The Invincible Full-Moon System Chapter 1887 1887: Slaughter Under the Rain (1)
Previously on The Invincible Full-Moon System...
Larta City exuded an aura of peace and silence.
It stood as a meticulously managed hub, overseeing several clusters of realms, ensuring order was rigorously maintained.
While bustling with activity during daylight hours, the city embraced quietude by night. Citizens and visitors alike adhered strictly to established regulations, well aware of the authorities' swift and severe penalties, which could range from banishment into perilous realms to clandestine executions for transgressors.
However, even the most stringent order possesses its limitations.
Silverbell Street emerged as the singular loophole in Larta City's otherwise ironclad security and order.
Prior to its demise, Silverbell Street mirrored the vibrancy of any other thoroughfare within the city, perhaps even surpassing them in liveliness. It was a flourishing center of production, contributing nearly ten percent to Larta City's overall economy and providing employment for thousands of Demigods.
Then, an enemy of the former High Lord shattered the peace, breaching the city's defenses and annihilating the entire sector.
For a harrowing five hours, Larta City was exposed, linked directly to a hostile realm, and a fierce battle ensued.
A significant casualty of this conflict was a parliament member making a visit to the sector.
The ferocity and brutality of the battle left permanent scars on the dimensional fabric of the area, consequently diminishing the Overseer's grasp on that particular location. Despite the High Lord's subsequent efforts to repair the damage and implement preventative measures, the incident's impact was profound.
It soon became evident that Silverbell Street was a naturally occurring weak point in Larta City's defenses.
Although the High Lord actively encouraged potential investors with subsidies, not a single one stepped forward. When a new High Lord ascended to power and retracted these incentives, the fate of the once-thriving and productive Silverbell Street was irrevocably sealed.
It was utterly abandoned.
Subsequently, small gangs seeking to conduct illicit activities began to inhabit the desolate area.
In light of their utilization of the derelict street, the authorities chose to overlook their presence.
As long as they refrained from crossing established boundaries and causing disturbances in adjacent streets, they remained unmolested.
Roger settled himself onto a discarded barrel near the warehouse entrance, leaning his back against the cool zinc wall, observing the sudden, harsh downpour. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled. The oppressive atmosphere felt strangely conducive to relaxation.
Beside him, Ardi let out pained hisses and grunts as Jack carefully tended to his fractured wrist.
"Go easier, you bastard!"
"Shut your trap. If you whine like a damsel one more time, I’ll snap your other hand too."
"Damn that piece of trash. I didn't even lay a hand on his woman that roughly."
"Look at your hands. They're caked in filth and grime. She'll break out in pimples if she even gets near your hands. I'd be furious if I were him, too."
"Fuck you! Say that again? I'll stab you. I'll fucking stab you!"
"Enough, cut it out," Roger admonished, roughly kicking Ardi's leg. "Actually, get yourself to the bunker and let Clarissa shut you up."
"Seriously?!" Ardi shot to his feet, his eyes alight with anticipation. "I can have her?"
"No fucking way, you horny idiot. Just cuddling," Roger waved dismissively. "Go on."
Without a moment's hesitation, Ardi sprinted into the rain like an ecstatic child, momentarily forgetting the severity of his broken hand. He stepped onto a specific section of the concrete ground, which instantly engulfed him, as if a slumbering beast had finally awakened to claim its prey.
"Roger, what about me?" Jack inquired, scratching the back of his head. "Can I have Clarissa too?"
"Is your hand broken?" Roger countered, raising an eyebrow.
"No…?"
"Do you want it to be?"
"Right then, I'll go check the warehouse and ensure the patrons aren't causing any trouble."
Jack entered the warehouse, securing the gate behind him once more.
Simultaneously, Roger noticed two of his other subordinates on the far side of the gate. Boredom had led them to a game; they were tossing coins towards the zinc wall, competing to see whose coin would land closest without making contact.
It was a simple pastime, yet it intensely stirred their emotions.
Roger leaned his head back gently, savoring the last of his cigarette.
Witnessing their exclamations of frustration and triumph brought a peculiar sense of calm.
Lost in the moment, he eventually drifted off into a light sleep.
Some time elapsed.
Roger's eyelids fluttered open, revealing the same dark, cloud-laden sky, still weeping relentlessly. He groaned, stretching his limbs, feeling somewhat revitalized after his impromptu nap.
It wasn't his intention, but the rest was nonetheless welcome.
He had assigned his subordinates to maintain the overnight watch, making a brief nap acceptable for him.
Casting a glance to his side, he saw that the two subordinates remained awake, though their alertness seemed to be waning.
Approximately an hour should have passed.
"Just two more hours," Roger announced loudly, rising to his feet. "Two hours remain until your shift concludes. Keep your eyes peeled and remain vigilant."
"Yes, Sir."
"Aye-aye."
Roger's gaze shifted to the other side, and a frown creased his brow as he noticed Jack's absence. With an audible click of his tongue, he ventured into the warehouse for a search, but Jack was nowhere to be found. The warehouse was structured as a large corridor with chambers branching off on either side, making it simple to locate Jack. Yet, there was no trace of him.
"Did he go inside?" Roger approached the nearest occupied chamber, irritation evident in his voice. "How many times must I tell him he's forbidden from entering these chambers? Perhaps that man is right. Maybe I've been too lenient, and they've forgotten the consequences of disobedience."
After thoroughly inspecting every chamber for Jack, Roger's search remained fruitless.
A growing sense of unease began to settle in his chest.
"Damn it, could he have gone to the bunker while I was asleep?" Roger recalled sending Ardi to the bunker without direct supervision. And because he himself had been asleep, Jack might have slipped away out of jealousy that Ardi got to spend time with Clarissa. "If he actually did that… I'll make him pay dearly."
