Chapter 10

The Outsider's Blade

In the quiet hours of the previous night, Zi-Cheng lay motionlessly at the workshop, while the city’s rhythm continued.

By the time he was asleep, the last horse-drawn carriage of the night had already begun its journey from the Sanctuary to the Commercial District. The sound of its wooden wheels echoed faintly, a lonely cadence in the stillness of the night.

“Graveyard shift again,” one of two remaining passengers muttered, kicking his legs up on the seat across from him. “I can’t remember when was the last time I got home before midnight.”

His companion, leaning against the corner gave a tired shrug. “Yeah, well, it’s not like we had a say in this. Ever since that bastard Victor Hunt started sending all the women home early, guess who’s picking up the slack?”

“Seriously though, what’s his deal? The first man scoffed. “Is he trying to play hero with the women or something?”

“Let him.” the other man replied with a crooked smirk. “We’ve been through with half of them anyway.”

“Fetish for leftovers?” the first man laughed, his tone dripping with mockery. “Whatever. He can have the scraps, as long as he keeps his paws off our little vixen….”

“Elena Cavanagh.”

The two men exchanged a sly grin, the kind that only long-time partners-in-crime with years of unspoken understanding could share.

Elena, an orphan raised by the Sanctuary, had grown up right under their noses. Once a scrawny little brat, she’d blossomed into a stunning young woman, like a tantalizing fruit begging to be plucked.

“That little slut’s about to come of age, isn’t she.”

“She’s just an obsidian-tier nobody, but damn, that body of hers was worth the wait.”

The first man let out a low laugh, his eyes dark with hunger. “That silky smooth skin, those tits, and that ass… my little buddy’s been itching to have some fun for a while now.”

“Oh-ho, so someone’s been sneaking in a few previews, huh?”

Their laughter bounced off the walls of the carriage as they savored the memories of their vile act, treating the exploitation like a twisted badge of honor.

“You know, I almost lost it when I had my hands on her. It was so tempting when she was about to cry.”

“Well, she’s going to get pounded sooner or later. Might as well be us to do her the honor.”

“Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. We’ve still got that place from the last time, you know. Nobody’s ever going to find her there. Just imagine how much time we could have with her….”

The man’s eyes gleamed with twisted anticipation as his hand drifted to his crotch.

Over the years, the Sanctuary had taken in countless homeless women and children, offering them shelter in exchange for assisting with working in the prayer halls. However, with so many coming and going, and the Sanctuary’s policy of never forcing anyone to stay, it wasn’t uncommon for people to “resign” and disappear without anyone looking too deeply into why.

“A little fun’s fine, but that little slut’s close to the Silver Priest. Once we’re done with her, we can’t let her go back to the Sanctuary.”

“Poor thing. Another fragile young soul driven to the brink of despair.” The man burst into cruel laughter. “What a tragedy!”

For the victims who couldn’t escape their grasp or speak out against their tormentors, the only choices left were to destroy themselves in silence or end their suffering in a way that painted them “fragile souls” before the public and media.

To make matters worse, one might expect the Sanctuary to take missing persons seriously, but in reality, their obsession with preserving their pristine reputation meant they rarely acknowledged such incidents publicly. While internal investigations were conducted behind closed doors, far from the reach of the media, this culture of absolute discretion only provided the perfect cover for predators to act without fear of consequences.

“Seriously though, why don’t we just get on with it?” The man grinned, leaning in and lowering his voice, “How about a little team up tomorrow? We can have a threesome.”

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Yet, his companion didn’t respond, as if the suggestion had fallen on deaf ears.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning to keep her to yourself. Where’s the fun in that?”

He chuckled, but the moment was cut short as the sharp, metallic scent of blood hit his nose. Startled, he tapped his friend on the shoulder, only to watch him collapse like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood poured from the deep gash across his friend’s neck, pooling rapidly on the floor of the carriage.

“Waaah—!!”

The man let out a bloodcurdling cry as he hurled himself out of the moving carriage, his body slammed onto the ground with a sickening thud. While he rolled across the rough road pain exploded through him, the impact left his dazed.

“Damn it! I’m supposed to hit silver rank next month, I can’t die here!”

