Twelve hours had just expired.
He turned his head, and regret was reflected on his face. The source of this feeling was the scene unfolding directly in front of the sofa on which he sat.
His sister, Irene Scryvok, stood there, her hands bloody up to her elbows.
The blood belonged to the suspended man – a former member of the Crimson Curtain gang.
Or rather, the last member of the Crimson Curtain gang.
Blood dripped slowly from his wounds, leaving indelible dark red stains on the carpet that continued to spread.
The air was thick with the smell of blood.
Jando took a deep breath of this bloody aroma, then stood up and said with elegant nonchalance:
"I don't think you'll be able to extract anything useful from this madman by torturing him, my dear sister."
Hearing him, Irene Scryvok turned and gave him a look.
"And I don't think your choice to brazenly cling to me bodes well for you," she replied coldly.
"Oh, come now, sister. We both know that in the Underhive, only the Glorious Warlords can be trusted right now. Should I have run and sought help from other gangs? I'm not as foolish as Leina."
"She's not foolish," Irene cut him off. "You're the fool here, Jando."
... "Well, what a depressing assessment, my honorable sister."
Jando covered his face with feigned sorrow, but his dark eyes sparkled with malice through the gaps between his fingers.
"I have always harbored the most tender love for you, why do you despise me so?"
"There are many reasons, Jando."
Irene looked at him and replied calmly:
"Pompousness, posturing, self-satisfaction... Although these are common flaws for an aristocrat's offspring. But there is one trait in you that I cannot stand."
"Hmm... because I appreciate the exquisite delicacies of the Underhive?" Jando asked, testing her.
"No, because you are too stupid."
Irene Scryvok finished coldly:
"So stupid that you could think I planned this attack."
Jando slowly raised an eyebrow. He lowered his hand, and a smile played on his face again. He was unrecognizable now from the man who had trembled in fear twelve hours ago.
Sometimes, fear has an expiration date.
"But, sister, you can't deny that all of this is a striking coincidence."
"Coincidence?"
"Yes, sister. Let's not even talk about how this man managed to slip past the Glorious Warlords' posts unnoticed. Let's discuss your proposal instead..."
"If we had indeed followed your advice and split up to flee individually, then you, without a doubt, would have survived. I am sure of it, sister."
"As for Leina... I'm pessimistic. I think she's already dead."
Jando smiled elegantly, showing no trace of sorrow for the death of his sister that he had fabricated. On the contrary, malice appeared on his face.
He had already changed his clothes and even taken a bath. There was no trace left of his pathetic state from twelve hours ago.
Now, in this room, whose furnishings were no less grand than the palaces of the Upper Hive, Jando Scryvok was himself again.
With a natural, fluid gait, he approached Irene.
"My honorable sister, I know your capabilities. It has always been clear to me that Father tolerates me because of our resemblance, but I never dreamed of his trust in you. And you used it skillfully, didn't you? Brilliant."
"Don't shift the blame for your worthlessness onto me, Jando. And don't attribute to me what I haven't done."
Irene looked at him calmly.
"You yourself decided to spend the time allocated for study and practice on tasting flesh. You ruined yourself, so be silent now."
"Perhaps... perhaps so. But, sister..."
Jando Scryvok sneered coldly and spread his arms wide.
"I may be inferior to you in everything, but you cannot surpass me in the pursuit of the art of flesh."
He extended his right hand, demanding the torture knife from Irene.
"Allow me to demonstrate something to you, my honorable sister."
"I don't have time to waste on such foolishness, Jando," Irene said coldly. "Interrogation is a means, not an end. You have lost your way."
"Besides, the mind of this slave from the Crimson Curtain was broken long before the Glorious Warlords found him. Do you really think you can extract a spirit from flesh with just a blade?"
Jando shrugged with deliberate nonchalance.
"Perhaps I can, sister. You know, I studied a few techniques from House Lohars from ancient books."
... "You're an idiot."
After these words, evident emotions finally appeared on Irene's face. She looked at Jando angrily and said in an icy tone:
"You're acting so carelessly... Let me guess, you think we'll get reinforcements from the family, right? And then you can go back and tell Father the 'truth' you invented for yourself?"
