The lamp and its shadow, more stretched out, trembled. Its light was tinged with red. At this rate, if he continued his work, the bloody light would make this room resemble the stomach of a great beast.
Or the depths of hell. It was already halfway to looking like either one or the other, in fact.
Did such a thing exist?
Hell and its depths?
Of course it did, he told himself. You've been there, remember? So now show them what hell is.
A man, shouting at the top of his lungs as if to build up his courage, charged at him with a spear in his hands.
But Desmond, too, was already armed.
And, regardless of the circumstances, he will always be faster than this one and anyone else in the room. The spearman staggered, passing him.
Desmond didn't move. It wasn't that the spearman had positioned himself behind him so he could attack from behind.
What that man did was fall to his knees.
There was no weapon in his hands. He had not lost it when he fell, but before that. Right now, his spear was flying through the air, spinning. Along with the hands still clutching the weapon.
With a single powerful slash, Desmond had severed his hands from the wrist up. At the same time snatching the weapon from him, evidently.
Desmond had no eyes for his fallen enemy. He simply stared at the light of the lamp, which was now even redder. With a small smile on his face. The satisfaction of a job well done.
In a sense.
As for the fallen spearman... He didn't give him a single glance. He didn't need to. He had experience. People died the same way, after all, no matter how special they thought they were. Now he could do nothing but stare at the stumps of his hands, as the blood spurted out, unabated, a heavy, macabre rain.
With a scream in his throat. A scream that wouldn't escape, because it hurt too much to scream.
Because the fear of death could swallow any scream.
Reducing himself to a mass of flesh that writhed helplessly, bleeding out. Powerless to do anything. Without even thinking... 'Something' that could only wait for his inevitable death.
He was shot from all directions, and Desmond didn't even move from the spot.
Of course he didn't. He didn't need to. He was one hundred percent.
"Is he still standing?"
"No blood trail... What the hell?"
"Are the bullets bouncing off him?"
Those were some of the comments Desmond picked up after the hail of gunfire stopped, to no effect.
The last one was wrong.
The bullets didn't bounce off when they hit him. It's not as if he had some sort of force field surrounding his body. Simply put, his body was unnaturally resilient. So the bullets were crushed against his body, being reduced to practically nothing, and then fell to the ground, smoking like discarded cigarettes. Of which there were quite a few, by the way.
"What a monster!"
Desmond frowned. Wherever he went, whatever he did, that word seemed to haunt him incessantly. He was sick of hearing it.
Whether he deserved to be called a monster or not.
They backed away collectively. First slowly, carefully, without taking their eyes off him. But then in a hurry. On the run. Without worrying about him or the people around them, incidentally.
There was only one way out of this room.
That is, there were actually two. The door through which Desmond had entered. But he was in the way.
An obstacle they had seen they couldn't easily overcome.
So several dozen people were running towards the same door, getting in each other's way, pushing and shoving and hindering each other.
They were screaming so much.
They wanted to get out of here. They wanted to escape the fate that awaited them. But... it was too late to escape. Too, too late. Regrettably.
They were unaware that they missed the chance to turn back a long time ago.
They were unaware that he was the end of the road they had been traveling so far. That he was and always would be, he or another instrument like him.
Regrettable, but it was too late for them to regret it.
Desmond followed them. Walking quietly, without haste, but without pause. He had nothing to worry about.
After all, they couldn't escape.
The fight was over before it began. This was just, at best, a bit of exercise for him. He kicked open the door on the other side of this room. He started up the stairs, still at a calm, unnatural pace, not appropriate for this situation.
Desmond had only started to ascend, but most of them were already almost at the top. They grabbed one who was going up the last step, a hand on each shoulder, and pushed him. Anything to buy time. To slow down, if only for a few seconds. Desmond stopped climbing the stairs. He planted his feet firmly on the ground.
He grabbed the sword with both hands and swung it. The pushed guy didn't even hit him. Before he could, he split into two halves that fell to the sides. So did the blood and guts. Desmond stopped him from crashing into him, but he couldn't stop that.
So Desmond ran a hand over his face, wiping away the blood. Then he continued forward, with the same serene pace as before.
He reached the top of the stairs. Across the hallway was a window that perhaps glowed with the light of freedom, in the eyes of those who fled in terror from him. But they hesitated. This was a second floor, after all, and they were normal people for the most part.
