The sound echoed like some kind of bullet, stirring the surrounding mist as a shock of wind blew into them. He uprooted his fist, causing pieces of stone to fall from his hands. And from where it once was, now a fist-sized hole was drilled. He looked back at the thugs. "Can I enter now?" he said in a calm tone.
The two stared in silence. Then, like a rehearsed action, they spat on the ground.
The passcode? They accepted but still want it? They didn't even ask why I'm not wearing the official sanguine coat. Is it because they are thugs? Or can they not think of it? As he knew it, the sanguine coat was a normal coat buttoned on both sides, but with the additional touch of a black collar. By the sovereign laws, using sanguine powers without the clothes was a crime. Except for the physical components of some branches, that is probably the only way to distinguish sanguines.
Nonetheless, as much as he didn't want to do the stance, he caved. He spread out his legs, raising his hand as if pointing at the sky.
The thugs exchanged glances once more before passing a stone. The stone looked odd, as it was shaped more like a fang than a normal rock. Poison Fang Gang.
He pulled the door open, entered, passing through a small room littered with filth. The floor was scattered with tracked-in red dust. As he approached the far wall, he saw a wooden door set in the room's corner. A man seated by the door looked at him. He stared for a moment before nodding slightly and pushed the door open. He didn't ask for the stone? Is it just a formality? He glanced away and entered the small room beyond.
A blow of heat waved through his face. He stared at the room. So this is it? Harrison isn't here yet.
_______
JEAN WALKED ALONG A STREET in the Cracks—one of Canen's many beastmen slums—with her Inverness cloak hood up.
For some reason, she found the inside extremely itchy but tickly, as if tiny insects were all crawling inside her. It was relaxing. It reminded her of her many days in the spider pits. Having Susan around was good. Jean walked with a slouch, eyes down, sticking near to the side of the street. The beastmen she passed had similar airs of emptiness. No desires. Nothing.
They just need a bit of pleasure. She smirked under her hood. No one looked up; no one walked with a straight back or a bright, filled smile. They all just moved like zombies through the mist, following their assigned task-enforcers, who led them with glass-encased eternal lamps.
They all moved at a steady pace, despite the darkness. Weren't beastmen afraid of the night and mist? she wondered. As she knew it, the creatures went pale in the face of the darkness, but it would seem the reality of Canen had taken away the fear that stemmed deep within their bodies.
Unlike the finer buildings in the better parts of the city, the slums were either dark or completely red. No patch of white or any cloth of that color. Everything was either black or red—done so by countless red dustfalls. It had been long since she had come here.
Two years, she believed. Back then, she knew this place like the back of her hand. Now, it seemed oddly unfamiliar. The air seemed to beat with an iron rhythm as the taste and smell of rusted metal was almost tangible.
The Forge Factories, she thought, walking on. This was likely where the beastmen were going; to work in either the flesh farms or the forge factories, and most likely, many of them would die from the heat, exhaustion, or simply by the hands of a very wanting enforcer.
There were broken-down stone buildings on both sides, some wood with enough holes that it was more like an outdoor tent. Along the sky, connecting the buildings, were iron ropes with clothes hung on them. Clothes that occasionally dripped water down on the passersby. Due to the constant dustfalls, most would prefer to wash their clothes in the night, although that did little to keep them clean.
A task enforcer spotted her but soon stopped his advance when he saw the long, flowing white skirt she wore. What ordinary man in his right mind would want to do something to a sanguine? Although she would prefer he did try something—perhaps he might get to experience pleasure. That is, if he hadn't before and if possible... was young, she thought, turning a corner.
She passed human beggars who lay next to the walls, curled together, shivering in the cold and obscured slightly in the mist. She passed many things: beastmen, beggars, and the occasional guardsman who patrolled by kicking at the beastmen—likely making sure they were either truly sick, dead, or old. But even the guardsmen were apprehensive about sudden movements in the mist. They obviously didn't like it. Who would want to be turned into a mutant or have themselves replaced by a wicked copy?
There were even a few who pointed their spears with mumbled words as she approached.
She spotted a young girl, dressed in a red shirt. Jean frowned. She wanted to give the kid something, but in a place like this, giving such a weak child money would likely lead to her death. Well, she could just induct her into the pavilion, but the faction did not accept girls of her age. Just stay alive for a few more years, then you'll be free from this life.
She ducked around a corner, walking down a red-drifted alley. Luckily, there were glass-contained eternal lamps on the sides, although the lights were dimmed as beggars huddled around them for warmth.
She approached the brown door at the end of the alleyway. A brothel. Like most of its kind, the brothel was a place where noblemen could come to have their fantasies actualized using the lowly beastmen. I think they mostly now prefer furries. Jean thought with a smile. Maybe dressing like one would be the best move to catch them young.
