CW: Explicit language, violence and gore, mentions of suicide.
I might be a little late with the next chapter because I am very busy these days, but we will see how I go TuT
Hwan Sun hastens through the quiet halls of his estate, blue ministerial robes billowing out behind him like rippling waves. He’d been woken just before dawn with news of his manservant being returned to the estate near dead. Healer Wu had performed emergency treatment and had only just preserved his life by a single thread. If Zev had been returned but a minute too late, Wu would have had to prepare his body for interment.
Sun pauses outside of Zev’s chambers to calm himself and push a trembling hand through his dishevelled hair. A familiar despair gathers at the base of his throat, like a hard stone that obstructs every breath. He had only felt this despair a few times in his life: when his children have been sent to the frontlines of war, and when he’d read the missive of his wife’s passing. He didn’t know he would have to feel it again so soon.
The lord strikes himself in the chest to dislodge the stone. But it remains there, heavier than ever, and he has no choice but to bear it. Without further delay, he pushes the door open and steps inside.
Zev’s chambers are almost as spacious as the young masters’, which causes him to be the envy of many a green-eyed colleague. But Zev lives humbly, opting for only the barest luxuries and simplest of designs. As such, in the cold light of the morning, the room feels soulless and empty, like a tomb for the forgotten dead.
The First Lord banishes the thought and quickly finds Zev prone in his bed, wan and weak. Fresh bandages are wrapped around his torso and Sun is struck by how frail his manservant appears. He sets his jaw, steels his gaze, and approaches the bed.
“How is he?”
Healer Wu rises from his patient’s bedside and bows to Sun. “My lord. He is severely wounded. However, if he endures the next day and night, his survival is assured.”
“How did this happen?” Sun comes to sit on the other side of the bed. He can only gaze down at the younger man, expression dark and torrid.
Wu Hong retakes his seat. After spending the night tending to Zev, he looks drawn and exhausted. “He was found in the Sweet Brier Inn by a worker. According to the Silverswords who had returned him to the estate, the boy attempted to capture the Faceless Devil.”
The lord stiffens in shock. He stares at the Healer with quivering pupils, blood roaring in his ears. “…The Faceless Devil? He is here? In Hanjuyang?”
“It appears so, my lord.”
“But he…” Sun leans forward to rest his reeling head in his hand. “He was sighted in the West, on the frontlines of Reshun. How could he–” He presses his lips together in a thin line. His intel was bad, then. Or falsified. Which means that the rebel’s influence reaches further than he’d originally perceived.
“What else did the Silverswords report?” he finally asks.
“They assume an assassination attempt. Though there were no witnesses as the guards had been incapacitated.” The Healer pauses to dab the feverish man’s clammy brow with a clean cloth. After a thought, he offers the cloth to Sun. “It is imperative to keep him warm and dry, my lord.”
Sun takes the cloth without question and he brings it to Zev’s temple, drying the sweat gathered there. When his steely eyes catch upon the younger man’s pained lines, they soften and flicker. “Zev had long sought vengeance in his youth. Once he learned to tame his anger, I thought his fatuity ended. Now, I see his anger had simply lurked below the surface, hidden from sight. When did he stop trusting me, I wonder?”
Hong, ever the astute man and not one to mince words, simply says, “When he became enamoured with you, my lord.”
Hwan Sun’s ministrative hand jerks back. It hovers above Zev’s pinched brow before curling into a fist, crushing the cloth between his fingers. “How does his folly inform his trust in his lord?”
“We hide the most from those we care deepest for.”
“How irrational.”
“On the contrary, my lord. It is entirely too rational.”
Jina’s secrets rise to the surface of Sun’s thoughts which prompt a fresh slew of despair and obsolete rage. He strikes his own leg with his balled up fist, sending a flash of pain through his limb. You hapless fool.
The manservant’s eyes flutter open. Groggy hazels rove over the dimly lit ceiling before coming to rest upon Hwan Sun’s irascible visage. “…My lord?” His voice is barely above whisper. He sounds so broken.
Sun’s heart shakes badly. He releases his anger and wraps his hand around the younger man’s. His own palm is warm and dry, whereas the one he tends to is cold and clammy. “You are awake,” he says, donning his false calm like armour. “How do you feel?”
“Like I should not be alive.” Bitter tears well in Zev’s heavy eyes.
“You are impertinent to think you could escape my employ.”
