The cold wind whistled past my face as the silhouette of the industrial town of Carcaka materialized beneath the moonlit sky. Smog from heavy ironworks and coal furnaces hung low over the rooftops, casting a grimy, metallic haze across the horizon. Choosing a blind spot behind a row of tall brick warehouses, I folded my massive crimson blood wings back into my spine, angled my descent, and leaped down, landing silently onto the cracked stone pavements of a deserted crossroads.
I stood up, adjusting the heavy straps of my Death Chant Shotgun so it sat securely against my back, and began to walk on foot. In a blue-collar, high-traffic industrial town like this, a lone traveler moving with purpose was normal; an aerial demon dropping from the clouds was an invitation to a military blockade. I needed to move smoothly, seamlessly navigating the dim alleyways on my own to ensure I didn't arouse a shred of suspicion from the local night watch or early-shift factory workers.
Yet, as my boots clicked softly against the stone, a grim, calculating realization settled into my mind.
Based on the Caria Times Tuesday edition I had parsed through just hours ago, the legend of the Crimson Phantom was no longer a localized rumor. Reports of the blood-sucking winged demon had successfully breached every border, spreading like wildfire through every single town, city, and village across the entire continent of Andromeda. I wasn't just a notorious myth anymore; I was a literal, walking fortune.
A 16 gold piece bounty was currently wearing a commoner's dress and navigating the underbelly of Carcaka. To any high-tier hunter, desperate mercenary, or corrupt syndicate thug, my true face was a ticket to absolute wealth. The stakes of this infiltration had just doubled. If my disguise slipped for even a fraction of a second, the entire arms trafficking guild wouldn't just see an intruder… they would see the ultimate payday.
I narrowed my single eye, a cold, ruthless grin pulling at my scarred lips beneath the shadows of the industrial smoke. Let them look for the monster in the sky. They would never expect her to walk right through their front door wearing the face of their own apprentice's twin. I pressed forward into the heart of the town, tracking the scent of oil, gunpowder, and the impending downfall of Don Anthony's empire.
I held back on the transformation. I would not disguise myself as Luke just yet. Walking blindly into a highly populated industrial town wearing the exact face of a notorious Mafia apprentice was no joke; it would instantly draw the wrong kind of eyes, alert rival factions, or cause a panic before I even mapped out the territory.
Instead, my primary instinct took over. In all of my adventures, the first designated spot I always hunt down is a local inn. An inn provides the ultimate tactical baseline… a private, secure room where I can store my heavy belongings, hide my signature Death Chant Shotgun, and ensure nothing gets lost or compromised while I scout the streets.
I approached the heavy iron gates of Carcaka, blending in with the late-night laborers. A town gatekeeper stepped into my path, a brass nametag pinned to his stained leather vest reading: Berlin Jol.
Berlin looked over my scarred face and my single hand, holding his hand out flat.
"Adventurer, toll please."
I noticed he didn't ask for status cards. Unlike massive, high-security cities like Caria that strictly require both an entry toll and an official adventurer status card, smaller towns only require a financial toll because they manage a much smaller, less bureaucratic population. This was an operational fact I knew intimately from my own hometown, Town Allure. Growing up in Allure, I had never even heard the words "status card" in my entire life until the day I arrived in the grand city of Caria.
I reached into my pocket with my right hand, pulled out a single silver coin from my savings, and flipped it to Berlin Jol. He caught it with a nod, stepping aside to grant me entry.
With 86 silver coins left in my purse, my immediate task was clear: navigate the smog-filled streets, find a low-key inn, and secure a private room to drop my gear before the real hunt began.
Navigating deeper into the heart of Carcaka felt like stepping into a distorted echo of Earth's historical Industrial Revolution, yet infused with an unsettling, advanced edge that bordered on the modern. The architecture was dominated by looming brick factories, towering iron smokestacks belching thick soot into the night sky, and rows of uniform stone tenements. The demeanor of the townsfolk… haggard, soot-stained, and moving with the mechanical exhaustion of factory laborers… mirrored that gritty, blue-collar era perfectly. Yet, the presence of localized arcane machineries and mass-produced firearms gave the entire town an aggressive, modernized undercurrent. The houses weren't the primitive wooden shacks or thatch-roofed huts of the outer farmlands; they were solid, multi-story masonry structures with iron pipework crawling up the walls like vines.
