Chapter 3: The Artist Beneath the Manhole Cover
The pair trod upon the street, dusted with a fine layer of grime. The midday sun pressed their shadows short, while a hot wind swept scraps of paper past their ankles. Deathbattle Nightbloom walked ahead, her tail tip tapping the ground now and then, sending grit bouncing against their ankles—earlier that morning, she'd been crouched behind a bus stop peeling a scavenged apple when her nails suddenly transformed into a fruit knife, nearly slicing her finger off too; a faint red mark still lingered on her fingertip.
Behind her, Crimsonlyn Thier remained silent, silver threads coiling around her fingertips into translucent loops, their edges glowing with faint light. This thread was a trick she'd only just figured out this morning: the more transparent it became, the harder it was to detect, yet the easier it was to tangle herself—just now, it had nearly stitched her hair into her sleeve. This ability was called "Technique Knitting," a name her body instinctively knew.
"Hey," Nightbloom suddenly stopped, not turning back, "what exactly is this ability all about..."
"There's something down—" Crimsonlyn abruptly grabbed Nightbloom's wrist. The silver thread at her fingertips snapped taut with a sharp "shii," instantly switching to a coldly luminous, rigidly resilient mode—her mental energy drained with it, her brows slightly furrowed, knowing this state wouldn't last long.
From beneath the manhole cover came first the crisp tap of leather shoes on the ground, then the rustle of a skirt brushing against the rough concrete wall. Crimsonlyn's silver threads had already flowed silently into the ground. Vibrations within ten meters traveled along the threads: the heartbeats of three people (including the one at the bottom of the well), the sound of water flowing in the pipes, even the faint scrape of Freak's soles against rust—all woven into a dynamic map inside her mind.
Bang!
The manhole cover beneath her feet suddenly exploded open! Nightbloom was sent flying by the blast, tumbling twice in the air before landing clumsily, her tail fur all puffed up.
"Ow, ow, ow...!"
A clatter came from the well opening as the figure below spun in ballet steps, her leather shoe tips tapping each rung of the ladder. Crimsonlyn had already slumped to the ground, silver threads wrapped around her wrists into an impenetrable defensive net—this time set to medium transparency, both blocking impact and allowing visibility. Where her elbow had been scraped when the blast knocked her over, strands of silver thread were now stitching the wound, fine as spider silk, transparent to the point of invisibility.
A head slowly emerged—dark blue hair, the swirls and waves interwoven with bright yellow vortex, like the spinning starlight in Van Gogh's Starry Night. Silver-glinting metal gears stuck to the black hairband, catching sunlight that flickered like shooting stars. Her cheeks were smeared with wet paint, blurred into star-trail patterns, and a near-mad grin hung at the corners of her mouth. Golden lashes fluttered with her movements.
Her outfit resembled an artist's creation: a shoulder plate draped over her left shoulder, striped with gold trim against a blue background; a leather strap bound her left arm, the strap on her right arm connecting to her clothes; the garment hugged her waist, which featured several artfully cut-out shapes, the empty spaces stitched with semi-transparent black silk. The skirt was shorter at the front and longer at the back, like a left-right mirrored cheongsam. Perfect gold paint marked the gears, standing out strikingly against the dark fabric. Long gloves extended no further than the elbow, boots varied in length—one shaft reaching no lower than the calf, the other soaring to the upper thigh. On her feet were brown leather shoes, polished to a dull gleam, the exposed skin dazzlingly pale, creating an absurd refinement against the metallic adornments covering her body.
"Ah~ What a marvelous entrance!" the figure declared in a theatrical aria, bending one knee as her leather heel lightly tapped the well rim. "Uninvited Guest Beneath the Manhole Cover, my latest performance art!"
She climbed out of the well, her leather shoe tip grinding a half-circle mark into the ground upon landing. Crimsonlyn's silver threads suddenly trembled—this woman carried a certain fluctuation. Only the silver threads at her fingertips twisted into the wrong coil; she paused, startled, then straightened them.
"You're blocking my manhole cover," she said, brushing the dust off her skirt. "What's this about? Why are you blocking my opening? Looking for trouble?"
Nightbloom had already risen, her wings slightly unfurled, scales emitting a metallic scratching sound.
