The streets of the Shangri district were thick with a haze that was neither mist nor smoke. It was a chemical vapor, a byproduct of the alchemical labs and drug dens that lined the narrow, winding alleys. Here, the red moonlight didn't look beautiful; it looked like an open wound bleeding into the gutters.
Under the flicker of a dying gaslamp, a young man sat on a wooden stool, his posture elegant and out of place amidst the rot. His golden hair caught the crimson light, shimmering like spun thread as he drew a bow across the strings of a violin.
The music was hypnotic. It was a rhythm that seemed to pulse in time with the city's own heartbeat. A crowd had gathered beggars, laborers, and lost souls all standing in a trance-like awe as the young violinist, Phil, played a melody that made them forget the hunger in their bellies and the grime on their skin.
He finished with a sharp, high-pitched note that lingered in the air like a ghost. For a moment, there was silence. Then, the crowd erupted in a frantic, desperate applause. Phil stood, a modest smile playing on his lips, and bowed with the grace of a man who belonged in a cathedral, not a slum.
His moment of appreciation was cut short by a heavy footfall. A man with a muscular frame and hair the color of rusted iron stepped out of the shadows. His presence was a physical weight, cutting through the music's lingering spell.
"Phil. It is time to go," the red-haired man growled.
"My apologies, guests," Phil said, his voice smooth and bright. "This is where we must stop for today. I wish you all a night free of shadows." He packed his instrument with practiced speed and stepped away, leaving the crowd to the cold reality of Shangri.
Meanwhile, in the depths of the Grand Hall, the ritual of the red moon was winding down. The golden-haired man Sir Kreshner stood amidst the carnage, his boots untouched by the blood pooling on the floor.
A woman in a deep red blouse, her face hidden behind a black lace veil, glided toward him. Her movements were silent, like a shadow moving across a wall. "Sir Kreshner..." she spoke, her voice a soft, velvet whisper.
"It looks like it is time to leave," Kreshner said, sighing as he looked at the shriveled husks of the women on the floor. "How inconvenient it is that we must still perform these... messy rituals every time we wish to cross into another land. THE TRUTHLINES demand such a vulgar toll."
"I have also brought another piece of news, Sir," the lady said, her head bowed.
Kreshner tilted his head, his golden eyes narrowing. "And what piece of news could make my night any more wretched than it already is?"
"I have received word that the Nightwalkers have learned of our presence here," the veiled lady replied. "They are approaching this gathering as we speak."
"Oh? Is that so?" Kreshner let out a dry, melodic laugh. "Well then, if we are to have more guests, it is only natural that we give them a warm welcome. It would be a tragedy if their visit went to waste."
The veiled lady hesitated, her gloved fingers twitching. "If I may speak freely, my Lord... I believe our Lord Castor would not wish for us to shed unnecessary blood tonight. We are so close to the grand goal. A skirmish with the Z Company's hounds might spoil the harvest."
Kreshner tapped his chin, looking bored. "Perhaps. And our dealings here in Shangri have been... tiresome. There is little sport to be found in these gutters. Very well, I shall leave the 'welcoming' to the others."
He turned toward the remaining men in the room, his voice rising to a command. "My fellow people, the moon is still high, but my journey calls. Enjoy the feast. Enjoy the hunt." With a flourish of his cloak, Sir Kreshner stepped backward into a corner where the shadows were thickest. He didn't just walk away; he dissolved, his form unraveling into golden threads that vanished into the darkness.
Outside, the black Chevrolet had come to a stop a block away from a derelict "drug hotel" a leaning structure of rotting wood and broken windows where the desperate went to drown their minds.
The red-haired muscular man, who had picked up Phil, met the car. He kicked a loose stone across the pavement, looking annoyed. "Those fools at the border tried to make me pay for their bills again," he grunted.
Phil walked beside him, his violin case strapped to his back. He looked at the red-haired man with a smirk. "Dude, you should invite me next time if you want to kill some ass and go on a rampage. My music can be... quite explosive when I'm bored."
They walked past the entrance of the hotel. Through the cracked doors, Ethan (Yuri) could see the "Lost Ones"—men and women slumped against the walls, their eyes glazed over from different types of alchemical drugs. The air was thick with the smell of burnt sugar and rot.
"For goodness' sake, keep quiet," the white-haired man snapped, stepping out of the car. He adjusted his gloves, his eyes fixed on a run-down building just past the drug hotel. "Everyone stay sharp. Our operation is starting on schedule. No more talk of rampages."
The four of them the white-haired leader, the lady with the noodle hair, the muscular red-haired man, and Phil moved toward the back entrance of the target building. The walls were covered in strange, frantic graffiti. It wasn't just paint; it was a series of jagged, interlocking lines that seemed to vibrate if you looked at them too long.
Ethan, inhabiting Yuri's body, knelt by the wall. He touched one of the markings. He felt a sharp, electric jolt the "Discordant Note" of the Deviants.
"They were here," the black-haired lady whispered, her hand resting on the hilt of a hidden blade. "They traced these lines to mask their presence. They've already moved into the main hall."
"It's showtime," the red-haired muscular guy said, his knuckles cracking like pistol shots.
Phil, no longer the charming street performer, reached for his violin case. His expression was cold, his golden hair shadowed by the brim of his hat. He was a Nightwalker, a guardian of the Truthlines, and the instrument on his back was no longer for music it was a weapon of precision.
The white-haired man looked at Yuri. "Yuri, you take the lead. You're the only one who can sense the 'fakes' among the shadows. Don't let your guard down."
Ethan took a deep breath, the cold air of Shangri filling his lungs. He felt the weight of the staff at his waist and the burning heat of the Pact in his soul. He wasn't Ethan Burn tonight. He was Yuri Jaeger, and he had a debt of blood to pay.
"Let's move," Yuri said.
They stepped into the darkness of the building, the sound of their boots swallowed by the silence of the hunt.