Roger bolted outside, heading directly for the specific location.
The ground seemed to swallow him whole.
As his vision cleared, he found himself within a dimly lit hall, with a glimmer of light at the far end.
Distantly, he could hear screams.
Instantly on alert, Roger sprinted down the hall.
A vast room, spacious enough to accommodate over a hundred individuals, came into view. Soft carpet covered the floor, muffling each step. Along both sides, slaves were confined in cages, their usual hollow, watchful expressions replaced by palpable fear.
Each of them was either weeping or trembling uncontrollably.
At the opposite end of the room stood a different group—slaves who were not bound by chains.
Most of these were women, attended by a single burly man tasked with their protection.
However, at this moment, the man was pressed against the wall, his eyes wide with sheer terror.
Roger hurried towards the small woman seated in the center of the space. Her skin glistened, and a cascade of long, pale blue hair framed her shoulders, perfectly matching the hue of her eyes. She possessed an innocent beauty, akin to freshly fallen snow. "Clarissa," he said, squatting before her and gripping her shoulders firmly. "What is wrong? Why are you crying? Did Ardi do something to you?"
Her entire body quivered, and though Roger spoke directly to her, she could not meet his eyes.
She actively avoided his gaze, but managed to shake her head in response.
"No?" Roger questioned, his frown deepening. "Then what happened?"
Observing that she was physically unharmed, merely deeply shaken, Roger turned his attention to the burly man. He extended his hand, and the burly man was lifted off the ground, drawn through the air towards him.
As Roger rose to his feet, he seized the burly man by the collar. "What the hell happened? Why are they all in this state? Speak!"
For as long as anyone could remember, the burly man had never dared to defy Roger's inquiries.
Yet, now, he remained utterly silent.
His eyes were wide with shock, as if he were gazing into Roger's very soul, but no words came forth.
It was as if he believed his silent stare alone was a sufficient explanation.
"And where is Ardi?" Roger pressed again, shaking the burly man more forcefully. "Where is he?!"
Receiving no answer, Roger flung the burly man aside and swept his gaze angrily across the room.
"What the hell happened here?!" he bellowed, spreading his arms wide in a desperate attempt to capture the slaves' attention. Frustration and confusion laced his voice. "Hello?! Why won't any of you answer me?!" His jaw clenched as he squared his shoulders. "It appears I have been too lenient with all of you. I provided you with comfort, and this is how you repay me. Very well.
His voice lowered, the heat draining away, replaced by an icy calm. "I will ensure you all remember precisely who holds dominion over your lives."
A slender sword, forged entirely from Qi, materialized in his hand.
As his hand moved, the blade followed suit, wobbling as if it were more akin to a whip than a sword.
Just as he prepared to strike the nearest slave, his eyes suddenly fixated on a stain marring the carpet. A crimson pool amidst the white, gold, and black hues. He dropped to one knee, touched it, and confirmed his suspicion: the red stain was indeed blood.
There was no room for doubt.
Roger retreated back into the hall and ascended to the surface.
He ran to the rear of the warehouse and proceeded to a corner.
At each corner of the warehouse lay a small, invisible portal leading to a pocket dimension.
Within these spaces resided the warehouse's remaining guards, providing backup against any unforeseen intruders. Operating a business of this nature was perilous, demanding additional personnel to maintain smooth operations.
Roger entered one of the portals, discovering only a table, a deck of cards, and five vacant seats.
He moved on to another. The scene was identical.
In a frenzy, he bolted to the front once more, passing through the two portals before him. Even at the final portal, the expected guards were nowhere to be found. However, near the last one, a dark stain marred the tabletop. "Who...?" Roger peered down, his gaze following the water droplets descending to the floor. "Who caused this?" Mere hours prior, his subordinates had teemed within the warehouse. And now, they had all vanished, leaving behind only faint traces of blood. Yet, what disturbed Roger the most was his complete lack of awareness. He detected no unusual presence, no disturbance in the atmosphere that might signal an intrusion. It was as if an ethereal phantom had systematically eliminated them all, and with chilling success. Roger emerged from the portal, once again battered by the relentless downpour. He instantly noticed the disappearance of the two thugs who had been stationed by the warehouse entrance earlier. Both of them were simply gone. No bodies were present, nor any indication of a struggle. Just an empty space where, moments before, bored men had stood guard. However, unlike the previous scenes, the assailant made no attempt at concealment. Not far from the area, at the periphery where the warehouse's shadows merged with the raging storm, a solitary figure stood unmoving amidst the deluge. This dark silhouette seemed to absorb the surrounding light, a tear in the very fabric of the night. The figure's head was tilted upwards, as if savoring the rain, with its eyes closed. Upon its forehead rested a mark, a deep crimson sphere that radiated a slow, living luminescence—like a heart beating just beneath the surface. From this mark, sharp, scarlet lines extended outwards, intricately tracing the contours of the body akin to shattered porcelain or the delicate veins of a fading leaf illuminated by the moon. Crimson fluid seeped from the figure's fangs, meandering down its chin in languid streams. More dripped from the tips of its sharp, obsidian claws. The blood gathered momentarily at the figure's feet, forming a scarlet halo that spread outwards into the rainwater. But the storm raged on, unyielding. Rain fell in shimmering curtains, sluicing the crimson from the claws, from the fangs, and from the pale skin. The pool grew smaller, diluted, and then dissipated into the concrete as if it had never been. In mere moments, the figure appeared immaculate—purged of every vestige of slaughter by nature's own hand. A monster, cleansed by the heavens' tears, stood in the rain like a harbinger of destruction. "It's a fine night for a downpour, wouldn't you agree?"