The Old City of Quintus was a curious jumble of buildings.
In fact, twenty years ago, it was the "new district."
And today, all the inhabitants of Quintus called it the Old City. For no reason, it just became customary. Those few who knew the reason kept silent.
And the dead, as is known, do not speak.
Time is merciless. The workers who once lived in the Old City disappeared without a trace, not even their bones could be found. Everything they had was buried under the ruins – no graves, no tombstones, no names.
Death means the loss of everything, doesn't it?
But at least one remembered them.
One wandering soul remembered.
Kariel jumped from a dilapidated roof, dodging a "Glorious Warlords" patrol vehicle.
The motorcycle rumbled over the bumpy road, and the two riders burst into curses. They had no idea that at that very moment, a dark shadow had flown over their heads.
Watching them go, Kariel shook his head with slight regret.
The patrols were careful. Or rather, the one who laid out these routes was careful. He had developed many intersecting paths, making silent killing an impossible dream.
The disappearance of any group would immediately attract the attention of the others.
Kariel could muffle the sound of killing, but not its result.
Every swing of his blade brought death, and death could not be hidden.
Kariel continued his journey.
He knew the Old City like the back of his hand. Forward, turn, into an alley, onto the roof of an ominous pointed building – in just twelve minutes, he reached his destination.
The bell tower.
It was once one of the symbols of the Old City. Neon lights and hovering advertising signs shone around it. The dark night was colored with bright hues, and wars for control of the bell tower never ceased.
All the gangs wanted to own it.
Silent, tall, it loomed in the darkness like some symbol, making everyone who saw it strive to conquer it.
However, the Great Purge changed everything. And the construction of the new district was the final nail in the coffin.
Today, this place could rightfully be called a ghost town. Only half of it was still used, and not by workers.
"Very much in the spirit of Nostramo," Kariel thought.
He involuntarily twisted his lips into a cold smirk.
Kariel approached the ancient building and climbed it with a few agile leaps. When he reached the very top and entered the heart of the bell tower through an arched opening, he did not see a huge copper bell, as he expected.
Stolen? Or did some aristocrat take it for his collection? Kariel had no answer.
He walked to the other edge of the opening, which offered a view of the highway.
Unlike the dark Old City, it was different. Bright lamps hung every fifty meters, making the road so bright it didn't seem to belong to Nostramo.
Here, the "Glorious Warlords" concentrated their main defense. The previous posts and patrols were just appetizers. The real feast were these roadblocks, set up every five hundred meters.
Armed men were everywhere. They even had combat guardian robots – primitive iron golems created by the artisans of the Hive Prime and sold in large quantities.
It should be noted that the road surface was also in excellent condition. For this, credit should be given to the workers who were driven to repair it every two months.
But where were they now?
Kariel had no answer.
He exhaled quietly, then sat down, cleared the bricks accumulated at the edge of the opening, brushed off the dust, and sat on the floor.
He had to wait for them, as he had done before. As soon as he smelled them, he would jump out of the darkness and slit their throats.
But this required patience.
A good hunter must be patient. This is a rare quality, without which it is impossible to succeed in this business.
"Patience, Ghost," Kariel muttered. "Don't get hurt, don't disappoint yourself."
Yes, don't disappoint yourself.
He lowered his head, clenched his fists, so that the blades dug into his skin.
...
"Don't run," Ghost said. "You shouldn't run. You should accept it."
"Get out, monster!"
The man shouted, standing in the middle of a blood-soaked attic. He held a pistol in his hands, but he no longer had the courage to pull the trigger.
His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the weapon.
Half a minute ago, he had emptied a whole clip, but he couldn't even touch the edge of Ghost's clothes.
And if you rewind another half a minute, you would see a dark shadow instantly burst into the attic and, with two swings of its arms, tear off the limbs of one of the guards.
If you had seen this scene, filled with screams and flying pieces of flesh, you might have understood the horror this man was experiencing now.
In response to his scream, Ghost merely tilted his head.
So this is how fear works?
He nodded thoughtfully, finally beginning to understand why Kariel always acted silently.
Before, he thought Kariel just liked it. Ghost had no idea that he did it only because it was more effective.
In the face of fear, they were defenseless.
In fact, this was already the last post that Ghost was clearing. But this crying man was not the first to break before him tonight.
There had been many others before him.
"Don't come closer, don't come closer!" the man cried, sobbing. "Please, don't come closer, I don't want to die, I don't want to..."
"You're not going to shoot me anymore?" Ghost asked calmly, his voice sounding like a hiss.
"I... I..."
"Shoot," Ghost said quietly. "I want you to accept it."
