmly.
The hand rapidly retracted, creating an amusing contrast with its slow appearance.
"Then, it may have to be amputated," the shadow said. "I have not had bones broken yet, only been shot. Bullets lodged in the flesh are very difficult to extract; I had to pick them out one by one. Laser weapons are more convenient in that regard... just a burn."
His voice changed suddenly, shifting from hissing to soft, as if in a delirium.
"...And also, when bullets get stuck in the flesh, it hurts very much."
"Bullets in the body are always painful."
Kariel laughed. He couldn't help himself at the absurdity of this naivety displayed by the monster.
"How funny," he thought. "A monster capable of tearing a man to pieces with a single sweep of his hand is so naive."
"Does it hurt you too?" the shadow asked.
Kariel shot him a look as if he were an idiot, and then burst out laughing:
"If even you feel pain, then what is there to say about me? I am but a mortal, Haunter, not like you."
The shadow fell silent for a long time, evidently having another opinion.
Then he stepped out of the darkness. 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.
Ragged clothing, a filthy appearance, unnaturally tall height, pale skin, and absolutely black eyes—these features, inherent to a monster, collectively made him look like a terrifying ghost from legends.
One look was enough to realize—he was not of the world of ordinary people.
Actually... an ordinary person would hardly consider him a person at all.
The Haunter frowned and asked:
"What is 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 did."
"..."
Kariel sighed, forced to yield to this excessively tall man he called the Haunter.
"Listen, Haunter. I don't become a monster for no reason. I kill in this city because..."
"...Justice?" the Haunter interrupted impatiently, asking the question with heat in his eyes.
"No," Kariel replied coldly. "Justice does not exist, Haunter. Justice is the greatest lie in the world."
The Haunter nodded disappointedly and pointed again at Kariel's right leg. This time, Kariel could no longer ignore it.
Kariel raised his right hand, and his eyes, black like those of all Nostramans, suddenly flared with a blue light.
The temperature dropped sharply. Cold frost froze on the legs of the chair. The Haunter watched, tracing how the frost crawled further toward Kariel's leg.
Traces of blood, the wound, the unnatural shape created by the broken bone under the skin—in that moment, all of it vanished.
"Phew..."
Kariel took a deep, deep breath. His eyes at that moment returned to their normal state, and in their bottomless blackness reigned tranquility.
The Haunter looked him over and remained silent for a while. Only after some time did he speak again:
"You should not rely too much on that power."
"If it helps in what we must do, I will use it always."
"It is dangerous."
"How do you know?"
"I..." the Haunter did not answer.
He did not know how to explain it to Kariel. The Haunter had known many things since birth, as if by instinct. He even knew a word to describe this gift.
"Born with knowledge."
"More dangerous than everything else in this city?" Kariel paid no attention to his confusion. He stood up and asked the question.
He walked out of the room. His gait was firm and confident, and one could not have imagined that just half a minute ago he was so wounded that he might have faced amputation.
It was empty outside, and a cold wind was blowing.
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. The security inspectors had not discovered it. Actually, their very existence was very much in question.
Thus he had a small Hideout.
And six months ago, the Haunter had come. Or, rather, the Night Haunter.
This nickname was so far known only in the narrow circles of Quintus and was nowhere near as famous as the "avenging spirit." After all, the avenging spirit had indeed been killing in the city for a year and a half already.
Every day, every night.
"Gangs everywhere, distorted monsters everywhere. The aristocrats of the Upper Hive can sit calmly in their luxurious chairs and receive taxes from these hounds they keep."
"And those workers sleeping in the slums, those 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 the chance to eat their fill. The second is to join a gang and oppress others."
Kariel turned his head with a crooked smile:
"What do you think the majority will choose?"
The Haunter did not answer. He was still standing in the doorway, not coming out. The darkness behind his back was impenetrable.
"Without a doubt, they will choose the second. And those who didn't choose it, it doesn't mean they didn't want to—they simply couldn't. To oppress others, you need a sturdy body, at the very least, a young one. Otherwise, the gang won't even accept you..."
Kariel fell silent, suddenly sinking into thought.
A flame more stinging than poison began to flare up on his pale young face, making him clench his teeth and furrow his brows.
The Haunter did not disturb him.
Only after a long time did he enter the conversation again.
His voice was soft and hissing:
"Can everything be solved with killings?"
"No," Kariel replied without hesitation.
"Killings only give rise to new killings. I remove one corrupt official, and twenty others will crawl out of their skins 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 cannot, Haunter," Kariel said, and then paused.
He turned his head, and his dark hair fluttered slightly in the filthy wind of Nostramo:
"...Not yet."
"If you find one, tell me," the Haunter said seriously. "Nostramo is sick. I see it. I want it to recover."
And again Kariel smirked sarcastically at his naivety. Only this time, after the laugh, he nodded.
"Alright," Kariel Lohars said.
He didn't even ask why. Just as he never asked where the Night Haunter got such immense strength.
It was simply that Kariel Lohars did not yet know to whom he was making this promise.
...
The Father from the Church of Rest is dead.
At six in the morning in Hive City Quintus, in a world devoid of light, this news spread like wildfire.
To most people, however, it didn't matter. Firstly, they didn't know who the Father from the Church of Rest 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 people didn't give a damn even 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 was an unremarkable gang leader on Nostramo. Like all the others, he disposed of lives in his territory as he saw fit.
On Nostramo, there were no laws and no peacekeepers—only gangs. They served the aristocrats, maintained an illusion of order, collected taxes... Gangs had replaced the nobility, dividing and ruling every corner of Nostramo.
In addition, they committed senseless murders and even more horrific atrocities... For Razor and his gang, all of this was merely a way to assert their authority.
Like wild animals that mark their territory with scent, the gangs constantly killed civilians to ensure their dominance. And how many civilians died in the process, no one cared.
On Nostramo, all gangsters acted this way.
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 a mask. Her right arm was made of metal and looked very elegant.
"He was opened up," the woman said thoughtfully.
"Or, rather, disassembled... All his internal organs were extracted and neatly arranged into categories. 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 quietly. The woman shook her head, took off her mask, threw it on the ground, and added:
"By the way, there are a few words on the statue written in blood. It looks like a message for you."
"For me?"
Razor's eyes bugged out and a moment later he burst into the church in a rage.