The brothels were managed by pleasure masters who, despite their name, actually had no true connection to the Pleasure Pavilion, except for the occasional bringing of new girls to join in.
Nonetheless, the occupation of pleasure masters was mostly centered around maintaining beastmen brothels and the occasional human whorehouses, although the latter is now so rare that they are almost nonexistent. Well, except for the Pleasure Pavilion.
Reaching the door, she spotted two brutes standing there. They were dressed in dust-stained white shirts and black trousers, their hands trailing and twirling fang-toothed daggers. They quickly looked at her, quivering before one of them spat on the ground with a sharp gaze.
What a weird passcode, she thought before raising her left hand, spreading apart her legs. This was the passcode to the meeting, but Jean decided to add her own touch. She slowly lowered her hands, trailing them across her cleavage, which showed a bit of her fair bosom. She then slowly bent down, touched her shoes, and stood back up. Just then, she spotted a fist-sized hole in the ground. What's that? she thought.
The thugs were in a daze as if contemplating whether to abandon their post to devour the lady. Which, in a way, was a normal reaction to a vixen who secretly used her charm on them. However, they were veterans, or at least used to the situation. Who knew how many vixens they had already bedded? Nonetheless, they simply moved back a bit with a confused shuffle. They then handed her a stone carved in a fang shape. It's like they couldn't make it more obvious that they were the Poison Fang, Jean mused.
She pulled the door open, entering and passing through a filthy dining room, the floor scattered with tracked-in red dust. As she approached the far wall, she could see a splintery wooden door set in the room's corner. A man seated by the door looked at her, nodded slightly, and pushed the door open. Jean strolled into the small room beyond.
A wave of musky-scented heat washed over her face. Almost instantly, she took off the hood, touching her forehead as it quickly laced with sweat. She looked around.
The room wasn't big, and there were numerous tables occupied by men who spoke or shouted, each of them holding drinks and occasionally pointing fingers at another at a different table.
There were numerous unprotected eternal flames burning on the walls. But now that she looked at it, Jean couldn't be sure whether they were eternal or regular flames. Chances were that humanity had long forgotten about regular old flames made from wood and other things.
Ahead, at the front of the room, was a three-step-high stage where three seats were arranged, with two already occupied. The men on them were Heinrich and Galf, two of the three leaders of the Poison Fang gang, with the last being Harrison.
Heinrich was seated at the center, drinking some alcohol from a pitch-black bottle. He had white hair, with saggy cheeks that resembled a dog. The man wore a well-tucked white robe, with a black cape fitted around his collar. He often grunted before saying words like, "Speak your truth or die." But he was a cautious man nonetheless.
Galf, on the other hand, sat on the right, silently observing the crowd. He had long dreadlocked hair that cascaded like vines down his back. He had a manly, grayish face, deep black eyes, and a certain barbaric demeanor. He seemed like someone who would be strong to bed, but that would mean he had experience. Jean snorted.
Seems like they're waiting for Harrison then. Jean looked around, hoping to find a table with weaklings, since those kinds of people were usually the most virgin a man could be. I can entertain myself before having to tell the boy about the place. However, she froze. Seated at a table near the right wall, the familiar boy with black hair and black eyes sat, staring solemnly at the gang leaders.
How? Jean was surprised. She knew there was no way he knew about the place, considering he asked her to find it. This meant he either knew but was testing her or didn't and somehow found out in the span of one day. But how could he? She paused. Is this an event brought about by the vortex? Did the knowledge of this place somehow come to him through coincidence and actions? Even so... that fast?
She stared at him for a while before finally heaving a sigh. If this was a vortex-made event, then she couldn't really escape it, since any attempt she made might still be part of it. And since her order was to help him in any way she could... she didn't really have a choice.
However, there was an upside to things: He was seated with weak-looking men!
She strolled to his table, pulling back a chair and taking a seat. The boys at the table all glanced at her. And—each and every one of them—awed at her. And her charm wasn't even on this time.
"Pure to you," she said with a smile.
"Pure to you, miss," one of the boys at the table said. He then stood up, passing a black bottle to her. "Do you want some, miss?"
Openly? Jean felt like frowning. Despite her actions, she didn't like being openly pursued. She preferred to be the one doing the pursuing. I can't have these people knowing that he is a vortex. And even if they don't know what that is, being at the same table might not necessarily be a good thing. Knowing this, she released her charm. Its cooldown was fortunately only in minutes.
The men at the table froze, their mouths parted into dazed smiles, their cheeks flushing with a blood-redness. They moved close to her but stopped when she raised her hand.
"Please," she said, "find yourself another table."