The chaotic sound of footsteps behind him shattered Erika's paralysis—the moment he'd witnessed the Crawler's monstrous shedding—like a blunt club.
More than one person. Heavy boots stomping into the black mud, making a sickening squelch. The vibrations traveled through the slick ground, biting deeply into the soles of his feet. That nerve—aching as if Cole had snapped it—spasmed violently again, jolting terror straight into the back of his skull.
He was still fleeing through this hell.
Adrenaline instantly crushed the churning in his stomach. He didn't have time to look back. His legs, driven by a stray dog's instinct, surged with explosive force, vaulting over the frail girl curled in the muck, plunging desperately toward the darkest, narrowest alleyway.
One step. Two steps.
BAM!
His momentum was too fierce; he nearly crashed into a human wall. The sharp pain in his foot made him stagger to a halt, half his body nearly pitching into the torchlight ahead.
Faces, illuminated by torches. Dirty, exhausted, yet gleaming with a morbid frenzy. The most glaring were the blurred, dark red marks on their foreheads, cheeks, or chins—like undried blood, like scorched brands.
Followers of the "Red Hand."
Those fanatical yet vigilant eyes all snapped in unison onto Erika. Sizing up prey? Or weeding out an outsider?
Erika's scalp crawled. Instinctively, he raised his remaining left hand to shield himself, his feet inching backward. He clenched his jaw, silent. In this godforsaken place, shouting "I'm one of you" or "Stay back" was a sure way to speed up your death.
He spun sharply, searching for an escape.
And met another line of torches.
Another group was approaching through the muddy water from the other end of the alley. No frenzy. No red marks. Dark, uniform gear melted into the night, unidentified metal implements at their belts refracting cold arcs of light. Their steps were perfectly synchronized, carrying the mechanical, emotionless indifference of a slaughterhouse assembly line.
Night Patrol. The root cause of the girl's ultimate fear.
Fanatics ahead. Hounds behind.
Erika's feet froze dead in their tracks. He retreated half an inch, the followers' torches pressed forward a fraction. He sidled a step, the Night Patrol's iron boots sealed that blind spot. The invisible meat grinder was closing in.
These two extremely dangerous forces were crushing him back, step by step, to his starting point.
His back nearly touched a cold, trembling object—the girl curled in the mud. She was still there, motionless, whether unconscious from fear or waiting to die.
Erika stood frozen in the very center of this dead-end standoff.
Torch pitch crackled, popping. The dazzling halos blurred his vision. The air was thick with the noxious blend of mud, pine resin, and blood.
No one spoke.
Followers stared at Night Patrol. Night Patrol stared at followers. And Erika was the living target caught between the blades.
He maintained his left-hand defensive posture, cold sweat trailing down his temples. His empty right sleeve swayed limply once in the foul night breeze.
Erika silently retreated until his back pressed firmly against the slippery, moss-covered brick wall.
Two starkly contrasting killing intents collided in the dead-end alley, severely compressing the air between them. Icy mud seeping from the wall cracks slowly soaked through his outer coarse white robe, then seeped into the slippery dark blue soft robe beneath, chilling him to the marrow.
To the left of the alley, the followers held their torches high. Pine resin burned, but the flames swayed violently—not from wind, but from the uncontrollable trembling of the hands gripping them. Extreme fear and morbid euphoria blended together, making the dark red brands on their foreheads and chins jerk wildly with every facial muscle twitch.
On the other side, the Night Patrol's formation was like a black iron wall. Torches held steadily aloft, motionless. Beneath the dark uniforms were faces stripped of humanity, utterly apathetic. Their gazes didn't linger on Erika or the followers at all, but nailed dead onto the girl curled in the mud like knife edges.
He could not let things spiral out of control.
If a melee erupted, the glaring flames and screams would absolutely draw more people. If the one blocking the alley mouth wasn't the Night Patrol, but that dirty white robe… Erika could almost imagine Cole looking at him with that unnervingly deadpan tone and asking, "Done running?"