"And isn't that the case?" Jando countered. "The family can't abandon us, sister..."
He smiled again, and a self-satisfied expression appeared on his face, that of someone who thought he had figured everything out. He winked triumphantly, drawing out the last word.
Irene took a deep breath.
And spoke in a low voice:
"No, Jando. This is not my conspiracy."
"Father sent us here to deal with the coroner's death. This incident damaged the reputation of House Scryvok. And it has nothing to do with me; I would never do something like this."
"The family's honor is paramount, Jando. Father gave us the Iron Pride and forty guards, as well as the help of the Glorious Warlords—loyal slaves who own a twenty-five-story tower and number in the thousands."
"What more do you expect from Father? Our value is not as great as you think. Yes, Father spent twenty years raising us, but he has many more such twenty-year periods in reserve."
The smile slowly faded from Jando's face. He tilted his head slightly, trying to maintain his composure.
And Irene continued, as if pouring out all her years of hatred for him, surprisingly losing her usual composure.
Her face turned crimson, her features distorted. She looked both furious and frightened.
Unlike Jando, she still remembered the events of twelve hours ago. The fear in her heart had grown to such an extent that it was about to consume her sanity.
And Jando's behavior was the spark that ignited this fear.
"You took a bath, changed your clothes, and then sat in this fake palace built by slaves and smugly decided that all of this is my conspiracy?"
"But don't forget that twelve hours ago, you were a nobody who lay on the ground and almost wet yourself from fear! Jando! You're just a nobody!"
Irene burst into loud, cold laughter that echoed through the room. Jando's face turned pale, then red; he couldn't find words to reply.
And, as if by some sinister coincidence, at the very moment her laughter rang out, the tortured prisoner from the Crimson Curtain hanging behind her opened his eyes.
There was nothing in his dark eyes: no consciousness, no reason, no thirst for life, no fear of death.
Only a strange calm, and then a cold blue spark flashed and died in them for a moment.
He raised his head and looked at the Scryvok heirs. Then his mouth, with its cut lips and knocked-out teeth, opened, and he quietly began to sing in a hoarse voice.
Low, drawn-out, with a distinct note of darkness. The melody was smooth, but it felt like a blade sliding across tender skin on her neck.
Irene Scryvok shuddered all over, her laughter abruptly cut short.
She turned around in disbelief, and the anger on her face began to turn to horror. Jando's face changed instantly. The memories of twelve hours ago surged back with renewed force.
The slaughter in the pouring rain, the mountains of corpses, the cold, the monster's gaze...
He seemed to hear that whisper again in his ears.
"Run."
"No... no..."
Jando Scryvok, muttering something, stumbled forward.
Fear returned.
He snatched the knife from Irene's hands and, trembling, approached the prisoner, then raised the blade high.
"Stop it!" Jando roared. "Shut up!"
The prisoner didn't react, just shook his head slightly. He was covered in wounds, covered in blood, but he continued to sing quietly.
Jando abruptly brought the knife down. The blade plunged into the prisoner's abdomen, sending up a fountain of blood.
Then he furiously twisted the blade. Shreds of flesh gushed from the wound, widened by the barbs.
Jando's eyelids twitched. He watched this, desperately wanting to hear a scream. He had often used this trick before, and it had always worked.
But not this time.
The prisoner didn't react.
The song flowed from his disfigured mouth, just as blood and life flowed from him.
Jando, trembling, unclenched his fingers and backed away – further and further until he hit the wall. He threw his head back, pressing the back of his head against the wall, and his face suddenly flushed with blood.
He turned and snarled:
"Irene Scryvok, have you lost your mind?! Make him shut up! I knew it was all your doing! You brainwashed him and put this song in his head, didn't you?!"
His sister didn't answer.
Her face had an expression Jando had never seen before. From his angle, only Irene's cheek was visible, but that was enough.
He saw a crying eye.
"You..."
In an instant, Jando went cold.