There’s a subtle twitch of the manservant’s lips.
Recognising the two men’s need for privacy, Healer Wu quietly excuses himself and withdraws from the room, under the pretence of fetching more medicine.
“I apologise, my lord,” Zev whispers, slipping into his role. “Please forgive this servant’s impertinence.”
“You are not forgiven. Not until you explain your sorry state.”
“I…”
“One-syllable answers are not tolerated.”
“I found him. The Devil. I should have made my report to you. But I could not. I tried, and I could not.” Zev blinks and a rogue tear breaks from his waterline, spilling down his temple.
Sun reaches out and catches it upon the cloth. “You wanted vengeance.”
We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.
“Tfr. P mtjiifcufv tlw ab j vefi jcv P kbecvfv tlw.”
“Lbk rb?”
“P abbx tlr tjcv.”
“Pwqgfrrlnf.”
“Rb.” Ifn’r mgjmxfv ilqr delnfg lc jcufg. “Lf frmjqfv yfobgf P mbeiv ajxf ws nfcufjcmf. P…P ojlifv ws ojwlis. P ojlifv wsrfio. Ccv wbra ecobgulnjyis, P ojlifv sbe, ws ibgv.”
“I would have allowed you your vengeance.”
“I know.”
“Then why–?”
“I was blinded by my rage. I saw no end to it until I shed his blood.”
“And shed you did. Which is why he sent an assassin after you.”
“Yes.”
“Surprising. I did not take the Devil to be a coward.”
The lord rises from his chair and paces to the window. He looks out over the verdant green and sweeping pagoda trees, and feels nothing but the blood-blistering rage that must only rival Zev’s. He grips the window frame, nails digging into the varnished wood until they snap and bleed.
Sun turns and catches Zev’s fever-bleary eyes, and the frigid borders of his mien thaws. He returns to his manservant’s bedside and brings a hand to Zev’s brow, gently pushing back his white locks. “I had always been sorry for your hair,” he admits. “That you had experienced such great suffering to lose your youth.”
The lord slips a silver lock between his finger and thumb, stroking the strands as though they were the most previous of silks. “Now I see that your hair is quite beautiful. This is not the colour of suffering, but rather the nexus, privy to us only in death or ascension.”
Zev raises his eyes to his lord’s, trembling from more than just fever. “…My lord.”
“You must ascend, Zev. Become reborn and seek life. Do not be hindered by your past else you would know naught but isolation and pain. You would doom yourself to my woeful fate.” He says the last with a hint of wry humour, but Sun is sincere in his warning.
As he witnessed his youngest son inaugurated, he saw Jun with new eyes. Here was a man, a governor, with the imperial capital city within his palm. And he never once looked at his father, not even when Sun offered his congratulations. He realised then that the last of his family was gone from his grasp, and he could only watch Jun from afar, hoping that one day he would see those golden eyes upon his own.
He has no-one left. And if Zev ever leaves him, whether through death or desertion, he would then truly be alone.
“My lord. What will you do?” Zev’s weak voice filters through the murk of his despair.
“He struck against my person, thus he struck against me,” Sun says, coldly. His visage, even colder. “The Devils have made a declaration of war – and I shall accept.”
***
Kang Dae awakes with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. He’s cold and shivering and he looks over to see the twins curled up beneath their shared blanket. Greedy little shits, he silently grouses, but he reaches over to tuck them in properly.
His ears perk when he catches a sound. A slow, rhythmic chopping. The boy rises from the futon and pads to the fabric partition. His hand hovers at the curtain. A sudden uneasiness twists his insides. A sour taste in his mouth gains a coppery tang, like he’d bit on his tongue.
Kang Dae shakes off the foreboding feeling. There’s no reason to be so anxious. Thanks to the rich young master, Bijan Azar, who had procured this home for them, they were safe during the dangerous, chaotic nights in the Slums. But even so, the boy can’t help but check the locked door twice every night. And now with unease churning his stomach, he’s reminded that often, four walls do not always deter danger.
Kang Dae pulls aside the curtain. His mother is standing at the food counter, back turned to him as she works. He can only see the dim lamplight glancing off the dripping blade of the knife. The tautness in Ga Ram’s thin shoulders. Her long, lanky hair that’s become so greasy and knotted over the days.
