Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroinu: Kedakaki Seijo wa Hakudaku ni Somaru. They belong to their respective owners.
Enjoy.
The stench of rot and despair hung heavy in the air of the downtrodden district, a festering wound in the carcass of Eostia as rain slicked the cobblestone streets, turning the already dim alleys into black veins pulsing with shadow and wickedness.
Here, in the forgotten corners of the capital, the iron fist of the Dawn Templars, protectors of the Goddess Reincarnated, barely registered.
They patrolled the grand boulevards and the noble estates, their... rather questionable piece of armour gleaming under the weak sunlight that dared to pierce the perpetual gloom of Eostia.
But down here, amidst the crumbling tenements and overflowing gutters, another kind of law prevailed – the law of the knife, the fist, and the corrupt coin.
Tonight, a particularly loud argument echoed from a darkened doorway.
A merchant, fat and sweating even in the chill air, pleaded with a trio of thugs, their faces scarred and eyes hungry.
He clutched a bulging purse to his chest, his voice cracking with fear.
It was a familiar scene, a nightly ritual in the less than stellar district of the city, one where the strong preyed upon the weak, and the cries of the weak are swallowed by the city's indifference.
Soon, the merchant would be stripped bare, perhaps beaten, perhaps worse, another victim added to the invisible tally of the district's suffering and another pile of refuse that no one would mourn, no one would avenge.
But tonight, the shadows held a different kind of predator.
For a whisper of movement, too swift to catch with the eye, rippled through the darkness.
The thugs, momentarily distracted by their victim's pathetic pleas, didn't notice the shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature that wasn't just the night's chill and before they could react, the darknessmove.
A figure detached itself from the deeper shadows of the alleyway, clad in a hooded cloak of dark grey, the edges tipped with a disturbing crimson, he was a creature born of the gloom as white patterns, stark and geometric, like skeletal bones arranged in a distorted pattern, adorned the cloak, along with stylized skulls that seemed to leer from the fabric.
His face is hidden behind a metallic mask, bronze and cold, shaped into a skull, its empty sockets burning with an unnatural ruby light and black leather encased his body, ending in gloves tipped with wicked claws that glinted in the faint light spilling from a nearby tavern.
In his hand, he held a dagger – not a knightly weapon, but something far more sinister, appearing to be long, curved, and honed to an impossible sharpness, it's blade seemed to drink the surrounding light.
He moved with a liquid grace, a whisper of sound amidst the city's grime and the thugs barely registered his presence before he was upon them.
The air crackled with the swift passage of his blade as one thug gasped, clutching at his throat as crimson blossomed on his rough tunic.
Another stumbled back, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the first thug crumple to the ground.
But before he could even raise his own crude knife, the vigilante was upon him, a blur of black leather and gleaming metal, and then the thug joined his companion on the rain-soaked stones.
The third, and largest, thug roared, drawing a heavy cudgel from his belt as he swung wildly, hoping to crush the shadowy figure.
But the vigilante was gone, a phantom shifting through the alley as the cudgel thudded against only empty air.
Then, pain, searing and blinding, exploded in the thug's leg and as he yelped, he dropped the cudgel as he look down to see the vigilante's dagger withdrawn, leaving a gash that seemed to cleave bone as easily as flesh.
Before the thug could fall, the vigilante was behind him, the curved blade flashing again as the silence descended, broken only by the heavy rain and the ragged breathing of the merchant, who had scrambled back against the wall, eyes wide with terror, witnessing a scene far more terrifying than any petty robbery.
The vigilante ignored the merchant as his ruby eyes, visible through the skull mask, scanned the fallen thugs, ensuring his work is done.
As he moved with a chilling efficiency, a predator ensuring his kill, he moves again with the same silent grace as he turned and melted back into the shadows.
His reputation preceded him, whispered in hushed tones in the dark corners of both the downtrodden city and beyond.
They called him the Nightskull, or sometimes, the Red-Eyed Reaper. Some saw him as a savior, a dark angel delivering justice where the Dawn Templars had failed. Others whispered that he was a monster, just another face of the city's depravity, albeit one that preyed on other predators.
Tonight, his prey was not a common thug, but a nobleman – Lord Arshloch, known for his opulent lifestyle built upon the backs of the city's poor and his blatant corruption, even amidst the desperate times.
Arshloch, enjoying a late-night rendezvous in a less-than-reputable establishment, found himself dragged into the alleyway by the Nightskull.
"Do you know who I am, you street filth?" Arshloch sputtered, his face flushed with wine and outrage, struggling in the vigilante's iron grip. "You'll hang for this! My family—"
The Nightskull said nothing but he simply tightened his grip, the clawed gloves digging into Arshloch's expensive tunic and pulled the noble further into the darkness, away from the flickering lamplight of the brothel.