Even the mages present could die from a fall like that; not all mages had an affinity that would help them fall well or something, something that would save them from falling.
Neither was it certain that they would die from such a fall, of course.
But it was a possibility.
The possibility of dying was strong enough to make anyone hesitate.
Just a few seconds. But those seconds had decided the outcome.
They turned around, and saw him there. It wasn't everyone who had fled. Nearly a dozen people, only. The rest had taken other paths.
But hey, had to start somewhere.
"We've got...!"
Someone tried to shout.
Desmond silenced that person's scream by slicing his throat open. All that flowed from his throat was blood, not words.
The screams rose up. Hysterical screams, like before.
As before, pushing each other. Hindering.
Like before...
Like, even before this started in the first place, they had no way to escape.
Desmond slaughtered them all.
He painted the light of freedom with the red of their blood. When it was all over, instead of turning around and chasing the others, the rats scurrying around the building, Desmond walked over to the window.
He looked into it as if it were a mirror.
Well. It didn't make much difference.
Desmond didn't even feel some sympathy for the people he had killed today, nor, he was sure, for those he would end up killing before the day was out.
Some would say he should sympathize because he had been through similar circumstances.
Desmond didn't see it that way.
He and kids like him, trapped in that situation, desperate, with only themselves to fall back on, had no choice. It wasn't at all easy to climb out of a dark hole with no resources, when simply surviving from one day to the next took most of what you had " of food, of money, of energy, mental and physical. Everything.
But these people...
These people had taken this path, of which he was the end, simply because it was the easy thing to do. Fun, even. They weren't similar at all. Therefore, neither his heart nor his hands trembled when it came to finishing them off. He was simply curing a virus before it could spread and infect more people. Bringing misery, bringing death. All the bad stuff.
That was all he was doing here.
Though, of course, that was a secondary purpose. Desmond wasn't a saint or, for that matter, a hermit. He wasn't fighting crime or anything like that. If that was the only reason, he would never have crossed the door.
He was seeking to fulfill his wishes. No more, no less.
But...
There are a lot of animals in this world, he thought. Lots of them.
Desmond turned around and continued his search. Leaving behind a corridor strewn with corpses and blood.
Leaving behind the window of hope. Broken, in pieces.
What shone brightest wasn't the sunlight streaming through the window, but the blood that had stuck to the shards of broken glass.
They were waiting for him.
He didn't know what kind of ruse or trap they had prepared, it couldn't be seen with the naked eye, at least from his position....
Assuming, of course, they had prepared something in the first place. Other than themselves and their weapons.
At least one thing was clear to him: that they had decided to put up a fight, after all. They stood looking in his direction, their expressions grim and determined.
"You should try your luck with a window," Desmond said.
For... nothing special. Just making fun of his enemies. Enjoying his work. Yes, nothing special.
He saw a man in front of him gritting his teeth. He didn't know what they had prepared, no... but at least they thought they still stood a chance against him. That gave him some idea.
A wall of light cut through the space in front of him.
Desmond paused.
"Do you really think this will do any good?" But he didn't stop for long. The wall of light fell with a single slash.
They were on their way to the other side. Always walking.
They had nowhere to go, how to escape or oppose him.... So maybe he should get this over with as quickly as possible, really. Maybe I shouldn't enjoy this at all, a part of his mind whispered to him.
Not long ago, he had crumbled at the realization that his enemies were human, like himself....
That he had killed innocent people and enjoyed it...
You said it. These are not innocent.
Another wall of light formed, covering the doorway. Those behind it retreated even further. As far back as possible. They had been backing up with every step he took, as if he was controlling them or something.
Desmond knocked down the second wall of light with the same ease and contempt as the first.
With a good thud, like thin ice.
Unlike the ice, the light left no trace when it was destroyed. It simply disappeared. As expected.
"Didn't I tell you? You can't do anything! Nothing! "Desmond shouted as if he was raging at them for the 'crime' of resisting him.
Then, he saw the real trap.
Across the room, beyond the bed, beyond the small crowd. On the wall. There were a variety of intricate symbols etched upon that wall. They were lit, glowing with a blue fire.
All the chambers had been charged. Desmond had acted sluggishly, wasting just enough time for that to charge.