He watches her for a while, frowning, thinking that he should try stealing a comb from the beauty vendor sometime. Before Ga Ram sold her belongings to save her vegetable stall, one of Kang Dae’s favourite things to do before bed was helping his mother brush her beautiful long hair. He would focus so intently on his work, carefully brushing every lock of hair into perfectly separated strands. Ga Ram would hum and tease him about how he sticks out his tongue in his deep focus, and when he’d finish, she would gather him up in her arms and force his squirming, protesting body still as she too, brushed his tangled hair.
And then the babies would come waddling over, loudly demanding to be brushed as well, and even though there really wasn’t much hair to brush, Ga Ram would flick the comb ever so gently over their fuzzy heads, much to their delight.
“Mama?” Kang Dae approaches Ga Ram, wiping his dribbling nose on the back of his sleeve. It’s so cold in here, his feet are already frozen numb. “Why are you cooking so late?”
His voice dies in his throat. His two numb feet come to a complete stop.
Ga Ram swings the knife down with a loud thunk, severing a heartroot in twain. The bitter red juices flows free from both halves, splattering the chopping board and staining the blade gory.
Kang Dae suppresses a shiver and tugs on his mother’s skirt. “Mama, why are you cutting up the heartroots? We have to sell them tomorrow.” He wrinkles his nose at the astringent stench of the vegetable and covers his nose with his arm. Kang Dae had never been a fan of the strange vegetable, a creation of the Martel Empress to replicate her dead consort’s heart. Ga Ram said something about the Empress wishing to bridge life and death in her consumption of the heartroot for every meal, but Kang Dae never really understood it.
He thought the Empress quite mad.
“Mama–?” He tugs more insistently, and Ga Ram freezes, mid-chop.
She stands there for an aeon, red-tinged blade raised, her shrouded features stiff and cold.
“Are you well?” Kang Dae asks in a meek voice. He wonders if he’d made her angry for interrupting. “I-I’m sorry. I’ll go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to–”
“…I’m sorry.”
It was quieter than a whisper. A mere wisp of a voice that Kang Dae almost missed. He starts and releases his mother’s skirt, stepping back in alarm. “…Y-Yes, I’m sorry. Mama, don’t be mad–”
“I’m sorry.” Just loud enough to be distinct. Ga Ram’s voice is high pitched and soft, like a little girl’s.
Every single hair on Kang Dae’s body stands up on end.
Ga Ram snaps her head towards him. Her eyes are swollen and glazed. Her skin is sickly white and her lips are pulled wide, teeth bared. It’s then he sees the angry, bleeding rashes upon her body, all over her bare legs and hands and crawling up her neck. It covers one side of her face, giving her a ghastly visage.
“Mama!!” he shrieks, stumbling back with wide, terror-filled eyes. “What-what happened to your face?!”
Ga Ram lurches at her son, knife raised, mouth hanging agape in a manic, toothless grin; heartroot juice splatters on her pale cheek.
Kang Dae screams mindlessly at the sight. He races to the twins and scoops them up into his arms, blanket and all. A flash of the blade. He staggers back, knife slicing the air inches from his face. Biting back another scream, he runs to the door, trying to contain the two squirming children in his arms. Ga Ram chases after them in a frenzy, skinny limbs spider-like and skittery.
“No! No! Please!!” Kang Dae desperately yanks on the door but it’s locked tight. He ducks and the knife bites deep into the worn wood, almost to the hilt.
Ga Ram’s face twists in rage and she grabs the hilt, tugging and yanking with all her might.
The boy sets down his siblings, who are now crying loudly, and he fumbles for the lock with shaking fingers. His mother’s contorted face is inches away from his own. Her terrible, grating screams bore into his brain like ice-picks.
The second she frees the knife, Kang Dae flings open the door, grabs the twins, and rushes outside.
The full moon casts its pale silvery light across the Slums, illuminating the young boy’s path. He runs as fast as his shaking legs will carry him, his mother’s bloodthirsty shrieks chasing him through the district, and the only thought that races through his mind in an endless, panicked loop is, whywhywhy???
A light mist creeps blankets the dirt road. The night is unusually restless. Every ramshackle house pitch black inside – but Kang Dae can hear the muffled shouts and screams. The cries and moans and sickening splatters of blood.
As the boy runs into the cemetery, his brother and sister held tightly in his arms, the district behind him bays in the dark; agitated, maddened. A third figure follows, loping through the mist, more beast than human. Eventually, they disappear, and so too does the night.