Arshloch's bravado began to crumble, replaced by genuine fear as he looked into the unreadable depths of the skull mask and the burning red eyes.
"Please… money… I'll give you anything…" he stammered, his voice losing its arrogant edge.
The Nightskull stopped in the deepest part of the alley, where the shadows were absolute.
He released Arshloch from his grip, letting the noble stumble back, scrambling for breath and Arshloch, mistaking this for an opportunity to escape, turned to flee.
Only for the Nightskull to be faster and in a movement too quick for the eye to follow, the curved dagger flashed.
There was a sickening thud, followed by the wet splattering of blood on the cobblestones as Arshloch's ornate collar slumped forward, stained with crimson as his severed head rolled silently into the gutter, its eyes wide with frozen horror, the last vestiges of aristocratic arrogance wiped away by the grim reality of his execution.
The Nightskull stood over the headless corpse for a moment, his silhouette a stark contrast against the rain-washed stones.
Then, he heard them.
Footsteps, light and purposeful, approaching the alley entrance as more than one, they moved with a disciplined cadence that spoke of training and purpose.
The Dawn Templars, he recognized them as the sound and the rhythm of their movements, from the countless nights spent observing the city. And at their head, he sensed a different presence, sharper, brighter – Princess Alicia Arcturus herself.
"Halt!" Alicia's voice, clear and ringing, echoed in the alley. "In the name of the Goddess, you are under arrest!"
The Nightskull turned, his ruby eyes glinting in the dim light as the Dawn Templars entered the alley, forming a semi-circle, their swords drawn and gleaming. Alicia stood at the front, her blonde hair, usually long and graceful, is slightly disheveled, as if she had rushed here.
Her face is set in a determined line, her blue eyes burning with righteous anger as she held her own blade, a gleaming white steel edged with a faint blue luminescence, pointed directly at him.
"The rumors are true," Alicia said, her voice tight with disgust. "A masked butcher, preying on the city under the cloak of night. Surrender now, and you may yet receive the Goddess's mercy."
Mercy.
The word tasted like ash in the Nightskull's mind.
Mercy was a luxury Eostia could no longer afford.
Mercy had allowed the corruption to fester, the monsters to breed, the innocent to suffer.
He had seen too much of the Goddess's 'mercy' in the blood-soaked alleys of Elden.
Instead of answering, the Nightskull moved but not towards them, but upwards and with a burst of seemingly impossible agility, he leaped, his black-clad form blurring as he scaled the wall of the alleyway, using the uneven stones and crumbling mortar as footholds as he moved with a speed and grace that defied human limitations, like a phantom climbing the very fabric of the night.
Alicia reacted instantly and with a frustrated cry, she lashed out with her blade, a whip-like strike aimed to cut him down mid-climb as the enchanted steel whistled through the air, leaving a trail of faint blue light.
But the Nightskull was already too high, too fast and the blade only sliced through empty air, narrowly missing his cloak, leaving a scorch mark on the stone wall.
By the time the Dawn Templars reacted, drawing their bows and preparing to loose arrows, the Nightskull had reached the rooftops, moving across the uneven tiles with the same impossible grace, leaping across gaps and disappearing into the labyrinthine maze of the city's rooftops.
Alicia watched him go, her chest heaving with exertion and anger as she lowered her blade, her blue eyes narrowed, still fixed on the direction he had fled.
The rain continued to fall, washing away the blood from the cobblestones, but not the stench of corruption, nor the bitter taste of failure.
"Fan out!" she barked to her Templars, her voice sharp with command. "Search the rooftops! He cannot have vanished that easily!"
The Dawn Templars, disciplined and loyal, obeyed instantly, dispersing to scour the surrounding rooftops.
But Alicia knew, deep down, that it was futile for the Nightskull is gone, swallowed by the darkness as if he were a creature of the shadows themselves.
She looked down at the headless corpse of Lord Arshloch, lying discarded in the gutter like a piece of refuse.
Justice? Perhaps.
But it was a brutal, savage justice, dealt by a figure as enigmatic and dangerous as the darkness he stalked.
Alicia clenched her fist, her knuckles white against the hilt of her sword.
He had made a fool of her, escaped her grasp with contemptuous ease.
But more than that, he had challenged the order she represented, the very foundations of justice and faith she upheld.
"I will find you," she vowed, her voice low and resolute, the rain doing little to wash away the steel in her tone. "Nightskull. I swear it upon the Goddess herself. You will not evade justice forever."
The rain continued to fall, washing over the city of Eostia, a city drowning in its own filth and despair.
And somewhere in the shadows, the Nightskull moved, a predator in the darkness, leaving a trail of blood and unanswered questions in his wake, a grim counterpoint to the failing light of faith and order, and the cold promise echoing in the night air.
The hunt had just begun.
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As always...
Ciao...