Rain slammed down in the dead of night. Hurried footsteps tore through puddles, water exploding upward as bullets chased the man through the alley.
"Take down the target at all costs, no need to hold back and think about the budget on the public damage," the man pursuing him shouted, his voice piercing the storm.
He dodged, staggered, resisted—but each impact stole more strength from his body. The shot tore through his body. He hit the ground hard, water splashing outward as the puddles slowly turned red.
A black leather boot stopped just behind the corpse.
The subordinates surrounding the body stepped aside as the man calmly approached.
A tall man who seemed to be the captain stepped into the rain, a black revolver still warm in his hand. His leather vest gleamed faintly under the lamplight.
"The dead man is suspected of being linked with an illegal fragment-imbued weapon," he paused before turning, "any clue?" Amidst the pouring rain, the subordinate understood the intention and shook his head.
"Clean it up," he said, staring coldly into the subordinate's eyes. "And don't touch any of the target's belongings." The subordinates immediately nodded, keeping their gazes pegged to the ground.
He slipped his hand into his trench coat pocket as he turned to leave. The others followed him quietly toward the carriage.
The twin moon shone over the puddle as it rippled in the rain.
Beside him, a man with neatly parted blond hair and freckles grinned as he clapped a hand onto his shoulder. "Captain, come on—our shift's almost over. Let's take a break."
The captain shoved the hand away hard enough to make him stumble. His other hand hovered near the revolver.
"Hans," he said coldly, staring straight into his eyes, "stop getting on other people's nerves."
"Easy, easy—just joking!" Hans raised both hands before stepping back, laughing awkwardly. "No need to shoot me."
They boarded the carriage as the rest of the team followed in silence.
Hans leaned forward again, curiosity winning. "But seriously, Captain… why does the government send normal humans to deal with supernatural stuff? Interpreter matters, I mean."
The captain exhaled slowly. "To handle low-hazard tasks involving low-level Interpreters, trained personnel armed with fragment-imbued weapons are enough," as he wiped the gunpowder residue from his silver, ornate revolver. "It's far easier to fund teams of normal personnel. No node-advancement materials. Lower cost." He returned the revolver to its holster.
The carriage rattled through the rain.
"Better that than deploying an awakened Interpreter who might lose control," he continued. "Or worse—leave behind a fragment tied to their path."
The team stayed quiet. Some stared silently at one another.
Hans swallowed, then pushed again. "Then why not awaken experienced personnel like us?"
The captain shifted, resting his elbow against the window as rain streaked down the glass.
"Interpreters normally awaken around the age of eight," he said. "Their emotions and understanding of the world are still vague. That keeps the Soul Signum stable—yet distinct."
He glanced at Hans.
"As life goes on, experiences pile up, changing the way we perceive the world, and increasing the risk of deviation. Loss of control."
Hans gulped. "So… what if we tried anyway?"
Eiden stared at him briefly, then looked back out the window.
The rain grew heavier as the carriage rolled to a stop before Hegrum City Nocturne Headquarters, or normal people call it Police Station.
The captain stepped out first.
"I'll prepare a nice bullet," he said without turning back, "and an urn, written: a brave comrade who dares venture into the unknown."
Hans stiffened, facial muscles twitching at the words, and gazed at the captain's, whose expression didn't change.
Before stepping inside the headquarters, Eiden tilted his head slightly, a faint movement at the corner of his mouth.
"Or… you could try joining the ranks of Interpreters in Nocturne," he said. "If you have the guts."
Hans' eyes lit up. A grin spread across his face as he hopped forward, nearly bouncing with excitement.
…
Inside one of the messy offices from the Civil Safety Division.
Inside the office of the Civil Safety Division, the moment Hans slammed his hand onto the brown wooden table, the room erupted. Papers and ceramic cups flew into the air before clattering back down in chaos.
"What!? You're going to the Interpreter Division!?" Hans shouted. "But you said it's unstable or something!"
Eiden glanced briefly at the shattered cups, then at Hans.
"It's going to be cut from your salary," he said flatly.
The teammates stared at Hans with pity. "Poor Hans," one muttered as some continued cleaning the mess. Their attention soon returned to Eiden.
His hand hovered above the table. A faint glimmer emerged from his palm—a broken mirror symbol, sharp and fragmented.
The man wiping the floor froze. Others instinctively stepped back, in a panic, one even taking a stance, preparing to draw his sword.
"Wait… but how—?" Hans stammered.
Eiden cut him off. "If you learn to control your emotions, you can awaken your own Signum—even at this age. I only awakened mine recently." He wiped the coffee from his cheek with a napkin.
Hans froze, then straightened, hands on his waist. "Then… I'm following you!"
Eiden extended his left arm, black-gloved hand pressing firmly against Hans' head, stopping him.
"Stop thinking about useless things," he said. "Gain experience. Earn merit. Then think about it."
He adjusted his collar and turned to the others, bowing slightly with one hand holding his hat to his chest.
"I gather you all here to announce that from now on, I transferred into the Interpreter Bureau."
Many of the men who were already surprised froze in place as they just tried to comprehend what just happened.
"From here on, our paths separate. 'Til we meet again."
He stepped out.
A man with a shaved head called after him, "How much of a raise did you get?"
Eiden paused, then replied, mildly irritated, "Twenty-three Aurex."
"That's… about twice my salary," the man muttered.
As the others left, each fell silent, calculating what that money meant.
Eiden walked down the grey-walled corridor, black pillars and ornaments etched along its sides. Black chandeliers flickered faintly, casting long shadows.
As he walked the corridor greetings the other subordinates passing through
Twenty-one years… he thought inwardly. to reach this point. From crawling out of that hellhole, to surviving Black Crown Academy, to finally being appointed an official Interpreter. Which path will guide me now? Justice… no, that's for clean work, not dirty tasks. War? It gives an overall combat boost, but it is too generic. Death… survival-oriented, they say, despite the name.