Dawn comes slowly but surely, the first rays striking the district and lending an infernal glow to the mist, setting the dirt alight in illusory flames.
A scream shatters the early morning repose. Birds, startled from their trees, take to the sky in a confused frenzy.
Another scream joins the first, a discordant duet.
And then another, and another; screams, howls, shrieks, cries, blood-curdling and wretched all.
Slummers burst from their homes, chased out by the fumes of the dead; corpses – rigor mortis long set in – cradled and clutched; and the raving lurch down the streets, drenched in the blood of their victims, worn upon their person like stains of their sins. The violence, desolation, and terror corrupts the air, choking any semblance of sanity and reason.
The sun rises, slowly, surely, oblivious to the unfolding hellscape beneath.
***
Contrary to the mayhem aboveground, the underground is relatively quiet. Quiet, but tense, as the Otsukis gather in the grotto at their leader’s behest. There are some absent, those whose families had fallen victim to the night’s violence. But a few yet remain, spurred by their loss to take action, rather than dwell on their grief.
The Faceless Devil and Gou take to higher ground, a raised stone platform beside the cold, drifting river. The great cavern is filled with uneasy murmurs and the occasional sob. When Masao raises his only hand, everything becomes silent.
Rin loses himself in the thick of the crowd, standing beside strangers, but the devil’s almond eyes latches onto him regardless. Penetrating in their stare.
The raven lifts his chin, a display of false confidence. Even as cold sweat pricks his nape.
After a long moment, Masao coolly glances away and the tension is alleviated.
The Faceless Devil is dressed for mourning. His monkish robes are black, and despite the healthy, tanned face he’s donned for the day, there’s a sickly sharpness to his borrowed features. His right arm, which is now missing a hand, is pinned to his chest in a secure sling – even with magic and potions, he’s still a while away from the mend.
But Masao stands tall and regal, as he always does. His resolve, even greater.
“Otsukis.” His voice is quiet, but it booms like nascent thunder, amplified by the cavern walls. “Last evening, we were visited by an unknown foe. A foe which has claimed fifty lives, young and old. Our friends, our family, our people. There are reports of both suicide and murder. In some cases, both. The one consistency is a madness that arose in the Slums overnight.” Masao pauses, clearly unsettled.
Gou takes over, both his suit and expression as black as soot. “There are rumours aboveground that this was caused by us. That there was an accidental leak of a new bio-weapon we had been developing.”
The crowd stirs, dismay and protest spilling from each and every mouth.
The general pats the air, to calm his brethren. “I assure you, this is simply a rumour. When the true cause is discovered, it will dissipate–”
“Vas Eshar!” a sharp cry interjects.
Tense silence follows. The anonymous Otsuki only voiced what everyone was thinking. Every pair of eyes focus on their leader, keenly anticipating his response.
With nary a shift in his expression, Masao replies calmly, “This will not be another Vas Eshar. What transpired was a callous move by the empire on the frontlines of war. Hanjuyang is the imperial capital city in full view of the empire. If the Mother is the cause of this, she will act with care.”
“We cannot rule out other possible causes,” Gou adds. “This could be a sickness or a poison. The details are unclear for now, but given time–”
“What if this happens again?” another Otsuki protests.
Others, quickly voice their own concerns.
“How do we know our families are safe?”
“Is this only happening in the Slums? What about the other districts?”
“How can we fight this?”
“How do we fight madness?”
“Fifty dead!”
As more and more voices join the cacophony brewing within the grotto, Masao glances sharply at Gou. The general brings his fingers to his lips and whistles, the sound shockingly painful. The panic dies in an instant.
“For now,” Masao says, spreading his gaze over the restless crowd. “There are precautions you can take to keep yourself and your family safe. Do not drink from public wells. Keep your distance from those outside your households. Ensure that you remain inside during the night. If you must venture out or interact with others, wear a mask to protect yourself. Our Verax will ensure every Slummer is aware of these rules. Those who are willing to volunteer their nights, we will be doubling our covert patrols. For now, the surviving afflicted have been taken into our custody, and we would like to keep it that way. As soon as Silverswords are involved, we will lose control of the situation and the district.”
Masao continues to give orders, directing each unit and dismissing them to their duties until only the inner circle of elders and their tyros remain.
Everyone stands before the Faceless Devil, agitated but awaiting their orders. Masao sweeps his tired gaze over their expectant faces. His eyes inevitably meet Rin’s, before he suddenly turns to look at the river. His countenance cold and detached.
