Samuel arrived in Old Dunling just as spring was beginning to settle over the city. A hazy drizzle descended from the heavens without warning, sudden and silent, as though the sky itself had chosen that very moment to weep.
Standing on a street corner, Samuel lifted his gaze toward the leaden clouds. The wind carried a bitter chill that slipped beneath his coat, forcing him to pull it tighter around himself. Most of the pedestrians were dressed much the same, wrapped in long heavy garments that concealed nearly their entire bodies. Old Dunling was an industrial city, its air forever saturated with drifting particles of soot and filth. Such clothing served as more than protection against the cold—it was a shield against the city's poisoned breath.
It was, in many ways, a fascinating place.
To any outsider arriving for the first time, the city was almost impossible to embrace. Industry gnawed endlessly at its flesh, blackening its skies and corroding its streets, yet at its heart pulsed an irresistible force of progress. Ruin and rebirth existed side by side. Every obsolete creation was discarded into the abyss beneath the city, while new inventions rose upon the bones of those that came before, only to one day suffer the same fate themselves.
The cycle never ended.
Samuel had long been curious about the legendary city that had existed only in other people's stories. Now that he had finally set foot within it, he realized how utterly different it was from Florence.
Though Lloyd de' Medici had fallen and the Golden Age he ushered in had drawn to its close, not all of its splendor had vanished. Fragments of that age remained, preserved like precious relics. They became the foundation upon which Florence's flourishing culture continued to grow.
Graceful melodies drifted through sunlit streets. Masterpieces adorned every hall. Poets sang beneath cathedral spires where faith and art intertwined as one. By modern standards, Florence might have appeared outdated, yet there was something irresistibly pure about that antiquity. Its sanctity possessed a luminous innocence, wrapped in dreamlike colors that stirred the soul.
Old Dunling offered none of that.
There was no romance.
No poetry.
No dreams.
Only an endless ocean of iron-gray.
From the choking heavens above to the soot-covered streets below, the city was swallowed by an oppressive veil of smoke. It seeped into every brick, every breath, every heartbeat, until the haze itself had become inseparable from the city.
It left no room for illusion.
Here, only merciless reality endured—suffocating, despairing, brutally honest.
And yet...
Within that despair still flickered the promise of progress.
The promise of dawn.
Samuel coughed heavily. As a newcomer, he still struggled to endure Old Dunling's air. It was cold, damp, tinged with the taste of rust. Sometimes even drawing breath felt like a punishment.
As a member of the diplomatic mission—and Anthony's deputy—Samuel knew this city was little short of a dragon's den. Though nothing had happened to him thus far, he could never shake the feeling that unseen eyes followed his every movement from somewhere beyond the rain-soaked streets.
The Purification Bureau regarded their delegation with unwavering suspicion.
Ever since the embassy had received them, they had lived under something scarcely distinguishable from house arrest. Unless an official event required their attendance, they were expected to remain inside the embassy grounds without exception. Only deep into the night would a carriage occasionally arrive, carrying Arthur—the Bureau official responsible for negotiations—to speak privately with Anthony.
What they discussed remained unknown to Samuel.
He had grown thoroughly weary of such confinement. More than anything, however, his curiosity toward Old Dunling itself had become impossible to suppress. After finally receiving Anthony's permission, he seized the opportunity to wander outside. He was forbidden from straying too far, but even a brief glimpse of the city was enough.
He could feel the invisible attention lingering around him.
Someone was watching.
After all, he was a Demon Hunter. Dangerous Secret Blood flowed through his veins, and unlike the Bureau's hunters, he bore no Silver Shackles to restrain that power.
The new generation of Demon Hunters differed greatly from their predecessors. The need for manpower had become so urgent that few recruits were granted sufficient time to master their abilities. Their command over divine authority remained crude and imprecise, though it was more than adequate for ordinary assignments.
Even so, prodigies inevitably emerged.
Much like swordsmen capable of defeating veteran masters the first time they ever grasped a blade, certain young hunters displayed an astonishing affinity for forbidden power. What devoured others became strangely obedient in their hands.
Samuel had seen one such individual only once—on an intelligence roster.
Unlike himself, that hunter belonged to the first infiltration team. Judging from the operation's timeline, they had already spent many days hidden somewhere within Old Dunling. Unfortunately, the Purification Bureau's relentless surveillance had left Samuel with no chance of making contact.
Eventually, he reached a quieter corner of the street.
Even a city as grim as Old Dunling possessed places where one could rest.
He purchased a newspaper from a vendor before entering a nearby restaurant, intending to enjoy a meal while learning what had recently transpired within the city.
