"There! Kill him!"
The crowd screamed. Crimson beams hummed and cracked through the air as Curze nestled in the shadows, silently watching them fire at an empty wall.
They had thermal imaging, but Curze had already mastered the art of regulating his own body heat, blending it seamlessly with the surrounding environment. They couldn't catch him.
The Spire commanded millions of elite soldiers, and united, they would have had a real chance at wiping out the Midnight Phantoms.
But those armies did not belong to one ruler, just like the gangs of the underhive, each force owed loyalty to its own family.
If a family dared order their troops to hunt the Phantoms, they would leave themselves unprotected. Curze would nail them to their throne before their soldiers even marched.
The news of the House Melvin extermination spread like wildfire through the Spire. Terrified, every noble frantiacally recalled their loyal forces to guard their palatial estates. None wanted to share Melvin's fate.
No one had the spare strength to care about the Phantoms. It didn't matter, anyway, they had cut off every lift. The Phantoms couldn't come up.
At worst, they could divide the hive: let the Phantoms have the lower hive and underhive, while nobles kept the upper hive and spire. If needed, they'd even surrender the upper hive, as long as he would negotiate.
But Curze never negotiated. He only killed.
Tens of thousands of soldiers protected the palaces, yet only a few hundred stood on any given flank or corridor.
Curze had no obsession with killing them all. He used a noble as bait, lured the soldiers into firing blindly, and slipped through the shadows into the palace.
"Why are they shooting?"
"It's the monster, the monster has come to claim us!"
"Monster?"
"The one who killed Governor Melvin. He'll kill us all!"
Two beautiful handmaids whispered in the hall, trembling with fear, never noticing the pale giant standing right before them.
They were innocent victims. Curze never slaughtered the innocent.
Caelan muttered, "Want me to ask for directions?"
"I know the way," Curze replied. "I don't need to ask anyone."
The future had already shown him the path through this labyrinthine palace, straight to the governor's throat.
Each family in the Spire was led by a governor, ruling their own sector of the upper hive and spire.
Curze stepped into the great hall. The governor sat upon his throne, as though he had expected this moment.
Thousands filled the chamber, but there were no guards. The governor had left them outside; only his blood heirs were here.
Perhaps he understood: if Curze could get this far, no number of guards would save him.
As Curze emerged from the darkness, the chamber fell into chaos, fear spreading like wildfire without a sound.
"You've finally come," said the old man on the throne, smiling faintly.
"You're not like the rumors. Not some three-headed, six-armed mutant. Just… taller than most men."
Curze said nothing, and he did not strike immediately. Not until the old man asked something unexpected.
"How is Dorothy?"
"She is well," Curze answered. "She will be a leader of the new world. She will make this world better."
"She taught you, didn't she?" the old man asked.
"She is one of my teachers."
Curze always felt Dorothy was too idealistic. He disagreed with much of her philosophy, but he respected her.
For it was her ideals that drove her to betray her family, abandon the comforts of the Spire, and live among the stench and filth of the underhive.
The old man laughed. His smile was bitter, but also relieved.
"The family never liked her, but she was always my favorite daughter." He rambled on, then glanced around. "Look at my descendants. Do you think any will survive?"
Curze nodded.
"That's enough," the old man said with release in his voice. "I understand your order. We are all guilty. As long as you spare the innocent, kill the rest as you will. I've told them already, the survivors will serve you, command the armies, keep order."
The old man had considered resistance, of course. The armies outside were his last card.
But if Curze had already reached him here, no card could change his fate. Better to die with some dignity.
Dignity, a thing most nobles never valued. But he did. His family did.
Curze pounced into the crowd. The slaughter began with a slit throat.
The nobles drew hidden weapons from beneath their finery, plasma pistols, lasguns, even ancient power swords.
They had accepted their fate, so they did not flee. But they did not want to die, so they fought back.
Perhaps, if they killed Curze, their family would endure.
Curze wrenched a power sword from a dying man's grip.
He disliked swords, but this one would serve.
The weapon blurred. Curze could swing dozens of times in a second, every arc cutting down more nobles.
Yet he still avoided the children. They carried no weapons. They alone could live.
Silk-clad men and women fell in heaps, their lifeless forms piling up, while sobbing children stood paralyzed among corpses.
The old man was the last to die.
He saw his line nearly extinguished, and the few children who remained. His face held only acceptance.
Looking at Curze, he spoke his last warning:
"What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun."
"The law protects the people," Curze answered coldly. "I protect the law, by cutting away the rot."
The blade slit his throat. He groaned, but did not raise a hand to his wound. Instead, he gripped his throne, determined to die with dignity.
"Which of you is the heir?" Curze asked the children.
"I am."
A boy stepped forward, face pale with terror, his eyes shadowed but lacking much hatred.
"What is your name?"
Curze already knew it, he had seen it in the future, but he let the boy speak.
"Marcusin," the boy said, kneeling. "I will give you the army. I will declare war on the old order." He raised his hands, offering the command-seals that controlled the troops.
"You have no surname," Curze told him. "Until your sins are redeemed, your family name will remain a curse. If you wish to restore its glory, then prove it. Prove yourselves defenders of justice. When that day comes, I will allow you to reclaim your name."
Their eyes were filled with fear and confusion, no different from the children of the underhive.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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