The city of Krailth was a living forge—steam hissed from its gutters, soot coated its spires, and brass skeletons clanked down cobbled alleys like obedient ghosts. The sky above was forever the color of burnt parchment, and the air reeked of oil, gunpowder, and the lies of tired men.
Few arrived in Krailth willingly. Fewer still brought a lute.
The bard did.
He was a lean thing in a tattered purple cloak, boots worn smooth by endless roads, eyes too old for his smooth, smirking face. His name was Thalen, and he hummed as he stepped past the rusted gates, fingers strumming a low, vibrating chord.
No one paid him much mind. The city didn't care for music—unless it came from brass horns and factory bells. But Thalen wasn't here to be heard by crowds.
He was here to tell a warning.
---
The Rag and Boiler
By nightfall, he found himself in a bar stitched into the ribs of an old war-engine, its pistons long since cold. The place was called The Rag and Boiler. Drunk gearsmiths and gun-for-hires lounged in dim corners, their faces hidden by smoke and brimmed hats. Oil-lamps swayed from above like watching eyes.
Thalen took a seat on the hollow stage, tuning his warped lute. The tavern murmured—no one asked him to sing, but no one stopped him either.
He plucked a single note that rang like a blade unsheathing.
Then he began.
"In every city built on blood and brass,
They whisper of a name not meant to last.
But still it lingers, sharp and cold—
The killer with no soul to hold." He spoke softly over his strings.
"In the soot-choked streets where the gaslights fade,
Where the brass wolves howl and the debts get paid,
He walks alone through smoke and sin,
A mask of iron, no flesh within.
No badge, no cause, no holy creed,
Just blades and bullets, all he needs.
He smiles beneath that pyramid crown,
But noone will help you if he's in town...."
At first, the crowd was unmoved. But as he wove on. A card game paused. A drink spilled, unnoticed. The old barkeep's jaw clenched.
"Oh run, run, run—when the cold wind groans,
That ain't a storm, it's him alone.
With steel in hand and a grin unseen,
Shiki Monogrove, the blood machine."
He sung fast in a chorus.
"He killed his kin at the age of six,
Taught by knives and gutter tricks.
No tears, no past, no trace of youth—
Just silence, speed, and brutal truth.
He fights with arms like falling stone,
And breaks your guard to crack your bone.
No magic lights his path of pain—
Just raw, trained wrath and iron chain."
Suddenly he starts to slow.
"Daggers dipped in silent death,
Scythes that hum with stolen breath.
Guns that fire from wrists and sleeves—
You won't see it 'til you bleed.
Twin blades bite and drag,
Hooked with chains that never snag.
He's not a man, he's not a ghost—
He's what you fear when you've lost hope most.
Oh hide, hide, hide when the steam pipes hiss,
That ain't a leak—it's death's cold kiss.
He drinks no joy, he buries pain,
His cloak is soaked in crimson rain.
A shotgun roar in alley dark,
A pistol's flash—a silent mark.
You'll hear no shout, you'll feel no sting—
Just iron teeth and shadowed wing.
He don't get mad, he don't ask why,
He takes the job and watches you die.
For gold, for thrill, or boredom's sake—
Your bones the price, your name the stake."
He speeds up as he watches the people looking at him.
"So pray, pray, pray to the gears and flame,
But no prayer stops that cursed name.
The clock runs down, your sins will show—
When comes the blade of Monogrove."
Everyone cheered shoating.
"LETS GET THIS MAN TO SING ANOTHA!"
"YEAH!"
And he did he sung many and a couple hoyrs later,
Thalen left soon after, paid in silence. The streets of Krailth were quiet that night, too quiet for a city built on iron and blood. He walked alone through alleys lined with rusted bones of old machines, snow falling he shook.
Then he felt it.
A chill.
A weight.
A presence.
He turned.
There, standing in the fog—still as a statue, cloaked in soot and shadow—was a figure. Plate armor dark with old blood. A jagged cloak that moved against the wind. And a double-sided pyramid helmet, like a tombstone split in two.
No sound. No breath.
Only the wind…and a glint of chain hanging from twin swords.
Thalen's voice failed him. His song was already finished.
And legends, once sung, have a way of waking.
A shot.
His brain was pierced.