Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
A dull knocking sound pierced the rusted corrugated iron walls, its rhythm strange: three short, two long, one short.
Cyril was wiping charcoal marks off the wall with his sleeve. Hearing the noise, he did not stop his movements, merely tilting his head slightly.
It was a common signal among the drifters of the Lower Hive, a rhythm knocked only when one was at a dead end and ready to risk their life.
Scar reflexively reached for the bolter at his waist, the weapon clacking crisply against his belt buckle. Just as he raised the barrel half an inch, Cyril lifted his soot-covered hand and pressed his palm down.
"Open the window."
Scar froze for a moment, his finger unmoving on the trigger guard as his eyes flicked toward the welded-shut iron window.
"If you don't want him leading his pursuers here, move faster," Cyril said flatly, tossing a half-spent piece of charcoal into the scrap bin.
Only then did Scar stow his gun with a string of curses, striding over to kick open the rickety latch on the window.
Following a tooth-gritting screech of friction, a dark shadow rolled over the windowsill, thudding heavily onto the oil-stained concrete floor.
An extremely pungent smell followed, low-grade industrial disinfectant mixed with the stench of stale blood and the sour cold sweat of someone in extreme terror.
The newcomer was a youth clad in tattered coveralls of indistinguishable color. His left arm hung unnaturally, and the tip of his index finger was bare. The entire nail had been ripped off, leaving dark red granulation tissue exposed and oozing beads of blood.
Scar stepped forward, but before his boot could connect, the boy had already dropped to his knees, his forehead thumping repeatedly against the concrete.
"Are the lords of the Black Hand Gang here... I'm Lil Mouse... I have information... Please, save my life!"
His voice trembled, thick with tears, as if a glob of phlegm were stuck in his throat.
What kind of rapper's name is that, huh?
Cyril remained silent, standing in the shadows and unhurriedly straightening his cuffs. He looked at the shivering heap of flesh on the ground, his gaze lingering for a second on the finger missing its nail.
"Raise your head."
Lil Mouse shuddered and slowly lifted a face so filthy that only the whites of his eyes were clean. A ring of bruising surrounded his eye sockets. He had clearly just taken a beating.
Cyril took a step forward, his leather shoes making a faint cracking sound as they stepped on shards of broken glass.
"What are you looking at?" Cyril asked suddenly.
Lil Mouse was dazed by the question. His eyes instinctively drifted toward the wall behind Cyril that had just been wiped clean. His pupils dilated instantly, and his breathing became as erratic as a broken bellows.
"I... I'm looking..."
"You're looking for someone." Cyril crouched down, his eyes level with Lil Mouse's. Those black eyes held no emotion, as if observing a specimen. "Who told you I was here?"
"No... no one!" Lil Mouse shook his head frantically, his crippled finger clawing several bloody streaks into the floor. "I saw Scar-ge and you giving Old Cripple money at the wastewater station... I followed you... I saw you seemed to be looking for clues, and I knew you were that lord who can see the future... I... I'm truly at a dead end."
Scar snorted from the side, pointing his gun at Lil Mouse's head. "Bullshit. How did I not notice a tail? Tell the truth, or I'll blow your head off."
Lil Mouse shrank into a ball in fear, but his mouth still repeated, "Really... I really saw..."
Cyril waved his hand, signaling Scar to back off.
From the nearby tool bench, he picked up the scalpel he had used for the demonstration earlier. The blade still bore some rust spots, glinting with an ominous dark yellow under the dim light.
The cold back of the blade touched Lil Mouse's neck, raising a layer of goosebumps.
"I don't like listening to nonsense." Cyril's hand was steady as the tip of the blade slid down the throbbing carotid artery, finally stopping in the hollow of the collarbone. "When did the people of the Iron Crow Gang become so spineless that they'd come to Black Hand Gang territory to beg for help?"
Lil Mouse froze.
A large hole in his left sleeve revealed a black tattoo, a crow with spread wings, the mark of the Iron Crow Gang.
"My brother..." Mouse gritted his teeth, tears carving two tracks through the soot on his face. "That bastard Crow took him... said going for 'Ascension' was a blessing... but I've seen the people who come back... they're not human anymore! They've changed... they even howl... No matter how stupid I am, I know that when my brother comes back, he won't be my 'brother' anymore."
Cyril's knife didn't move. "What does that have to do with me? In the Lower Hive, a dead brother is no big deal."
"He's only twelve!" Lil Mouse suddenly roared, leaning forward so that his neck pressed a bloody line against the scalpel. "He hasn't killed anyone yet! He hasn't even tasted a woman! He shouldn't turn into that kind of monster! As long as you save my brother, I'll help you with any clues or secrets you want to know. I'm the most well-informed when it comes to news!"
After roaring this, he seemed drained of all strength, slumping down and panting heavily.
Cyril stared into his eyes for three seconds.
The despair was real. The hatred was also real.
"You want me to help you?" Cyril retracted the scalpel, spinning it between his fingers. "Besides, you're from the Iron Crow Gang. Why should I trust you? Given the relationship between the Black Hand and the Iron Crow, killing you here would be perfectly justified, wouldn't it, Mousey?"
Lil Mouse was stunned. He watched the knife flipping back and forth in Cyril's hand and suddenly seemed to understand something.
He reached into his coat, his movement so fast that Scar almost fired.
But what he pulled out was not a weapon, but a sharpened screwdriver.
"Lord Prophet, I may be a lowlife of the Iron Crow Gang, but I know the rules."