Everyone in the room dropped to the floor. They cowered, covering their heads with their hands.
The shot was fired less than a second later.
A blast of pure energy, advancing in a straight line, taking everything it encountered with it.
It was advancing toward him with the force to run him over.
Desmond realized that he wouldn't be fast enough to dodge the shot. To dodge it, he would have had to move before it had been fired. So there was effectively only one possible option left.
Getting ready to meet it with his whole body.
He planted his feet on the ground. His shoulders tensed. He raised the sword with both hands, placing it in front of his face.
The energy shot slammed into the steel of his sword. Sparks flew. There was a horrible screeching sound as if the house was coming down.
Desmond fell to the ground, knocked down by the energy. But at least he had managed to deflect the attack.
The energy shot flew past him. Not without leaving its mark. The energy ate a sizable chunk out of the building. As if a giant creature had taken a bite out of the building.
Of course, since the building had been no obstacle to it, it continued even further.
The energy shot, enveloped in a blue fire, joined the blue of the sky and disappeared.
If not extinguished before it hit the ground again....
All the damage, all the possible casualties. All of it stained his hands. And all of it because? For certain... sadism?
Desmond gritted his teeth. He was angry with himself. He always was. He would always disappoint himself.
At this point, the better question was: how did he still have expectations for himself?
I won't do it again, he told himself. I won't make the same mistake again. I will finish things as fast as I can, every time. The most efficient way is the best way.
Yes. He could rejoice as much as he wanted once the fight was over.
Desmond rose from the ground, untouched.... He was always intact, while destroying everything around him.
He was ready to put what he had learned today into practice.
There were no more tricks or plans. Their biggest weapon, hastily prepared, hadn't been enough.
They wouldn't have time to try anything else. With him here, in the same room. they had run out of time.
What followed was dull and predictable.
What followed was nothing more than a massacre in which Desmond encountered no resistance whatsoever. Instead, he would have gladly gone to try to stop the energy shot, despite the mission.
The problem was that he could do nothing to stop it.
Despite the final transformation he had undergone the other night, he still couldn't control the power Abigail had granted him at his will. To stop the shot before it fell to the city, assuming it would, he needed to spread his wings. Which he still needed more training for.
So, in short, he had lost his chance to stop the shot by taking his time and letting his enemies set up that elaborate magic circle. The only consolation he had was that it was possible it might not fall. That it would be extinguished, like a meteorite, before it could do any damage. Or that it would fall in a place where the damage wouldn't be done to people, at least.
And that he wouldn't make such a mistake again. He might be stupid, but at least he wouldn't trip over the same stone twice. Of that, at least, he could be proud.
He killed them all. Even the ones who collapsed and begged for their lives. They showed no concern for the lives of others, only their own. Not now. He wasn't saying that because of the method they had chosen to try to get out of this situation, get rid of him. He was speaking in general. They had chosen to go down this path for their own self-interest, profiting from trampling on the lives of others, without any qualms.
So why should he heed their pleas?
It's too late to repent now, he thought.
He turned a deaf ear and let his sword take care of the rest. In this room, only. He was still far from done with his work. He couldn't stop until... not all of them, but enough so that they would no longer be able to function as an organization, were dead. That is, most of them. Practically all of them.
On the threshold, before leaving the room to continue his work, he took one last look back.
Earlier, on the floor below, he had painted the light bulbs with the red of the blood of his enemies. And he told himself that if he continued like this, the room would end up resembling the entrails of some gigantic beast.
Or perhaps, the depths of hell itself.
This room had no lamp illuminating it. There was no light other than sunlight.
But there was no need for a lamp.
The room was all painted red and strewn with the body parts of human beings, in so many pieces that no one could tell how many people had been killed in this room at a glance.
The entrails of a great beast.
Hell itself.
It could be compared to many things, certainly. Some more apt than others.
But well...
The thing is, this room didn't look like a place where a human being should enter.
The thing is, this blood"soaked place was like a representation of his life.
Past and future alike.
Desmond left. This time he did not look back. Although he didn't want to either.
——
He was running like hell.
Surely that man had never run so fast in his life. When 'the moment' approached, all people found a surprising strength within themselves.
No one wanted to die. Not really.
Or at least...that was what Desmond had to believe.