“I did not wish to speak in certainties before the others,” the Devil says, quietly. “Not before Ahui confirms my suspicions. But it appears to be a contagion.”
“Aye,” Gou gruffs, rubbing his grizzled chin with a scowl. “The victims had sores or rashes on their bodies and they’d reported a cough days leading up to their deaths.”
“How was it they died?” Sparrow asks Bo, adjusting her glasses as though she were attempting to solve a puzzle.
“In a variety of ways,” Bo says. “Both by their own hand and by others. When my birds tallied the dead, there were many instances of familicide. Elderly dismembering their children. Lovers turning on each other with bare hands and teeth. And there were no-one spared from the suicides, young or old. We found five cases of children who drowned in the wells after jumping at their own volition.”
“Gods help us,” Small peeps, wide eyed.
Bellow huffs and folds his muscular arms. “The gods clearly don’t give a shit about us.”
“I assume you want a further investigation,” Bucky raises, silently agreeing with the Bull.
Masao nods. “You would assume correctly. I want you and the Spymaster to keep an eye on the situation. Gather information on the movements of each victim before their deaths. Who they saw, where they went, what they consumed, and so on. If we can find what connects each victim, then we may find the source of the contagion.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“We may see more victims tonight,” Masao continues, glancing at Iris. “I want you and your Hunters to patrol each district. Focus on the Slums but we need people in the other two districts as well.”
“The guild’s involvement will need to be disguised,” Iris says. Her almond eyes flicker to Rin. “Perhaps my Hunters could become Vermin tonight. They have become a rather welcome presence in the Slums as of late, so an increase of numbers would not be questioned.”
Rin is unusually quiet, leaning against the wall with his eye cast down at his feet. Bucky notes his pallor and the strain in his face, and her eyes narrow, sharply scrutinising. When Rin doesn’t respond, Bucky elbows him in the ribs.
He starts and raises his head, blinking rapidly. In this new light, one can see the glittering sweat upon his brow. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up to the conversation, and when it does, he quickly says, “Yeah. As long as they don’t mind the gunk on their face, they can patrol with the Vermin. Bellow will sort them out.”
Masao then orders Sparrow to work with her mentor, Ahui, to study the bodies of the victim. Daisy and Lee are directed to ensure that there is safe refuge for those without shelter for the night.
He finally turns to Rin and as he speaks, his demeanour is one of a stranger – however with less amity. “You will use your connections to the High District to garner what they know. We will not have a repeat of the Silent Plague.”
The others startle at their leader’s sharp tone.
“What about Sang?” Rin bites back, holding one arm akimbo. “Shouldn’t he be here? Or is he off acting like your snivelling mutt again?”
Masao sends a cold glare at Rin, a flash of red breaking through the illusion of his mask. Rin presses his lips tightly together. Unsettled.
“Sang lost his father to the contagion,” Masao says. “He will be spared from his duties until after the burial.”
A tense silence fills the chamber as Rin’s heart lurches uncomfortably.
Looks of reproach and dismay cast his way and Rin forces himself to meet their eyes, silently rankling. How was I supposed to know about that pointy-faced bitch? But maybe there is a flicker of regret; a rogue thought that maybe he’d been too harsh, spoken too rashly.
He runs a hand over the cold sweat gathered on his forehead and pushes out a shaky breath. Though flames lick at his body and her voice licks at his ear, he keeps his expression under control. One of boredom and mild agitation, despite the fear seeping into his blood like poison.
If they find out, they will kill you, she whispers.
“If that’s all, I’ll be off playing with the bluebloods.” He abruptly flounces away, trying to keep his frantic pulse under control. Thankfully, no-one calls after him, and he breaks into a run as soon as he escapes into the tunnel.
Scorching flames crawl up his legs and engulfs the Rat. He shoves aside a group of Otsukis blocking his way, blindly stumbling somewhere, anywhere, in his frantic attempts to escape the burn. But he burns and burns and she’s latched onto his back like a parasitic spirit, murmuring so sweetly into his ear. How I have missed you. How I have yearned for you. My Perfect Rose.
oddly close to zombies but doesn’t really like it either
Zombies!!! I never thought about it like that :O now im tempted to throw them into a zombie apocalypse lol
aren’t they suffering enough for you?! 🥲
Ok super late but thank you for the chapter!! <33
I’m*