Chapter 18: Blood on the Moon
The night stretched cold and merciless over Liberty City. The full moon burned like a single eye, glaring down upon the earth as though it were witness and judge of the carnage that was about to unfold. Clouds drifted lazily, but none dared cover the silver light—it was as though the heavens themselves wanted to see the duel.
The streets were empty, abandoned. A curfew had been called, but even without it, the citizens of Liberty City knew better than to walk where shadows whispered tonight. Whispers of death hung in the air. The scent of iron and smoke lingered, as if the city already anticipated blood.
And in the middle of that deserted boulevard, beneath cracked lamps and fractured windows, two figures faced each other.
Stellman. The detective. The swordsman whose legend was whispered even among assassins. His blade reflected the pale moonlight, trembling faintly—not from fear, but from an anticipation so sharp it was almost unbearable. His face was hardened stone, eyes narrowed, body coiled. His years of discipline, his long pursuit of honor, had led him here.
H.I.M. The shadow, the hunter, the walking nightmare of Liberty City. His cloak shifted in the wind like a creature alive, his eyes glowing faintly, cold blue flames within the black sockets. The scars across his face caught the light, reminders of wounds healed but never forgotten. His hand flexed, dark energy crawling up his arm in threads of smoke.
Neither moved. Not yet.
The city itself seemed to hold its breath.
---
"Detective Stellman," H.I.M.'s voice carried, low and guttural, reverberating strangely, as though two voices spoke at once. "You should not have come."
"I should have come the moment you first left a corpse in this city," Stellman replied, his voice steady, defiant. "You've made Liberty tremble. But it won't tremble forever. Tonight it ends."
The faintest twitch crossed H.I.M.'s lips—was it amusement, or disdain? "You think you can end me?"
Stellman's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword. "I don't think. I know."
The wind shifted. A can rolled across the empty street, clinking faintly.
That was all it took.
The two blurred forward.
Steel shrieked against shadow.
Stellman's blade carved a clean arc through the night, sparks bursting as it met the blackened claws of H.I.M. The sound echoed down the boulevard like a scream. The ground beneath them cracked with each strike, dust erupting, windows rattling in their frames.
H.I.M moved with an unnatural grace, each swipe of his arm leaving trails of dark energy that stung the air like venom. Stellman countered with precision, his sword singing in his hands, each movement trained through decades of discipline. He was faster than he should've been, sharper, his every motion pushed beyond his mortal limit.
But H.I.M was not mortal. Not anymore.
The clash became a storm. Moonlight flashed silver, shadows flashed black. Blades and claws collided with such fury that the concrete beneath their feet splintered. Cars nearby were shredded by stray strikes, alarms wailing before cutting off in deathly silence.
Every exchange was deadly. A single mistake would mean death.
And then—Stellman broke through.
With a roar, he drove forward, parrying a claw, spinning beneath the cloak of shadows, and carving upward with the full force of his body. His blade kissed H.I.M.'s chest, carving a thin but undeniable cut across the black fabric and pale skin beneath.
H.I.M staggered back, blue light spilling faintly from the wound like liquid flame.
Stellman's chest heaved. His eyes widened slightly—he had landed a blow. The impossible had cracked.
"Bleed," he growled.
H.I.M looked down at the wound. Then up at Stellman. And he laughed.
Low. Hollow. The kind of laugh that sent chills crawling down spines.
"You surprise me," he said softly. "You remind me… of myself. Once."
The laugh died, and the killing intent returned, thicker, sharper, suffocating the very air.
And then H.I.M moved.
The cloak erupted like wings. His body blurred faster than human eyes could track, striking Stellman from angles that defied logic. The detective blocked, deflected, parried, but each strike drove him further back, until his boots tore furrows in the concrete.
Blow after blow rained upon him. His arms ached. His lungs burned. His vision narrowed.
Still he stood.
Still he fought.
"You're human," Stellman spat through clenched teeth, raising his blade high to block a strike that would've cleaved him in half. "You bleed. You fall. You die. Same as all men."
But H.I.M was already behind him.
A claw slashed down his back.
Stellman grunted, staggering forward, blood spraying into the cold night. His knees buckled—but he forced himself upright, twisting with desperate strength, slashing backward and drawing a line of steel across H.I.M's shoulder.
Both men froze for a heartbeat, blood dripping from both.
The moonlight bathed them like a spotlight on a stage.
---
Far away, in a secured convoy outside the city, Gina sat beside Mayor Grimson. The man's face was pale, drenched in sweat, his hands trembling despite the armored guards around him.
"Relax, Mayor," Gina muttered, her voice sharp. "If H.I.M comes here, I'll kill him before he takes a step."
"You don't understand," Grimson whispered. His eyes darted like a hunted animal's. "He isn't just a man. He isn't…" His voice trailed into silence, fear choking the words.
Gina turned her gaze to the moonlit horizon. Somewhere out there, blades clashed in the shadows. Somewhere out there, Stellman fought for their lives.
And she wondered—for the first time—if even Stellman could survive.
---
Back on the boulevard, the fight raged on.
Stellman's vision blurred with blood, but his resolve burned hotter than fire. He called upon every ounce of training, every scar, every failure and triumph that had forged him. His sword became more than steel—it became an extension of his will.
Strike after strike, he forced H.I.M back, his body screaming but his spirit refusing to break. For a moment—just a fleeting heartbeat—he drove H.I.M to one knee.
The city trembled. The earth cracked. The impossible had been done again.
But H.I.M lifted his head. His eyes burned brighter, glowing like molten sapphire.
And his voice, low and terrible, filled the night:
"You think you've won a cut of flesh. But I've cut deeper than you know. Into your world. Into your order. Into your soul."
The shadows writhed around him like serpents, swirling, rising, devouring the moonlight itself. The boulevard darkened, swallowed by an eclipse of living black.
Stellman planted his feet, blade raised, chest heaving.
And into that abyss, he stepped forward.
---
By dawn, the world would remember this night.
By dawn, the streets of Liberty would be painted with blood, steel, and shadow.
And as the battle raged on, far above in a gilded chamber, President Kingsberg stood alone before a tall, faceless figure cloaked in red. His voice was low, heavy, trembling with both authority and desperation:
"Kill him. Kill H.I.M. Whatever it takes."
The faceless figure nodded once.
And the moon glared on.
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