"What may I get for you, sir?" the waiter asked politely.
Samuel didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied the menu with great care.
For some reason, he couldn't shake the prejudice that a city built upon steel, smoke, and machinery was unlikely to produce memorable cuisine.
Though perhaps that was simply unfair.
"First time in Old Dunling?" the waiter asked after watching him hesitate.
Samuel nodded without lifting his eyes from the menu.
"I'm from Florence."
"Oh!" the waiter exclaimed. "That's supposed to be a wonderful place. Plenty of sunshine, right?"
Samuel considered the question.
"More or less. At least far more than Old Dunling."
The waiter sighed wistfully.
"Must be nice."
Clear skies were a rarity here. Old Dunling seemed destined to remain forever beneath clouds of ash.
"Would you like me to recommend some local specialties?"
Samuel finally closed the menu.
"That sounds good. It's my first visit, after all. I'd like to try something unique."
The waiter grinned confidently and patted his chest.
"Leave it to me."
Once the order had been settled, Samuel selected a seat beside the window. From there he enjoyed an unobstructed view of the street beyond the rain-speckled glass.
It wasn't a bad place to dine.
Food would take some time to prepare.
With nothing else to occupy himself, Samuel unfolded the newspaper.
The very first headline seized his attention.
A stark black-and-white photograph accompanied lines saturated with fear and mystery.
Life in Old Dunling is far more exciting than I imagined...
Curiosity piqued, he began reading aloud beneath his breath.
Yesterday, a violent armed robbery occurred in the Inner District...
As the words quietly left his lips, reality and ink began to overlap.
The monochrome pages dissolved into living memory.
Time itself began to reverse.
Pedestrians flowed backward through the streets like film played in reverse. Every movement retraced its own footsteps until the world arrived once more at the precise moment the crime had begun.
Then time lurched forward again.
The stage was set.
And from within that reconstructed past...
A man emerged.
Nibel strode into view beneath a weather-beaten overcoat stained by mud, soot, and countless days of neglect. He hurried along the street, his eye sockets unnaturally sunken, yet within that darkness his eyes shone with unsettling brilliance.
Passersby noticed him.
They instinctively stepped aside.
One glance into his hollow face was enough.
He looked like a man who had not slept in weeks. His cheeks were gaunt, his skin pale as death.
People like him were hardly uncommon.
Long-term users of hallucinogenic drugs often ended up looking exactly the same. Such substances were poison, regardless of social standing. Even within the Inner District, where noble families secretly indulged in them behind closed doors, they publicly condemned the drugs with theatrical outrage, preserving the illusion of dignity.
To everyone else, Nibel looked broken.
Only he knew the truth.
He had never felt more alive.
It was as though everything before this day had been nothing more than an empty illusion.
Only now had life truly begun.
Now he could pursue whatever he desired.
Now he could claim whatever he wished.
Hidden beneath his coat rested a fully loaded revolver.
The moment his hand wrapped around its grip, even someone like Nibel could become king of the world—if only for a few fleeting minutes.
He walked straight toward the bank.
Naturally, the guards noticed him at once.
His filthy appearance alone invited suspicion, and one look at his face convinced them something was terribly wrong. He resembled a drunken madman wandering in from the gutter.
One guard cautiously stepped forward.
"Sir..."
His voice remained calm and respectful, hoping to persuade the strange man to leave peacefully.
"What?"
Nibel answered with startling excitement.
A grotesque smile stretched across his sickly face, sending an icy shiver through everyone who saw it.
"What a wonderfully sunny day!"
"Isn't it?"
The guard frowned.
Sunny?
There had never been such a thing in this cursed city.
Before he could react—
Agony exploded through his abdomen.
Looking down in disbelief, he saw a knife already buried in his stomach.
No one had even seen Nibel draw it.
Then came the twist.
The blade rotated inside the wound.
Pain erupted with unbearable violence.
The guard gasped, terror overwhelming even the instinct to scream.
The commotion immediately drew the attention of the remaining guards.
Weapons were drawn.
Several revolvers leveled directly at Nibel.
Without hesitation, Nibel seized the wounded guard and pulled him tight against his own body, using him as a living shield.
No one dared fire.
That single hesitation was all he needed.
His steps were unsteady, his posture almost drunken, yet somehow his marksmanship bordered on the impossible.
Gunfire echoed through the bank.
One by one, the remaining guards collapsed.
The bank employed only a modest security force.
After all, this was the Inner District, where mounted police constantly patrolled the streets. No sane criminal would choose to rob a bank here.
Except...