There was a way out. The back door, and the man was almost there. He made it to it, in fact.
Feeling the sunlight on his face.
And then Desmond came along.
Then, Desmond broke him in half. He saw the corpse fall to the ground. He saw its entrails and its blood spreading, staining the ground. He stood for a long time looking at the corpse, watching its blood flow, thinking of nothing. As if hypnotized. Because he could afford such a thing. Because his work was done.
Not all, but he had killed enough.
The rest would spread the word.
He stared at the corpse at his feet, and its entrails, and its blood as if it were the first time he had seen a corpse.
Unlike you guys...
"I've never had a choice," Desmond said to the corpse.
For a moment, he thought about spitting on the body at his feet. But he thought better of it. Desmond took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His blood was burning. His heartbeat was like hammer blows.
"So this is where you were." Desmond tensed, turned toward the sound of the voice, ready to fight.
But it was Abigail.
It was Abigail, back leaning against a wall, arms and ankles crossed, looking at him from the corner of her eye.
He relaxed. He lowered the sword until its tip touched the floor.
"Hi, Mom."
"I'd like to know something. How could she convince you to become her knight and send you to do her dirty work?"
"It's not about that," Desmond said, shrinking from the harshness of her tone as…
Well, like what he was.
A child fearing his mother's reproaches. Why had he refused to accept, at first, that this was how he saw her? What had he feared about it? He couldn't understand it, now.
It was so... liberating. Every time he called her Mom, he felt great.
"Explain it to me, then. I think I deserve an explanation. And it's about time you gave me one."
Desmond nodded. She was certainly right.
"Those... golden masks want to take us both out. They see themselves as heroes. They believe they are protecting the peace of the kingdom. And that we are a threat, or that we will bring it to ruin. But that night they only dared to attack because of... my state. They are not enemies that I can just go and cut them down until there are none left."
He didn't even know where to start. They had no leads, unfortunately.
Even days later, they hadn't been able to identify the attackers. All efforts had been fruitless.
"So you want to flush them out."
As expected from his mother.
She caught everything on the fly. Truth be told, he questioned whether it had really been necessary for him to explain anything or if Abigail had already guessed it, but she simply wanted to hear it from his mouth.
"Yes. Earning a good reputation, the support, ideally, of nobles and the populace alike."
That was the reason he had put himself under a spotlight as the personal knight of the last member of Albion's hallowed royal family. For that reason, Charlotte had been prepared to put up with the malicious rumors about.... The possible reasons why she had chosen someone like him, so young, as a knight.
"Which will make them feel rushed to act. You're counting on them making a mistake, bottom line."
"I understand that it's dangerous to count on something like that. But I really think they wouldn't be able to pass it up."
Besides, it's not like he had that many options in the first place.
If he heard a better idea to flush them out, he'd implement it without hesitation. But at the moment, this was the best he could do.
Abigail might not like the idea, but she hadn't told him to quit yet.
She hadn't exactly protested loudly. So... Surely, even she was okay with it. Right?
"And you're probably right. Sorry, both.
"But?
I could almost see it floating in the air, that but.
"There is no but, Desmond." He turned out to be wrong, however. To his surprise, "I wish you had consulted with me before you jumped into this. But it's not a bad plan. I have to admit that.""
There was a but, after all. It wasn't what he'd expected, though. Desmond smiled, glad that someone like Abigail appreciated him to such an extent. Giving him a chance to appreciate himself.
That's right...
The value he saw in himself he saw through other people's eyes.
Abigail, mostly.
"I did. I talked to you about the situation. My doubts and concerns."
"Don't give me that. You know what I mean."
Of course he knew...
There was no point in playing dumb. Not only was it childish, it was stupid.
"It's just that... To be honest, I was afraid."
"That I'd refuse? It wouldn't be the first time you've ignored my advice, Desmond."
Desmond grimaced. It was an apt reproach, certainly, but it didn't make it any less stinging. Quite the contrary.
"No. That you would insist on doing it yourself, actually. Like... with the demonstration that Charlotte wanted me to do. You kept insisting that, if it had to be done, it had to be you. And I don't want you to suffer unnecessarily. Nor put yourself in unnecessary danger."
"I know how to take care of myself," Abigail said.
Of course she did. She had been taking care of herself for years and years before Desmond was born, no, even long, long before Desmond's parents met.
