I halted my walk, not following Artoria as she walked to the nearest soldier, signaling him down; the hideous stench of metal hung in the air, pressing against my mind. My hand shook uncontrollably. I didn't want to step into that office; I knew that nothing good lay beyond its door.
But I no longer had an option, which was most apparent in this world. While Earth was a peaceful society, a utopia compared to this world. Where the strongest of the fittest was the law, if you couldn't stomach blood, then you would die.
I knew that better than anyone, so why couldn't I move! Why?
No matter how much I tried, nothing worked; my muscles refused to respond as if safeguarding against the sight, but that wasn't what I wanted! I needed to grow into a warrior of light, a deity like Seraphia.
Or else…
"Report," declared Artoria, momentarily glancing at my panicked expression.
"Primordial String, Sir! A single two-winged victim stabbed through the heart, it seemed to be an intense struggle. Multiple traces of blood are littered around the office; it is unknown if the murderer was injured grievously in the struggle."
"And why is this linked to the rebels? It seems to be a normal murder; they should be caught in minutes."
"We found the Rebels of Revel's commemorative coin at the scene. A dagger and serpent, unlinking with each other, are the symbols of the rebels. Also, when we employed the Sacred Band Link, we didn't find a trace of any sacred band at the time of death."
"Mhm, it would seem that they are involved then. So be it if the murderer was sloppy, then we should have these rebels executed by the end of the day."
The soldier flicked the coin to Artoria, who snatched it out of the air, inspecting it for a moment before crushing it into dust, flicking the remnants of her hand.
"Sir? What's with the wingless accompanying you? He doesn't look very well. Are you sure he's fit to see a dead body in that state?"
"If won't survive, if he doesn't."
"Ah, I see. I wish him well then."
Artoria turned her face towards the soldier once again, looking at him with interest and speculation, deeply confused by his kind words.
"Soldier? Do you not hate wingless angels? I thought that every single person in this city detested the wingless; it's become common among angels and devils to loathe them. Why do you offer kind words? Is it out of deceit or malice?"
"Of course not, Sir. I don't voice my opinion openly, but I can't bring myself to hate the weak; they need protecting, not scorn. If you can't protect someone, then you are truly not an angel."
Artoria paused briefly; the soldier's words shocked her to the core, taking a moment for her to recover.
"Then, in your opinion, more than half of angels aren't angels."
"Yes, sir!"
"I didn't know such valor still existed in this accursed land. I hope you will be able to take those morals to death, I truly hope," exclaimed Artoria, a small glint of pride and happiness returning in her eyes.
"Thank you, sir!"
Artoria walked away from the soldier, marking his face down in her mind, vowing to herself to never forget the man's valor.
She swiftly approached me, grabbed the scruff of my cloak, and pulled me towards the office forcefully. The soldiers watched me, slightly interested in the Primordial String's actions, but they still voiced no objection. My legs still wouldn't respond to my orders, so I was limp in Artoria's grip, my ankles scarring against the cobble below.
"I don't wish this on you, but you have no other option," declared Artoria.
"I know that! So why couldn't I bring myself to move?" I cried out to Artoria, pushing my insecurities and disappointments onto her forcefully. "I'm—pathetic."
Artoria didn't answer my cries, only throwing me into the office, landing on my hands and knees. The first thing I saw draining all the warmth out of my blood on the floor was a bloody mess of a male angel, a knife sticking out of his chest. The office was practically dripping with blood; a portion of the angel's wing was ripped out and thrown across the room, staining the poor man's divinity scarlet.
"It's worse than they described. This is no simple murder scene. Whoever did this can't be very strong as to struggle against a simple two-winged," exclaimed Artoria, analyzing the scene with her eyes, not a sliver of fear, hesitation, or disgust on her face. Nothing.
Picking myself up, stumbling in between movements, I cautiously approached the body, trying my best to avoid the blood littered around the room. His eyes were glossy, completely devoid of life. A stray tear ran down his cheek, his hands clutching a bloodstained picture. I couldn't quite make out what was in the picture, although it had been completely swallowed by a tide of crimson.
The office was in ruins; there was not even a single indication left that this was once a well-respected workplace. Artoria glanced at the body for a moment before bending down and touching a small trail of blood leading out of the office.
Artoria let out a deep exhale. "A single deep wound to the chest, multiple bruises, and shallow cuts. This wasn't the work of some professional. But most likely a child looking for validation, it's pitiful. A potential talent wasted, what has this world come to?"
"How could you know that they are a wasted talent? I don't see any talent in this world, only death."
My mind was torn between terror and rage at how anyone could commit such an act without the slightest tinge of remorse. My fist clenched under my newfound intense emotions, looking down at the body of the mutilated angel, I felt a sense of belonging, like I was supposed to be here looking down at this poor man at this very moment.
My emotions were a blur, switching from hate, anger, disgust, and terror. The sight of blood had always terrified me, but my terror was swiftly receding back into my heart. I was changing in this very moment, I was finally changing. My experiences with pain and death had twisted something deep down inside of me, and as my terror dissipated, I sank further into hate and anger.
"In the blood of the marked lies a small portion of their divinity; everyone's divinity is unique, and it can be traced. If the murderer was a professional, they wouldn't have left any trace of their existence, let alone their blood."
"What you're saying is that you can track the murderer back to their hideout?" I asked, my jaw stiffening at the thought of rooting them out.
"More or less, although it's not absolute, if they don't return in the next hour, they will instead walk around the city. The trail will run cold."
"Tell me how to do it, tell me how to track them."