Everything seemed to have unfolded exactly as Nibel expected.
The mounted patrol had only just left this district and would not return for several minutes.
The gunshots quickly attracted attention.
Steel whistles shrieked through the streets.
The cavalry police were already racing toward the bank.
There was still enough time.
Only a little.
But enough.
Dragging the wounded guard before him, Nibel forced his way inside.
The lobby had already been evacuated.
Behind heavy iron grilles, terrified employees had sealed themselves in, transforming the counters into miniature fortresses.
Nibel stopped.
Disappointment flickered across his face.
"So robbing a bank really does require preparation."
"I suppose charging in on a whim was never going to work."
"You don't have a chance!" someone shouted from behind the bars.
"Leave while you still can!"
Bank robbery was a profession in itself.
Not something a drunken lunatic could accomplish simply by finding the courage to pick up a gun.
Nibel stood silently in the empty lobby, still clutching the bleeding guard.
His expression froze.
Then, without warning...
He burst into hysterical laughter.
"Sometimes..."
"People don't actually care about the ending."
"They care about the journey."
"The pleasure of the process."
"It's like eating."
"Sometimes the joy isn't satisfying your hunger..."
"It's savoring every bite."
He suddenly turned toward the guard.
"Isn't that right?"
"Tell me I'm right!"
The guard couldn't answer.
Blood loss had already drained every trace of color from his face.
Without Nibel supporting him, he would have collapsed long ago.
"Every person is a spark waiting to burn."
"We all have the chance to blaze brilliantly."
"But life..."
"Life keeps throwing one miserable thing after another at us until we're reduced to quietly surviving."
"Isn't that true?"
He grabbed the guard by the collar, staring directly into his fading eyes.
"You've imagined it too, haven't you?"
"Haven't you grown tired of this dull, exhausted life?"
"One day you just snap."
"You shoot your coworkers."
"You rob a bank."
"You kill."
"Anything!"
"Anything but this!"
The guard had already lost consciousness.
His body went limp.
For a brief moment, Nibel simply stared.
Then rage consumed him.
He pummeled the unconscious man again and again.
Still unsatisfied, he turned his revolver toward the iron grilles and emptied every remaining bullet into them.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Only then did he sprint forward, clutching the bars with both hands.
He desperately tried forcing himself through the narrow gap.
"I see you!"
"I can see you!"
Hidden beneath a desk, a young bank clerk screamed.
Nibel's grin widened with ecstatic delight.
He pressed his face against the iron bars with such force that blood vessels burst across his eyes, making them bulge grotesquely from their sockets.
The woman glanced back only once.
That single glimpse nearly terrified her senseless.
A man rushed forward to stop him.
Separated by the grilles, he believed Nibel posed little threat now that his pistol was empty.
He swung his fist.
Nibel moved first.
Twisting aside, he shot out one hand and seized the man's arm.
His emaciated body concealed monstrous strength.
With one savage pull—
The arm slammed against the bars.
And Nibel bit down.
Flesh tore.
Bones cracked.
The man's scream echoed through the bank as Nibel ripped away a mouthful of meat, blood flooding over his lips before he spat the mangled flesh onto the floor.
Bright crimson painted vivid color across his corpse-like face.
His expression became one of ecstatic madness.
"Just like this!"
"I'm enjoying the process!"
"The process of change!"
"Change is difficult!"
"But it's worth trying!"
"Free your soul from its rotting prison!"
Laughing wildly, he thrust his head between the bars once more.
"Come on!"
"Give it a try!"
"My friend..."
"Say goodbye to your boring little life!"
The wounded man clutched his mutilated arm, refusing even to answer.
The whistles had reached the entrance.
The mounted police had arrived.
They smashed through the doors, rifles raised, bolts snapping into place amid shouted commands.
Nibel slowly turned to face them.
The madness vanished.
In an instant...
He became someone else.
His shoulders trembled.
Then he broke down crying.
Dropping to his knees, he raised both hands high above his head.
"Please!"
"Help me!"
No one understood what had caused such an abrupt transformation.
The officers continued shouting warnings.
With trembling fingers, Nibel slowly pulled open his coat.
Beneath it...
Explosives.
Bundles of dynamite were strapped tightly around his waist, wired together beneath a ridiculous little alarm clock.
Its crimson hand crept steadily toward the final mark.
The madman was gone.
Only an ordinary man remained—
Sobbing.
Terrified.
Begging to be saved.
"He made me do it!"
"It was him!"
"He forced me!"
Again and again Nibel cried those words, tears washing the blood from the corners of his mouth like a condemned sinner pleading desperately for absolution.