He forcibly suppressed his heart, threatening to burst through his ribs, and shrank deeper into the darkest shadow.
The Mark was his only trump card. In this godforsaken place with no way to recharge, every drop of residual energy was a bargaining chip to save his life, absolutely not to be squandered lightly.
Left? Torches too dense, the followers' eyes like starving wild dogs. Right? The Night Patrol's formation was flawless, the reflections from their metal gear blinding and lethal. The escape route was sealed. Straight ahead was the battleground of the standoff.
The deadlock was shattered by a dull thud.
From the Night Patrol formation, the lead shadowy figure casually flicked his wrist. A movement as light as discarding a smelly rag.
Thud!
A short dagger traced a dull arc through the air, embedding with pinpoint accuracy into the black mud less than three inches before the girl. The handle still vibrated violently, the blade gleaming with a sickly pale, icy light in the torchlight.
"Stop playing dead, filth."
The leader's voice was utterly flat. As plain as commenting on the night's weather, yet this emotionless tone was more hair-raising than any hysterical roar.
The girl remained curled in the mud, face buried deep, motionless.
Erika held his breath completely. The throbbing in his foot still danced wildly along his nerves, reminding him of the cruel reality.
He waited.
For the girl's reaction, for the Night Patrol's advance, for the followers to lose control. For this powder keg, on the verge of exploding, to finally detonate, creating a blood-soaked path for him to escape in the chaos.
The frail frame in the mud began to convulse violently.
Not the slight trembling from cold or fear, but violent tremors erupting from deep in her chest, wave after wave. The tattered, mud-caked garment rustled with each spasm, making a teeth-grinding sound.
Broken whimpers leaked from deep in her throat. Every shattered syllable was desperately bitten back, choked in her lungs, making her whole body shake. It was despair trapped in her windpipe, unable to be expelled, unable to be swallowed.
"Get it over with."
The Night Patrol leader's voice smashed down again. The utterly flat tone echoed in the deathly still alley.
"Only by doing it yourself can you settle the karma."
Erika pressed hard against the wall base. What karma? Settle what? He had no way of knowing. He only saw that the instant the girl heard those words, her convulsions abruptly intensified. The desperately suppressed whimpers revealed the utter ashen despair of a death row inmate finally hearing the countdown to execution.
"Aaaahhhhh—"
In the distance, another piercing, inhuman scream tore through Darenz's dead of night. The sound refracted and overlapped between the crooked shacks, finally coalescing into a suffocating wave of noise, ruthlessly pressing the entire slum into the abyss.
"Hurry up!"
An impatient roar burst from the Night Patrol formation. The dark uniforms, previously still as an iron wall, simultaneously emitted icy killing intent. The perfectly synchronized pressure, like a tangible wall, came crashing down upon the girl on the ground.
The girl maintained her curled posture.
But the hand she'd kept hidden at her side finally moved.
Extremely slow, as if every movement was grinding her own bones to dust. Withered fingers groped blindly in the muddy water, tracing a shallow trench instantly filled by the foul water.
Her fingertips finally touched that cold, sharp edge.
She flinched sharply, as if electrocuted. But this instinctive recoil lasted only a second. The next instant, that hand reached out again, with the absolute finality of having no retreat.
Her fingers gripped the knife handle tightly.
The icy blade was still coated with black mud, flickering in and out of the dancing torchlight.
The girl still hadn't raised her head. Her shoulders still shook violently, shattered whimpers still clogged her throat. But the hand gripping the knife tightened inch by inch, terrifyingly steady.
Erika held his breath, his back pressed tightly against the slippery brick gaps.
He recognized that posture. It was exactly the same way she'd desperately used all her strength to cover the mutated man's mouth just moments ago.
That wasn't the aggressive posture of someone about to attack.
That was the absolute resolve of someone preparing to make a final end.
—End what?
Erika's mind went blank. He didn't dare think further.