"Who the hell are you?!"
"Freak Mystical~" She executed an exaggerated curtsy, her leather heel striking the ground with a sharp "thud," the gear decorations on her skirt jingling. "By the way, you two are 'Gear' users too, aren't you? I can sense that kind of fluctuation~"
Nightbloom frowned. "Gear?"
"Those strange abilities of yours!" Freak spun excitedly in a circle, her leather shoe tips grinding over the ground as she turned, kicking up fine dust, the bright yellow vortex within her ink-blue hair spinning along. "My ability is 'Petroleum Rose'—I can distort and abstractify objects, like this—Gear is like a new organ growing from our bodies."
She suddenly grabbed a scrap of iron from the ground. With a gentle squeeze of her fingers, the iron scrap stretched like modeling clay, eventually twisting into a crooked metal rose, petals dripping with some suspicious black liquid.
"...So this weird superpower is called 'Gear'." Nightbloom stared at the "rose," lost in thought.
Freak suddenly dropped to the ground, cupping her face in both hands, eyes sparkling. "Enough talk! For the sake of my artistic creation, let's have a fight! I've even thought of a name—'Foolish Brawlers Fighting Nonsensically', how about that?"
(Is she insulting herself?) Nightbloom's mouth twitched.
(Her left pinky is tapping her thigh, very regular rhythm.) Crimsonlyn silently noted, the silver threads still pressed against the ground, sensing every muscle contraction—an instinctive habit, like countless times before when locking onto a target.
Nightbloom snorted. "Who wants to indulge your madness!"
"What a pity!" Freak leapt up with a backflip, her leather heels striking the ground with two crisp sounds upon landing, her skirt spreading like an umbrella. "Then how about this? 'The Violent Aesthetics of an Arrogant Devil and an Unknowing Maiden'?"
"Who's arrogant!"
"Who's unknowing!"
As Nightbloom shouted, Crimsonlyn was still dazed—'Unknowing'? That seemed true. She could barely remember how to write her own name, only knew that silver threads were more reliable than memory.
Freak burst out laughing, the sound as harsh as gears grinding sand: "Perfect! This is the conflict I want!" She suddenly spread her arms wide, her leather shoe tips spinning a small circle on the ground. "Then—let's begin!"
The next instant, the ground beneath her feet suddenly twisted, the asphalt road seeming kneaded by invisible hands, turning into a wave surging toward the two!
Nightbloom's wings instantly hardened, like shields blocking in front of Crimsonlyn. Crimsonlyn stared at the gradually fading silver threads on her wrist—this wave had lasted 18 seconds, would dissipate in another 2, and for the next 10 seconds she couldn't summon them again.
"This one's ability... is making things deform?" Nightbloom gritted her teeth.
"Not just that." Crimsonlyn's silver threads suddenly surged just before vanishing, like vines tugged by a wild wind, weaving a sparse net in the air—this time set to maximum transparency, Freak indeed didn't notice. "She's 'abstractifying' objects... Careful, if we get touched, we might turn into that grotesque thing too!"
Freak stood in the distance, her fingers dancing like a conductor's, her leather heels lightly tapping the ground in rhythm: "Exactly exactly! Fear makes art more vivid!" She suddenly snapped her fingers, and a roadside fire hydrant suddenly twisted, stretched, and elongated, turning into a blood-red python lunging at Nightbloom!
"Tch!" Nightbloom's right hand instantly deformed, bones "cracking" as they reorganized, transforming into a bone blade, slicing the snake's head off with one stroke!
Yet the severed snake head didn't fall to the ground, but melted in midair, reforming into the "metal rose" in Freak's hand.
"My art pieces are reusable~" she said cheerfully, playing with the rose while still tapping rhythmically with her leather shoe tip.
Crimsonlyn's silver threads dissipated just at that moment; she held her breath counting 3 seconds—cooldown wasn't over yet. But those 10 seconds of sensing were enough: every time Freak used her ability, before her left pinky tapped her thigh, her leather shoe tip would tap the ground three times, exactly 0.5 second intervals.
(Rhythm... her ability activation has a rhythm!)
The moment cooldown ended, new silver threads emerged from her hand, this time as thick as vines.