"Accept what?! Are you sick?!"
The man screamed in despair, his voice echoing through the ruined attic. His thick belly was covered in blood, and a dismembered body silently watched the scene behind him.
"Your death, Barry."
Ghost replied quietly, slowly, and calmly. His voice didn't sound threatening or commanding. In fact, he spoke as if he were just having a normal...
...conversation with Barry.
"We heard your conversation with Yovan, Barry. You've resigned yourself to being a servant of the Scryvok house, given them everything..."
"So why can't you accept your death? You don't want to die like this, but why? Why don't you want to?"
Ghost asked this question sincerely. He couldn't find the answer himself and didn't want to bother Kariel. And Barry...
Barry's eyes widened and he froze.
The next second, his legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees.
"We... heard... your... conversation with Yovan..."
"We."
"We."
The avenging spirit.
So that's it.
No wonder the bullets didn't hit him, no wonder he's so tall, no wonder my screams didn't attract the attention of other groups, no wonder... Yovan suddenly turned into...
They came for me.
Barry's face began to twitch, he started gasping for air, but it brought no relief.
His breathing became more frequent, and his expression more desperate. In the end, he simply sobbed, kneeling.
The sobs were intermittent.
"Don't cry," Ghost said softly. "Shoot me, Barry. Accept it."
Click.
The pistol fell to the floor. This was how Barry expressed his refusal. Ghost frowned, remembering Kariel's words...
"Why... did this happen to me?" Barry asked, sobbing. "Why aren't you going after them? Avenging spirit? Why aren't you going after those who make us do all this?"
"After whom?" asked Night Ghost, deciding not to correct the mistake in address for now.
"The Scryvok house!"
Barry screamed, his eyes bloodshot, and his cloudy pupils seemed like glass corroded by acid rain to Ghost.
"Why aren't you going after them?!"
In response to his question, Ghost merely crouched down. He hid in a dark corner of the attic, like a predator waiting in the darkness.
His face was calm and patient.
Kariel had taught him to show respect to his interlocutor in conversation. And now he was talking to Barry.
"What did they make you do?" he continued.
Barry froze. He had asked this question, but it seemed he hadn't thought about what would happen next.
But Ghost had thought about it.
Or rather, Kariel had thought about it.
Night Ghost's hissing voice sounded again in the darkness:
"They made you exploit workers, collect taxes, suppress resistance, right?"
"Yes! Yes!"
As if grabbing a straw, Barry nodded, a strange, mad expression appearing on his tear-streaked face.
"Yes! They made us do all this!"
"And did they make you eat people, open butcher shops, kill, kidnap, butcher in the streets, rob?" Ghost asked again.
Barry froze again. He was stunned. In his mind, all this was a matter of course. Becoming a gang member meant getting these privileges.
He had never thought that one day he would have to answer for it.
And that he wouldn't be able to find an answer.
"And did they make you, imitating them, drive out the poor who couldn't pay from the hive, condemning them to death in the wastelands, to be eaten by beasts?"
"And did they make you, imitating them, consider yourself superior to others?"
Ghost slowly stood up.
"You've long resigned yourself to being a servant of the Scryvok house. In fact, you felt perfectly at home in this role, Barry. You accepted the benefits that status brought, so accept the responsibility too."
"No, no, it's not like that..." Barry said in a trembling voice.
"It is, Barry," Ghost said quietly. "It is."
"No!" Barry roared with a contorted face.
"I did it because I had to! Had to! Otherwise, I wouldn't have survived! I didn't want to get consumption like the factory workers, I didn't want to cough blood and be in dust forever like them..."
Ghost nodded silently. He knew what Barry was talking about.
Factory workers got sick. They got sick with everything. Most often consumption, and if one got sick, the whole family got sick.
Passing through the slums, he had seen it many times: a family or an individual lying on the street, on moldy boards where someone had already died, coughing blood, in agony, waiting for death.
Suddenly, Ghost felt irritated. He interrupted Barry, ending the conversation.
"Shh... Be quiet, Barry. Accept it."
Ghost said this softly and stepped forward.
Barry screamed in horror, as if he were already being dismembered. Tears and snot ran down his thick face. Ghost, ignoring him, continued to walk.
"No, please, don't..." Barry sobbed. "I really didn't want to, really..."
Ghost stopped and looked at him.
He thought Kariel was right.
They really cry, they really pretend to repent.
"But we can't forgive them. We have no right to forgive on behalf of the victims."
Ghost approached, extended his right hand, and lifted Barry's chin.
"Don't cry, Barry," Ghost said softly. "Crying is a privilege of people. And you are not a person."
Outside the window, a downpour began.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan