It was night in the Big City, an hour where no decent person still roamed the streets. But in a city like Big City, there were enough indecent folk to keep it alive at all hours of the day, especially on a night like this.

There was electricity in the air. Warm and dry, laden with excitement. It was a night of big things happening. Of life being lived.

Yet wherever there is life, there is death.

A figure flitted through the cone of light emanating from a street lamp in Coulson Street, in the industrial quarter. Tall and lean, moving with a sense of purpose, with a sense of complete certainty as if every step had been carefully planned in advance.

It was the Guardian of Big City, clad in his recognizable uniform. A creme tunic made of a heavy cotton weave. Crisp, clean, ironed, reaching down to his thighs, where his dark pants and solid shoes completed the look.

Back in the shadow, he paused and sniffed, just to make sure he hadn't lost the scent. He wasn't going to lose the thing this time. For three weeks, he had been tracking it all the way to the industrial quarter. Night after night of stalking, carefully narrowing down its hunting grounds.

The foul stench of the thing permeated the air. An acrid odor that burned in the nostrils. It reminded him of damp, moldy cellars. Of rotting meat and spoiled milk.

The trail led him south, down Crab Street. It was deserted but he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Even that far away from the beating heart of Big City's nightlife, something should have made a noise. A car door slamming or a distant siren. There was nothing except for his own, barely audible, footfalls.

The Guardian stood at the entrance to an alley without a name. A passage between the grimy brick wall of a chicken processing plant and the blackened plaster of a warehouse. It wasn't on any map he knew of, and he knew Big City like the back of his sword hand. Layers of dirt and oil caked the asphalt. It was an alley that had been forgotten by the tides of time.

Normal men would have taken one good look at the impenetrable darkness and fled instinctively without ever knowing why, but the Guardian wasn't normal. He wasn't even truly a man, they said. Decades of rigorous training had made him something more.

He was a weapon.

And he was pointed straight at the thing.

The Guardian took one step forward into the alley without a name and he knew that he reached his goal. He felt the fetid presence of the thing. His hackles rose.

"Reveal yourself," he called out into the darkness, advancing. His clarion call echoed, bouncing between the walls, demanding an answer.

Guardian, the thing said wordlessly. It wasn't a word produced by a tongue but rather a projection of a concept, filled loathing and hatred. The word materialized inside of his head and he felt unclean.

"What are you?"

One of the shadows, a spot darker than the surrounding murkiness, moved. It solidified into a twisted, black shape in the form of a person, yet lacking any characteristic that made it human. It was an affront to nature. His eyes seemed to slip off the figure as if he were trying to pick up oil.

Every fiber in the Guardian's body demanded its destruction. He placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. It was a clear threat. Nobody in Big City would fail to grasp the significance.

There was only one reason why the Guardian would ever draw his sword.

To carry out Justice.

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I am your end. I am the end.

"I cannot let you exist."

The Guardian drew his sword. It sang as it left the scabbard. The wide, double-sided blade glittered in the darkness, reflecting an unseen light.

The thing sprang into motion. Its limbs bent in unnatural angles, propelling it forward.

The Guardian dug in his heels and prepared himself, coiling his muscles, ready to unleash. Two decades of rigorous training made his actions as natural as breathing. The blade was just an extension of his body. A deadly tool but a tool nonetheless. He was the weapon. It was his will, carried out through steel.

It was not a time for planning. It was not a time to think. It was a time to commit.

That was the most important lesson he had ever learned. To put his heart, body, and mind into every single strike. To not hold back because the enemy would not.

The thing flew at him as fast as a speeding car, little more than a dark blur. The Guardian raised his blade. Sweat tickled his forehead. Excitement bubbled up inside of him.

The sword swung through the air, whistling as it descended on his target. It landed precisely between head and shoulder, ready to slip between the cervical vertebrae and separate the spinal column.

If the thing had been human, it would have been a lethal blow.

It wasn't. The blade met no resistance. The Guardian felt that swoop inside his stomach, knowing something was wrong. He should have felt something. Anything. The thing slithered past him like a wave of nausea.

But there was no stopping his blade once he committed. Unencumbered by flesh and bone, it continued traveling towards the asphalt. Sparks flew as the tip of the blade dug a deep gouge into the alley.

The Guardian whirled around, ready to defend himself, but the twisted form just stood there, five feet away, cackling. I am your end, Guardian.

"You're repeating yourself," he spat.

Warmth ran down his forearm. He risked a glance to see a nasty laceration on his sword arm. The tunic had been torn to shreds. Four claw-marks ran from the middle of his forearm to his elbow, skin peeling out in a jagged wound but not a deep one. Superficial damage.

There was no time to dwell on it. The thing came at him again.

The Guardian raised his sword, pointing it forward. The shadow ran right toward the tip, impaling itself on the three-foot blade. It seemed to work; at least, the thing came to a halt.

Pain flared up inside of the Guardian. He looked down and saw wicked claws sticking into his abdomen. The thing pulled its claws back and blood began to seep into his creme tunic.

Goodbye, Guardian, it jeered and walked forward. Through him.

Black tendrils crept out of the wound on his forearm. An army of vile caterpillars, crawling up his arm.

The Guardian dropped to his knees. The sword slipped out of his grip, clattering on the concrete. His head slammed on the ground.

Pain. Unbelievable, overwhelming agony coursed through his body. The soothing, cool darkness that waited for him was a welcome relief.

----------------------------------------

"He's here! I found him, sisters," a mousy woman with flaming red hair in a spotless, olive cloak called out.

"Where?" another woman asked. She was grim-faced and wore the same olive cloak but she was taller. More commanding. Her blonde hair was tied into a tight bun.

"Down there," the first woman said, pointing down the alley without a name.

A dense fog covered the ground. In the distance, the mist roiled over a barely noticeable lump on the ground.

"Quickly," the tall woman said, setting out in confident strides.

The moonlight reflected on her white cloak, casting its silvery light into the alley. It drove away the fog and the darkness. More women followed her. Six altogether, each radiating like the flame atop a candle.

The lump on the ground turned out to be a body of a large, imposing man. He laid in a pool of blood, his right arm black and mangled, his tunic red from the chest down. Eyes closed, face twisted into a mask of agony.

"Is it too late?" they whispered.

They all recognized the injured man before them. The Guardian. The undefeatable warrior that protected Big City. Square jaw and strong nose. Shaved head and clean face.

The tall woman knelt down beside him. The hem of her cloak soaked up the crimson from the pool below. She touched her hand to his throat, feeling for a pulse.

"He's still alive," she said. "Quickly."

The woman ringed around the fallen man, grabbing his legs and belt and arm. None dared to touch the corrupted limb, however.

Together, they lifted him and ushered him out of the alley without a name.