At the brink of losing consciousness, he roared to steel his nerves, unsheathing the pair of curved blades he had been used countless times in arena matches.

The carriage creaked to a stop in the middle of the road.

His heart thundered in his chest, blades poised as his eyes locked onto the carriage, every muscle ready for the threat lurking within.

“Actually, people tend to die pretty easily.”

The voice, cold and merciless like a specter’s whisper, came from behind him. Each word cut through the air with a blade’s precision, sending a chill crawling down his spine.

He spun around instantly, his curved blade slicing through the night like a streak of lightning. But the steel met nothing—no resistance, no impact, just empty air.

How could he miss his mark at such close range?

“A useless fool who only thinks with his crotch. I wonder, if you lost it, would you even be capable of thinking anymore?”

The man froze, the mocking words still ringing in his ears, as a searing, mind-shattering pain erupted from his lower body.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHH—!!!”

He collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony as blood gushed out in torrents.

Smack!

Something warm and grotesquely familiar landed on his face.

“So, apparently, you can only scream after losing your manhood, which proves my hypothesis.” The voice was cold and clinical, like a predator calmly dissecting its prey. “But know this, the pain those women endured at your hands far surpasses what you’re feeling now.”

Then, another chunk of flesh, reeking of blood, struck his face with a wet, sickening sound.

“Here, take your companion’s piece too. Maybe it’ll help you feel better?”

“I… I’ll kill you, you sick bastard!” the man snarled, his voice trembling with pain and rage.

“Ah, you’re starting to speak better, I guess two dicks are better than one after all.”

The voice’s sinister laugh echoed through the air as the man who had always escaped justice tasted the bitterness of despair for the first time.

“You’re insane!”

“No, it’s the world that’s insane,” the voice replied calmly. “I’m just reacting to this insanity.”

A sudden flash of silver streaked before the man’s eyes, and the entire world began to tilt. His balance faltered, and all he could do was watch helplessly as everything spun around him.

“Urgh—”

A mournful sound escaped his throat as his final breath was forcibly squeezed from his body. The spinning world quickly faded, and eternal darkness swallowed him whole.

As the lifeless body crumpled onto the cobblestone road, a dark crimson pool spread beneath, the street lay silent, undisturbed. The faint glow of the streetlamps barely reached the empty road, their flickering light casting pale, ghostly reflections on the blood-streaked ground.

Then, out of the stillness, a shadow stepped forward. Cloaked in black, the it moved like a phantom, with a long coat trailing behind as if the darkness itself clung to him. Under the dim light, a white mask was slowly revealed, obscuring half of the owner’s face, leaving only a pair of cold, piercing eyes, lingering on the crimson pool.

It was Crimson Plume.

He stopped at the edge of the blood, unmoving. His head tilted slightly, the faintest sign of contemplation, or perhaps judgment. With the body at his feet laid lifelessly, he drew a sheet of paper with his gloved hand, folding it into a paper crane. He raised it for a moment, as though weighing it in his hand, and released it.

The crane fluttered downward, landing delicately at the center of the blood. The ripples spread outward, faint but deliberate, carrying an unseen message into the night. Crimson seeped into the fragile paper, the white turning to a deep red, like a dying bloom.

He straightened, his gaze lingering on the crane as the ripples faded. For a moment, he stood there in silence, a shadow crossed his face beneath the mask, his exposed eyes unreadable. Was it satisfaction? Or was it anticipation for the world to understand the weight and meaning of his actions?

“Plant the seed and wait for the flower to bloom. Water it with crimson blood even if the world brands me an outcast,” His exposed eye glinted faintly with resolve, sorrow, or perhaps something more as he murmured, “I regret nothing.”

The ripples faded, but their echo remained. The crane now fully soaked in red, resembling a rose blooming in a pool of blood.

Crimson Plume turned, his coat brushing against the corpse for the last time. He didn’t look back, and simply disappeared into the shadows. The silent darkness returned, heavy and impenetrable, broken only by the waning glow of the dying streetlamps. Beneath the stillness, the crimson-stained crane remained, its meaning veiled in the depths of night, waiting for the world to take notice.

image [https://i.imgur.com/nqrExnH.png]