"Nightbloom!" Crimsonlyn suddenly called out, her voice calm unlike herself. "Five seconds from now, attack her left side with everything you've got!"
"Huh?"
"Trust me!"
Freak tilted her head: "Oh my, are we doing a combo move?"
Crimsonlyn's silver threads suddenly burst from the ground, not attacking, but wrapping around Nightbloom's ankle—like a taut steel cable, carrying an undeniable force.
"Wh—"
The silver threads yanked hard, flinging Nightbloom into the air, just dodging the ground spikes that suddenly jutted beneath Freak! Nightbloom flipped in midair, her wings fully extended, scales reflecting cold light—
"Now!"
Nightbloom's right hand transformed into a long whip, tearing through the air toward Freak! Freak hastily raised her hand, the ground twisting into a shield again—
Crack!
The whip shattered the shield, the remaining force undiminished striking Freak's shoulder, sending her stumbling backward.
"Ugh..." Freak clutched her shoulder, the paint on her face smeared by sweat, yet she smiled even more wildly. "Brilliant! This coordination! This violent harmony! I shall name it—'The Poem of Interlocking Gears'!"
Nightbloom landed, her wings slightly folding. "A madman's ravings..."
Crimsonlyn quietly withdrew her silver threads—this time only lasted 12 seconds, because maintaining threads as thick as vines was too draining, her temples already aching.
Freak suddenly raised both hands: "Ceasefire! I surrender!"
"...Huh?"
"Art needs negative space, and so does combat~" She pulled out a notebook from somewhere, rapidly sketching. "You two's 'Gear' is so interesting! I want to join you!" (The first few pages of the notebook seemed to show two girls on a beach)
Nightbloom and Crimsonlyn exchanged glances. Crimsonlyn's silver threads coiled a cautious circle around her fingertip—this person was dangerous, but the "fluctuations" emanating from her seemed to contain something that could loosen memories.
Freak snapped the notebook shut, her eyes alarmingly bright. "Don't look at me like that~ I know a lot about 'Gear', you know. Like... Did you two get washed into the Sea of Oblivion?"
"What thing?" they both said simultaneously.
She lowered her voice. "Do you want to know why you lost your memories?"
Nightbloom's pupils abruptly contracted. Crimsonlyn's silver threads suddenly tensed—this question pierced right into their hearts.
Nightbloom shook her still-aching wings, her crimson eyes impatiently sweeping over Freak's paint-smeared, excitement-filled face, her tail irritably curling and slapping the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. "Hey, crazy woman," her voice carried the hoarseness of just-survived combat and her usual irritability, "you said you know about 'Gear'? You'd better not be messing with us, or next time it'll be you getting twisted into a pretzel."
Freak seemed utterly unfazed by the threat, instead acting as if she'd received the most beautiful praise, spinning in place, her ink-blue hair interwoven with bright yellow flying, her shoes grinding a half-circle mark into the ground. "Mess with you? Oh no no no! A Chance Encounter Between Lost Gears and a Wandering Artist—what a perfect script beginning!" She abruptly stopped, leaning close to Nightbloom, those startlingly bright eyes nearly pressing against the other's crimson pupils, lowering her voice with theatrical mystery: "Listen, amnesiac little demon and little pink hair, I know you have a lot of 'whys'. Why do you have these strange abilities? Why can't you remember the past? Why is there always fighting in your heads?" She pointed at her own temple, then at Nightbloom and Crimsonlyn.
Freak's smile widened, bordering on maniacal. "The answers—or rather, the path to them... lies in Europe! I know a place, a very very mysterious place." She spread her arms wide, as if embracing the entire sky. "It holds everything about 'Gear'! Origins, secrets, even... the fragments of your lost memories! How about it? Taking me along as your genius artist and guide will definitely be worth it! Guaranteed more exciting than you two digging through trash cans and sleeping under bridges in this godforsaken place!" She winked, glancing at the nearby public trash can knocked over by the shockwave, empty inside.
Nightbloom snorted, but the irritation in her eyes gave way to a hint of gravity. Crimsonlyn's silver thread gently touched the back of Nightbloom's hand—she sensed Nightbloom's heartbeat, and her own, both falling out of rhythm.
Europe. Memory fragments.
Perhaps, silver threads cannot weave the past, but they can weave a path leading to it.