Lost in thought, he didn't notice the door ahead.
As he opened it, he stepped into the Interpreter Bureau hall: a spacious room with sofas and tables along the sides, a reception desk in the center.
"What can I help you with?" a red-haired female attendant asked politely.
"I'm the new member, just appointed today," he replied with his direct demeanor, yet still giving the sense of courtesy.
The attendant studied him briefly, noting the reserved, controlled demeanor, before giving directions to Team 8's office.
As he walked toward the office, a man in his mid-twenties passed him. Grey hair slicked in the middle, the rest falling across his forehead. A wink from his purple eyes earned a mental note from Eiden: What a weirdo.
Inside the office, a man in his thirties with a sharp jaw and slicked-back hair read a document at the table.
"A recruit arrived today?" he asked the man who wore black striped vest, sitting on a nearby sofa.
"Yes," replied the brown-haired man with thick eyebrows and a sharp nose. "He's appointed to our team."
The man at the table—Connor Hampton, Node 3 Justice Path guide and captain of Team 8—spat his coffee across the table in surprise.
"Sh*t… another headache," he muttered, tone shifting to pleading. "They always assign lunatics to my team! I'm just a Node 3 with a Lantern Signum!" as he grabbing tissue inside the drawer.
His colleague added coldly, staring at him with disdain. Cerlon Hayne, Node 2 Death Path guide with a Wolf Signum, sneered. "It's already evolved into an artifact type, not a normal item anymore. Lantern of Judgement. What kind of lantern burns someone with a ray of light or summons a light blade wave that eradicates twelve murloc at once?" raising one of his eyebrows in response
Before Connor could retort, a knock sounded. The door opened, revealing a man in a white shirt, black leather vest, tie, trench coat, and a glossy hat. He hung his coat and hat neatly on the rack.
"Eiden Aeverstriff," he introduced, face cold and expressionless. "Newly assigned member of Team 8."
Connor and Cerlon examined him carefully. Hair falling softly over a sharp, pale face; sharp nose, sharp chin, smooth skin—no wrinkles, no scars. And yet, eyes unreadable.
Connor whispered to Cerlon with a hint of amusement, "This kid could be an actor with that face… but other than the seemingly serious and heartless expression, he seems… normal compared to the others."
As he pictured the other lunatics already on his team, Connor rubbed his temples, letting out a quiet, exasperated sigh. Another headache incoming… just what I needed. As he is being sarcastic.
Yet, deep inside his heart, he prayed that this one was normal.
They welcomed him and gestured for him to sit.
"So," Cerlon asked curiously, "what path do you choose?"
"Depends on the paths available," Eiden replied, his face showing no expression, leaving Cerlon annoyed.
Cerlon tilted his head, briefly scrutinizing him. "War Path—combat and warfare focused. Justice Path—subduing enemies, restricting movement, and purging abilities. Death Path—exceptional survival, decay, and infectious skills. Hunter Path—adaptable, specialized abilities per prey. Fear Path—illusion and embodiment of fear. For all five, we have guides up to the fourth node. Minor paths exist, too, but usually only up to the second or third node. Few people reach higher nodes without losing control."
He tossed an archive filled with paths and descriptions toward Eiden.
As Eiden scanned the pages, a line caught his eye: Rebirth Path.
Noticing Eiden's reaction, "Choose wisely," Connor advised calmly. "Minor paths of unknown origin… most end in disaster. Few have made it to higher nodes, but many have gone out of control trying to progress. Those wretched souls… they become donors for minor path trailblazers," advising him as his word filled with warning.
Eiden listened, expression still blank, yet something in his posture radiated confidence—or perhaps pride.
"Nobody knew which one of us would see the sun rising tomorrow, even if we don't, lucky if we still have our remnants—even only part of it," he said calmly, foreseeing the danger behind every part of being a Nocturne.
He grabbed the paper, pen in hand. As he quoted the passage from the Great Crimson Emperor, "No man can claim a life well lived if he has never stepped onto the unknown—desolate and merciless."
He underlined the Rebirth Path on the page, then tossed it across the table.
Continued his sentence, "for people like me, with nothing left to lose, isn't it the perfect choice?" as his eyes gleamed with a hint of madness.
Hearing the answer, Connor grinned. "Perfect choice," he said mockingly. "To go mad and turn into a monster? Then tell me—how would you like to be exterminated?"
The air thickened without warning. Eiden's eyes widened as his joints barely responded, as if the space itself refused to let him move. Behind Connor, three pale yellow points hovered in place, linked by faint lines. An incomplete lantern formed between them, stable and precise, like a constellation pinned to reality.
Eiden drew a sharp breath. He didn't struggle. He lifted his gaze to Connor, like prey finally acknowledged by a hunter.
"Seems you're not all bark," Connor said softly.
The weight vanished. Sensation returned in a rush, leaving a dull ache behind. Eiden exhaled once before answering, voice steady despite the lingering pressure.
"Burn me to ash," he said. "If possible, scatter what remains at Wavebreaker Cliff."
Cerlon chuckled under his breath. Connor reclines in his chair while rubbing his temple. "This one's got more screws loose than the others," he muttered, withdrawing his power completely.
The ink dried on the paper. All of them knew the choice could no longer be changed. The room stayed silent—not tense, not awkward—just aware. Connor leaned forward, tapping his nose, bridge, brow, then forehead in the sign of the sword facing upward.
"In the end," his voice wary, "we've lived in a world so broken that every reckless, self-destructive choice feels like a joke."
He closed his eyes.
"May the Crimson Might bless our miserable lives."