He was sure that all of this was a conspiracy by Irene Scryvok and the Glorious Warlords. Such things happened all the time; fratricide was as common in aristocratic history as eating and drinking...
But...
The one who orchestrated it all himself could not feel such horror at what he had done.
"It's coming..." Irene Scryvok muttered. "It's coming."
"Impossible! Even if we believe your fabricated story! That creature spoke of twelve hours, but twelve hours have already passed!"
Jando furiously pulled his watch from his pocket and threw the precious item at Irene's feet.
"Look, look! See?! Twelve hours have already passed!"
He screamed piercingly:
"Stop this farce, sister! I won't fight you for the Black Mark anymore! I was wrong!"
Under Jando's pleading gaze, Irene Scryvok slowly picked up her watch and closed its lid.
She turned to him, and a smile, torn to shreds by horror, bloomed on her distorted face.
"What made you think..." she said, sobbing, "that I am capable of such a thing?"
Jando's sanity finally shattered. He roared and lunged towards the source of the singing, yanking his knife out of him.
...
"Left!"
"No, not that, right!"
Ghost jumped, dodging bullets.
If they had been lasguns, he might not have dodged. But bullets from conventional weapons often lodged fragments of clothing in his flesh, and if not removed promptly, could lead to infection.
It was annoying because the bullets had to be removed after the fight. By then, the wounds would have healed, and to remove a bullet, one had to reopen the flesh.
Ghost wasn't afraid of pain, but he didn't like it either.
He could clearly hear the conversations of his targets; he could even determine their exact location by the direction of the sound. Kariel said it was a rare gift. Ghost didn't quite understand.
Can't others do that?
Thinking about this, Ghost jumped high and landed on the ceiling.
Sharp claws and superhuman strength allowed him to easily cling above the heads of his enemies. He quickly coiled himself and, in the next moment, pushed off sharply.
Like a monster falling from the sky, Ghost, with his arms spread, broke through the bandits' defense in mid-air. Screams erupted, and the shooting immediately subsided. Then Ghost heard someone cry out.
"Behind! Behind!" the man screamed madly. "There's another one behind! God!"
"Ah, it's Kariel."
Ghost happily tilted his head and jumped again. He concentrated and looked back. Time seemed to slow down at that moment, allowing him to clearly see Kariel's figure.
He moved left and right, gliding through the crowd with unnatural ease. Kariel didn't dodge bullets, but the bullets seemed to dodge him – none hit their mark.
He surged forward, swinging his blades, and each swing took a life. A cold blue light flashed under the hood of his cloak. His movements were so swift that the glow merged into a single elongated line.
Seeing this, joy momentarily vanished from Ghost's face.
"Why do you need this power, Kariel?" he thought silently.
Five minutes later, the slaughter was over.
Shaking his hand to get rid of the pieces of flesh stuck under his nails, Ghost approached Kariel. The latter glanced at his hand and asked:
"And where is that knife you made?"
"It broke."
"Broke?"
"It wasn't very durable," Ghost said. "It snapped."
"It's alright, I'll make you a better one sometime."
"Really?"
"I've never lied to you."
"Great! Thank you, Kariel!"
Kariel smiled silently, not wanting to dampen Ghost's enthusiasm yet. In human speech, the word "sometime" had an indefinite, vague meaning.
And now...
He raised his head, looked at the ceiling, and the blue light in his eyes suddenly dimmed.
At that moment, his gaze shifted to the topmost floor of the tower, to one of the rooms.
He saw a weeping woman, seemingly resigned to her fate, and a man who, muttering to himself, tirelessly swung a knife, covered in blood, with a mad expression on his face.
Both targets broken...
What delicate flowers.
Smiling coldly, Kariel lowered his head and said to Ghost, who was counting the corpses:
"Our work for today is almost done, Ghost. But first, I have a question for you."
... "Huh?"
"What do you think of fear?" Kariel asked softly.
Ghost blinked and quickly gave his answer. Although he didn't understand why Kariel asked this question, he had no reason not to answer.
"Is it a good weapon?" Ghost ventured cautiously. "It's effective. It works on everyone... and it's always fast. Most people get scared just by seeing me."