He was very aware of all that.
"That's why. You already... "Desmond swallowed. There was a lump in his throat. "You've had to fight long enough."
"Desmond…"
She looked away. But Desmond didn't for even a second. He kept his gaze fixed on her, wondering when was the last time someone had shown such concern and love for her.
When was the last time she had received her reward for being such a great person.
He supposed... it had been a long time.
Always persecuted, harassed. Tortured. Treated as if... as if she wasn't even human. When in reality, she was more human than all of them put together.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair at all.
Every time he thought about how Abigail's life had gone so far, Desmond felt like throwing up. She deserved to have everything she wanted and be praised by everyone. But, if that wasn't going to happen, then at least.... Then at least he had to be the one to reward her. If he was the only one who could and would do it, then he would do it.
He wouldn't rest until he did it.
"All right," Abigail said slowly. "We'll do things your way. For the time being. You can't keep me out of harm's way forever.
"I know," a bitter truth; there was nothing more bitter in this world than the simple, hard truth, "but... I'll do what I can."
"Sometimes it's not about knowing. Sometimes that's not enough," Abigail said, staring into his eyes.
Piercing him with her.
"It's true."
An even more bitter truth...
——
As he had said, the massacre committed at the headquarters of that gang was only the beginning. A step forward, no more and no less than that. Acting as Princess Charlotte's personal knight, he was striving to bring the criminal life of this city under control. Things weren't in complete chaos, they weren't as bad as...
As in that city, for example.
But even the capital was not free of gangs. Even here, they were a virus that affected the population.
He dedicated himself to curing that virus. But not always by killing everyone who got in his way. He couldn't just do that, otherwise his reputation would become that of a monster, not a knight fighting for justice.
Besides, not every crime merits death.
The gang he had purged, among other things, sold drugs. And they didn't care who they sold it to. To be clearer: they even did business with children. Which was unforgivable.
So he had taken them out of the way, without exception.
But exceptions had to be made for minor criminals.
That is, by carrying out his activities, he killed dozens of gang members. He could not help it. But, unlike then, he did not seek to eliminate every last one of them.
Not always.
But in everything and for everything, there were exceptions. Charlotte sent him after a gang that trafficked destitute women and children, to turn them into sex slaves.
That time, he killed them all. Brutally. Without hesitation.
With gusto.
And he felt not the slightest shadow of guilt. Of course, he didn't. Anyone would agree with him that he had not killed human beings that day.
The most exhausting thing of all was not the fights, but when he had to attend an official event, protecting and staying by the princess's side.
He was not at all comfortable there. That was not his world.
And it took forever, yes, it never seemed to end.
But it ended and he continued with what he did best.
He worked tirelessly, even with his efforts yielding no results whatsoever, until....
——
"There have been complaints." The princess cut to the chase, without even greeting him. He wasn't complaining about it. In fact, he appreciated it. Better to get to the point. Better not to beat around the bush. "Property damage, injuries. False, I know. Our enemies have made their move."
"What do we do now?" he asked.
"Nothing," the girl answered without looking away from the window. What was she seeing beyond the glass? What was going on in her head? "To be frank, I don't think we have to do anything at all. It's an attempt to throw dirt on our efforts, but only that. Little things like this can't spoil what you've done for this city. It's not so easy to turn public opinion around. And it turns in your favor.""
"So...?"
"We can only wait. Carry on as we are and wait." Charlotte ran a hand over her face. "I find it hard to believe, to be frank... that I have enemies within my own ranks. Among my advisors and subjects."
"But you know it's true. That it cannot be otherwise."
"I know, but..."
"What's the matter?"
Charlotte shook her head, deciding there was no point in talking about it with him.
"Nothing. Good work, Desmond. Thanks for all your effort so far. I'll send you the details of your next mission soon. You can go now."
Desmond nodded, turned and headed for the exit. But then he thought better of it. Then he retraced his steps again.
"Charlotte."
The girl (she was just that, someone even younger than him, with the weight of the world on her shoulders) looked at him.
"We're not friends. But we are a team. If you have something to talk about, you can talk to me."
Charlotte hesitated. But in the end she gave in. If it had anything to do with the current situation, he was probably the only person she could really talk to about it, without holding anything back.
"Okay. Listen."