Chapter 1
1104 Words
"Captain?"
Qin Lie stood concealed within the shadows of the stairwell's landing. No one saw him. As the man drew level with him, Qin Lie struck. His left hand clamped down on the man's jaw, while the knife in his right hand slashed across his throat. Blood spurted against the wall. The man went limp; Qin Lie caught the falling body, gently lowering it onto the steps without making a sound.
One left.
Qin Lie continued his descent. There was light at the end of the underground tunnel. The last man stood in the center of the passage, clutching a cylindrical object in his hand.
"Don't come any closer!" the man's voice trembled.
Qin Lie did not stop.
The man pulled the pin. A flashbang. A blinding burst of light erupted. Qin Lie squeezed his eyes shut, but it was too late. His vision went completely white, and his ears rang incessantly. Seizing the opportunity, the man opened fire. A bullet struck Qin Lie in the thigh. A searing pain shot through him.
Relying on instinct and memory, Qin Lie lunged forward, slamming into the man's waist. The two tumbled to the ground. The man attempted to draw a knife, but Qin Lie's right-hand fingernails elongated—turning pitch-black and razor-sharp—and plunged directly into the man's chest.
He went still.
Gasping for breath, Qin Lie leaned against the wall. His vision slowly returned. Blood flowed from the wound in his leg, staining his trouser leg crimson. He tore a strip from his clothing to bind the wound. Then, rising to his feet, he returned to the workshop above ground.
The captain was still behind the shelving units; having just regained consciousness, he was attempting to crawl away. Qin Lie walked over and delivered a final thrust with his dagger. The man breathed his last.
He began to search the body. Inside the captain's pocket, he found a small metal case. He opened it to reveal a short sword lying within. Its blade was etched with runes and glowed with a faint, dark-gold luster. Qin Lie grasped the hilt.
It burned.
Not with physical heat, but with memories.
The fires of a century ago. Screams of agony. The banner of the Silver Cross Society planted atop a mound of corpses. Werewolves being flayed alive inside their cages. Blood flowing down the gutters and into the river.
Qin Lie's hand trembled. The short sword slipped from his grasp and clattered against the floor with a sharp, ringing sound.
He bent down and picked it up again. This time, he did not let go. His fingertips traced the runes etched into the blade. Those images continued to flash through his mind, yet they were no longer blurred or indistinct. He could clearly make out the faces of the demon hunters. He could clearly see the emblem embroidered on the hem of the bishop's robes—the man who had commanded the s*******r.
Blood continued to drip from his leg. Qin Lie sheathed the short sword in his belt and walked toward the workshop's main doors.
Outside, the wind had picked up. It blew against his face—cool and crisp.
Qin Lie stepped over the captain's corpse without looking back. His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out; the screen displayed an unknown number. He answered the call. "The squad has gone dark." It was the voice of an older man.
Qin Lie remained silent.
"Qin Lie?" the voice on the other end probed.
Qin Lie hung up. He tossed his phone into a nearby scrap bin. Pressing his palm against the wall, he exerted force; cracks spiderwebbed across the concrete surface.
He needed medicine. He needed intelligence. He needed to know exactly where that Bishop was right now.
Qin Lie walked out of the factory. The night was thick and heavy. In the distance, the city blazed with lights—yet no one there knew that, just moments ago, several people had died right here. He pulled the brim of his hat low to conceal his forehead, which was still bleeding. His stride was steady; he did not limp.
Revenge need not be rushed. But the first step had already been taken.
A black sedan was parked by the roadside. A window rolled down, revealing half a face—a woman's face, with crimson lips and a cigarette held between her fingers.
"Get in," the woman said.
Qin Lie pulled open the door and slid into the passenger seat. The heater inside the car was blasting. The woman stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and handed him a first-aid kit.
"Su Hongxiu," the woman introduced herself. "Old K sent me."
Qin Lie took the kit. He opened it to find styptic powder and bandages inside. He began to tend to the wound on his leg, his movements practiced and efficient.
"Does the Silver Cross Society know it was you?" Su Hongxiu asked.
"Not yet," Qin Lie replied.
"They will soon," Su Hongxiu said as she started the engine. "That sword carries a tracking rune."
Qin Lie looked down at the short sword sheathed at his waist. The rune etched into it had gone dark.
"Remove it," Qin Lie said.
"Can't be removed. It's a Holy Artifact," Su Hongxiu said, flooring the gas pedal as the car surged into the night. "Not unless you find the man who forged the sword."
"Where is he?"
"Dead. Died a hundred years ago," Su Hongxiu glanced into the rearview mirror. "Unless... someone brought him back to life."
The car turned onto the main road. Streetlights flashed past, one after another. Qin Lie leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. The wound throbbed, yet his mind remained razor-sharp.
The fire that had raged a century ago had reignited this very night.
He pressed his hand against the short sword, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.
"Where to?" Su Hongxiu asked. "Find Old K."
"He's in hiding."
"Then dig him out."
Su Hongxiu offered no reply. The car accelerated. The roar of the engine drowned out Qin Lie's heavy breathing. He opened his eyes, gazing out at the streetscape flashing past the window. Flashing neon signs reflected in his pupils—looking just like blood.
The short sword at his waist felt scorching hot, reminding him that time was running out.
The Demon Hunters would not stop. And neither could he.
The car vanished around the bend at the intersection. The abandoned factory fell silent once more. Nothing remained but the bloodstains on the ground, slowly drying and turning black.
- Writer