As I slipped down a dimly lit thoroughfare, a large, freshly pasted parchment on a brick wall caught my single eye. I stepped into the shadow of a gas lamp to inspect it.
The Caria Times had not been exaggerating; the propaganda machine was working at maximum capacity. It was an official Bureau bounty poster, actively hunting the "blood-sucking winged demon." I couldn't help but let out a silent, vibrating hiss of dark amusement as I studied the rendering. The local authorities had laid out the details with terrifying clarity. At the center of the poster was a stark, menacing ink drawing of a winged silhouette looming over a victim.
Luckily for my current operational security, the artists hadn't captured my actual facial features. When I was first spotted in the wilderness weeks ago, I had been completely naked, leaving only the monstrous geometry of my silhouette to be recorded by the traumatized witnesses. The poster listed the exact physical anomalies:
A missing, mutilated left arm. A singular, hyper-focused eye. A gruesome, a scar that is with the ends through the ear smile.
Interestingly, the text at the bottom highlighted a critical detail regarding my anatomy. The initial reports from last month classified the demon as having deathly pale skin. However, the bounty description had been officially updated to label my complexion as heavily tanned. My frequent high-speed flights across the continent under the blistering high-noon sun had naturally darkened my skin, unintentionally creating a perfect biological deviation from the earliest Bureau files. They were hunting a pale ghost, but a tanned predator was walking their streets.
I pulled my gaze away from the poster, my mind cataloging the information. I was a walking, 16-gold-piece target, but as long as my wings remained bound to my spine and my shotgun stayed holstered, I was just another battered mercenary looking for a bed.
Scanning the street ahead, I finally spotted what I was looking for. Rising above the smaller residential blocks was a substantial, three-story brick establishment. It was a proper, modern-style inn building rather than the primitive mud-and-thatch huts common in the lesser territories. Gas lamps flickered on either side of its heavy oak entrance, casting a warm, amber glow onto the cobblestones. Wrapping my right hand firmly around the strap of my Death Chant Shotgun, I marched up the steps and pushed the door open, ready to secure my staging ground.
I stepped inside the heavy oak doors, the smell of cheap tobacco, coal dust, and stale ale washing over me. A painted wooden sign hanging over the heavy iron counter revealed the name of the establishment: The Coal Mine Inn. It was an entirely fitting title for a place buried in the heart of a grimy, industrial town.
I marched straight up to the front desk. Because my missing tongue rendered me completely mute, I didn't waste time trying to make unvoiced sounds. Instead, I smoothly reached into my pockets with my right hand, pulled out a small scrap of parchment and a charcoal pencil, and neatly scribbled two words:
"One room."
I slid the note across the counter to the cashier, along with a pair of shiny silver coins. The man picked up the silver, bit one of the coins to test its density, and nodded in satisfaction. At just 2 silver coins, a night's stay here was significantly cheaper than the inflated prices back in the high-tier tourist hub of Lulu City.
The cashier reached behind him, grabbed a heavy brass key from a row of iron pegs, and slid it across the wood toward me. I picked it up, checking the stamped numbers etched into the metal surface: Room 102.
A cold, knowing grin cut across my scarred face. Room 102. Coincidence? I think not. The universe had a funny way of aligning its numbers, especially when a mastermind S-rank predator was on the hunt.
I turned on my heel, navigating the narrow, dimly lit corridors of the first floor until I found the matching wooden door. I slid the brass key into the lock, turned it until the mechanism clicked open, and stepped inside.
The room was sparse but completely functional... a single bed with clean sheets, a sturdy wooden wardrobe, a washbasin, and a window overlooking the dark alleyways below. Finally shielded from the public eye, I closed the door, slid the heavy iron deadbolt into place, and walked over to the bed. I unstrapped the brutal, heavy frame of my Death Chant Shotgun from my back and laid it gently onto the mattress, followed by my leather purse.
With 84 silver coins remaining in my pocket and my staging ground officially secured, I stood in the center of the quiet room, my single eye staring into the shadows. The preliminary logistics were complete. It was time to formulate the exact tactical sequence to step into the skin of Luke Granhart and hunt down his twin brother.