Gritting his teeth, Lil Mouse pressed his left hand to the floor and gripped the screwdriver with his right, stabbing it fiercely into the Crow tattoo on his left arm.
Pshhh.
The sound of a sharp tool piercing flesh.
He did not scream, only letting out a dying rasp from his throat. With a horizontal pull of the screwdriver, the flesh tore open, and the black Crow was instantly submerged in blood.
But he was not finished.
Over the bloody, mangled wound, he carved another vertical line, the "X" mark of the Black Hand Gang.
New scars covered old loyalties.
Blood dripped from his arm onto the floor, quickly gathering into a small puddle.
Drenched in sweat from the pain, Lil Mouse's face was deathly pale, but his eyes were fixed on Cyril. "Now... I only have you. Going back means death, so I might as well take a gamble."
Cyril looked at the still-bleeding arm and finally tossed the scalpel back onto the table.
"Bandage it up." Cyril pulled a roll of bandages from his pocket and threw it to him. "This blood scent is too strong. It'll ruin my plans."
Lil Mouse scrambled to catch the bandages, wrapping them haphazardly. He even forgot to say thank you, merely staring expectantly at this mysterious, powerful figure.
"I want to know the place where Crow and the Adeptus Mechanicus are conducting their secrets and the so-called 'Ascension Experiments.' I need to enter that place." Cyril lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating half his face. "If you don't know, you have no value."
The color that had just returned to Mouse's face drained away again.
"I know, I know, L-Lord... you want to go to the 'Ascension Sanctuary'?" His voice was shaking. "But that place is impossible to enter! It was converted from an old underground geothermal plant. Only Crow, his inner circle, and that person in the red robe can enter the core area! The entrance is crawling with servitors armed with heavy machine guns. Not even a fly can get in!"
"I didn't say I was going to barge in." Cyril exhaled a puff of smoke. "I heard that red-robe has been recruiting lately?"
Lil Mouse paused, seemingly searching his memory. "Yes... they're recruiting porters. They say it's for handling waste, but it's actually to carry out the people who die on the operating table... and dump them into the septic tank."
At this, he shuddered again. "But that red-robe... that guy called the Rust Sage, he inspects everyone personally! He has a strange nose... like a detector that can smell the scent of outsiders with ulterior motives. Last time, a spy from a small gang tried to sneak in, and he was exposed and torn in half by a servo-arm before he even reached the door."
"Smell the scent?" Cyril smiled, a smile that made Scar's back feel cold.
He turned to Scar. "Go, find me two sets of clothes. The kind corpse-carriers wear, the dirtier the better. Also, get some lime powder and some cheap greasepaint."
Scar didn't dare ask more and ran out.
Ten minutes later, Scar returned clutching a pile of foul-smelling rags.
Cyril showed no sign of disgust. He took off his relatively decent coat and changed into the coveralls stained with engine oil and unknown filth.
The clothes were a bit large, but he found a piece of hemp rope to tie around his waist, and the aura of a destitute vagrant immediately emerged.
He sat at the three-legged table, poured lime powder into his palm, mixed it with a bit of glue and dirt, and began rubbing it onto his hands.
Those hands were originally long and clean, suited for performing magic or holding a wine glass. But under his rubbing, a layer of grey-white crust slowly covered his fingertips and palms.
Once the mixture dried, it looked like calluses built up from years of heavy lifting, rough, thick, and completely obscuring his fingerprints.
Next was his face.
Instead of using the greasepaint, he mixed charcoal ash with the blood Lil Mouse had dripped on the floor and smeared a few streaks on his face.
He deepened the shadows under his cheekbones and pulled down the corners of his eyes.
The high and mighty noble air instantly vanished, replaced by the dullness and sleaziness of someone suffering from long-term malnutrition.
Scar's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "B-Boss, is this a disguise? You've practically swapped your head!"
"This is called survival instinct." Cyril checked himself in a broken mirror and sewed a hidden pocket into his sleeve.
The rose knot representing the authority of the Inquisition was tucked into the innermost layer, pressed against the pulse of his wrist.
In the outer pocket, he stuffed a vial of potent sedative he'd swiped from the Stitch Hag, a dose intended for neutering grox, enough to make even a Space Marine wobble after one injection.
There was also a small bag of magnesium powder, a magician's essential tool for escaping.
Having finished all this, Cyril stood up, his back hunched and his eyes becoming cloudy and dull.
He walked up to Lil Mouse, and his voice had changed too, becoming raspy and coarse, as if he had swallowed a handful of sand.
"From now on, I'm not Cyril."
He pointed to his grime-covered face.
"I'm Tertius. My nickname can be Old Three. We grew up in the same scrapyard. I'm your slightly dim-witted but very strong cousin."
Lil Mouse looked at this completely foreign "cousin," his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit a lightbulb. It took him a long while to stutter out, "B-Big Cousin?"
Cyril ignored him and turned to Scar.
"You stay here and monitor that frequency." He pointed to the communicator Scar had brought. "If I don't send a signal within two hours, take everyone to that sewer outlet and start a fire. The bigger the fire, the better. Make a scene."
"Understand?"
Scar swallowed hard and nodded heavily. "Understood! Boss... please be careful."
Cyril said no more and gave Lil Mouse a shove.
"Let's go. Lead the way."
He narrowed his eyes, looking at the shadows shrouded in smog outside the window.
"Let's go see what good things those Crows are hiding down there."