"What else?"
"Else?... Uh... it... it needs to be used with caution?" Ghost said uncertainly. "Sorry, Kariel, but I think... fear can be different."
He glanced furtively at Kariel. The latter waited patiently, with no trace of impatience or disapproval on his face.
Then Ghost calmed down:
"That's how it is, Kariel. That's what I think."
"You've understood everything well, Ghost. In fact, very well."
Kariel smiled slightly.
"Fear is indeed a weapon that must be handled with care. We must carefully choose whom to use it on, and of course, how to use it..."
"How?"
"There are many ways to induce fear, just as there are twenty-three known ways to prepare rats. The methods are diverse, and we must choose them thoughtfully and cautiously."
"I don't quite understand," Ghost said honestly. "But I'll remember. I'll understand it later, right?"
"Of course."
"Really?"
"Of course, it's true," Kariel replied and headed towards the exit of the blood-soaked hall.
The tower of the Glorious Warlords had a complex elevator system, but Kariel had disabled it at the very beginning. So, as funny as it sounded, they would have to climb to the twenty-fifth floor by stairs.
To the top floor.
Ghost followed him. After a short silence, he spoke again.
"Kariel?"
"Hm? Don't talk much, Ghost, we're on the job."
"Oh... but did you remember those twenty-three ways? Which one do you think is the tastiest?"
...
"I think stewed would be pretty good..."
"Sigh..."
"Kariel?"
... "Hm?"
"Why did you sigh?"
... "Fried. Fried rat. That's enough, Ghost. Be quiet."
"Oh, okay!"
...
A piercing wind swept through the streets. In the early morning on Nostramo, crowds of workers hurried to their shifts.
They were dressed in rags, their faces lifeless. No one looked at life with hope, no one walked with their heads held high. They were thin and moved slowly, many stopping to catch their breath.
Eighteen hours of labor destroyed everything, not to mention the accompanying illnesses.
Yes, once every six days, the factories gave a day off, but this was only done to squeeze even more out of the workers. No kindness should be expected from the overseers.
The day off was deducted from their wages and their ration of nutrient paste.
The cold wind tore at their emaciated bodies and wills. These numb people instinctively huddled together, walking shoulder to shoulder to keep warm.
Their breaths mingled – foul, confused – and the exhaled steam dissipated into the air. Their gazes were empty and full of despair, showing indifference to life.
There were many bandits standing on the sides of the road, but no one paid attention to the workers.
"People like this aren't even good enough to be merchandise."
They walked and walked; they had three more blocks to cross to reach the factory. They trudged through the dirty streets, through the dark red sludge, under the curses of the bandits, past a tall tower.
And then one of the workers raised his head. His neck was stiff, and he wanted to loosen his stiff bones. And the moment he raised his head, he stopped abruptly.
... "What is that?" he muttered.
His comrades passed by indifferently. Few paid attention to him; only a few stopped near him.
They, as one, after a brief glance, began to rub their eyes, trying to make sure they were seeing reality.
They opened their mouths in disbelief.
They saw two people in luxurious clothes hanging above the entrance to the tall tower. The tower's neon lights and nearby lamps allowed them to see this clearly.
They also saw gaping wounds on their necks. Blood flowed down from them.
Around the two bodies, with horror frozen on their faces, a bloody inscription had been made.
The workers couldn't read; they didn't understand what was written there, but that didn't stop them from understanding who these two were.
All inhabitants of the Underhive learned this in their short lives and remembered it firmly.
Luxurious clothes meant aristocracy.
And aristocrats were like gods.
At that moment, many questions arose in their minds, their bodies began to tremble slightly, and a strange expression appeared on their lifeless faces.
However, they didn't linger long. Soon they moved on again, to the factory.
They needed work, they needed food. And among the few who witnessed the death of gods, there was one man who remembered the outlines of all the letters.
He couldn't read, but he remembered them.
A piercing wind blows, the morning on Nostramo is still indistinguishable from night. No one knows what happens every night, and no one knows what it will lead to.
Two shadows silently disappeared from the top of the tower.
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan