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墨書 Inktalez
The flames danced wildly in the night, a frenzied atmosphere enveloping the venue like a twisted festival.
The figure in the black robe stood on the stage, arms raised high, his voice piercing the night sky with an unshakeable fervor. His robe billowed with his movements, as if the darkness itself were flowing, and his eyes sparkled with a light that bordered on the divine.
"Come, my comrades! Look at our numbers! Look at our resolve! Look at this city we are about to set ablaze!" His voice soared, reminiscent of an ancient battle hymn.
The gathering had reached its most frenzied stage, more people surged forward, cutting their palms over bowls symbolizing sacrifice. Those who had just completed the ritual wore expressions of excitement and ecstasy, embracing one another and cheering as if they had crossed some boundary, becoming purer beings than mere mortals.
Tommy stood among the crowd, his mind still in chaos, yet he could feel the surge of mad energy sweeping through the space like an unquenchable flame.
At that moment, the figure in the black robe suddenly leaped onto the platform, vigorously waving his arms and loudly proclaiming—
"Two days from now, we will carry out our first Elimination action!"
The crowd fell silent for a second before erupting into even more frenzied cheers and applause.
The voice of the figure was loud and resolute: "We will place bombs in the city center and blow up the buildings in the Financial District! We will make those sinners hiding in their ivory towers feel fear; let the flames burn in their hearts! They have exploited us, manipulated us, and squeezed us dry—now it is time for them to taste our wrath!"
"This is not just our voice! This is judgment! This is justice brought by Carter Black! Our actions will serve as a rallying cry for him!"
This statement ignited the entire venue; everyone screamed wildly, raising their hands. Some were so overwhelmed they knelt on the ground, chanting Carter's name. This was no longer just a gathering; it was a revolution about to explode—a movement of unstoppable madness.
Tommy's heart began to race, a wave of intense discomfort surging through his stomach.
What was happening? Were they really going to blow up the financial center of the city? This was not mere rebellion or vigilante justice; this was a terrorist attack. These people—these zealots—were truly prepared to take action!
He turned to look at Jack but found his friend’s eyes filled with joy and excitement, as if he had finally found meaning in life. Tommy's world continued to sway, but he suddenly realized that this time he had gone too deep.
His mind still foggy, Tommy felt as if reality were a thick liquid flowing around him—blurred and distorted. The fervent shouts roared in his ears; flames flickered, illuminating faces that were excited to a near-manic degree. Meanwhile, on stage, the figure in black continued to raise his hands high, announcing impending destruction.
Tommy swallowed hard, feeling his throat dry as if stuffed with ashes. He turned to Jack and lowered his voice, speaking hesitantly: "Hey... I think something’s not right... We shouldn’t..."
Before he could finish his sentence, Jack suddenly slapped him on the shoulder with a grin that seemed too light-hearted for the moment: "I'll buy you a drink afterward."
The words struck Tommy like a gentle bullet, hitting his nerves directly.
His thoughts came to an abrupt halt, as if he had been hypnotized, and he instinctively nodded, "Okay."
After all, what else could keep him going? Only alcohol, only the haze of drunkenness could soothe the worries and sorrows within him, making this broken, chaotic world seem a little softer. After all, it was all just a dream; he was merely going along for the ride, right?
At that moment, the voice of the cloaked figure echoed again, "Is there anyone willing to be a pioneer and ignite the first flame for this city?"
The crowd stirred restlessly, but no one raised their hand immediately. This was not a simple ritual or a slogan; it was real action, a genuine sacrifice.
Jack suddenly raised his hand and shouted alongside Tommy, "We have two here!"
Tommy's body stiffened for a moment; his eyes widened in shock, yet he remained silent.
He looked at Jack's fervent smile and then down at his own hand—blood-stained and now raised high in the firelight, like a soldier about to embrace his fate. His mind went blank; thoughts ceased to function, and the illusions brought on by alcohol whispered to him: It doesn’t matter anymore; things have come to this point. Damn it, it doesn’t matter.
The crowd cheered, the cloaked figure smiled, and the flames on stage burned even brighter. Meanwhile, Tommy could only stand there, allowing this nightmare to consume him.
Night fell over the ruins of the city; there were no lights here—only the shadows cast by crumbling buildings under the moonlight, silent and cold.
Tommy and Jack quickly passed the screening—they were veterans, and this organization needed people like them. Their bodies were already accustomed to the weight of firearms; battlefield experience allowed them to understand how to act without needing many words. Around them were others joining the pioneer force—some were fellow veterans who had once fought for their country but were now preparing to ignite flames in the city; others were chemical experts and demolition technicians whose hands had once mixed potions in laboratories but now combined explosives with death as another form of scientific sacrifice.
"This is our hideout," the cloaked figure said as he led them through narrow alleys into a dilapidated area.
This place had once been a slum until Carter Black's bomb turned it into scorched earth. The government had once claimed it would be rebuilt, but civil war, economic collapse, and political infighting turned those promises into discarded documents. Now this wasteland was forgotten—a ghost town within the city where no one came or cared about what lay hidden here.
In fact, this area had once served as a warehouse for gangs smuggling arms, housing countless firearms, explosives, and contraband. When Carter destroyed it, the gangs lost their stronghold while government attention shifted to other more chaotic regions. Here remained uncleaned and ungoverned—abandoned just like that.
"Becoming a hideout is merely coincidental," said the cloaked figure casually as he pushed open a half-destroyed metal door and led everyone into a building that was almost just a skeleton.
Inside was even more desolate than outside; the ceiling had collapsed from explosions, and blackened marks from blasts still lingered on the walls. Yet on the ground lay an entrance leading underground—once a gang's storage room but now serving as "Truth's Fire" sanctuary.
The lighting was dim; several men in tactical vests were cleaning weapons while tables were filled with assembled explosives and maps.
Tommy's throat felt a bit dry as he looked around, realizing that this place was not like any ordinary Rebel Organization; it resembled a military base preparing for war.
The air in the basement was stifling, a mix of humidity and the scent of gunpowder. The dim yellow light elongated the shadows of two men in white robes, giving them an eerie yet focused appearance.
Their faces were covered in dust, as if they had just crawled out from under rubble. Their hair was disheveled, but their eyes were unusually intent. The two pairs of hands busily manipulated the explosives on the table—disassembling, assembling, measuring—each step executed with remarkable skill, as if this were not a plan to destroy everything but rather a high-precision craft.
"We need at least four sets of explosives, and they must be installed at the structural core; otherwise, it will only cause partial collapse and won't completely destroy the building," one of them said in a low voice, his tone calm and calculated.
"Four sets? Are you crazy? The buildings in the Financial District are not cheap apartments; they are ultra-high-strength Reinforced Concrete Buildings! We need at least six sets to ensure it collapses from within, not just blow off a few floors!" The other man frowned, his voice agitated as he pointed back and forth on the design plans spread out on the table, as if arguing with the data itself.
"Have you considered the material strength? If the detonation points are set correctly, four sets of explosives are enough to trigger a chain collapse. Extra explosives will only increase risk and complicate transportation and installation," he countered.
"But what if we miscalculate? What if the building is only damaged and doesn't completely collapse? Then our message will turn into a farce instead of a judgment!"
The argument grew increasingly heated, yet their tones remained devoid of emotion—only cold calculations and precise predictions flowed between them, like two engineers discussing an important construction project. However, what they were constructing was not a skyscraper but a disaster poised to tear apart the heart of the city.
"Have you even calculated the Shockwave transmission? If the detonation points are accurate enough, four sets will suffice!"
"I have certainly calculated that, but I am more concerned with ensuring this Elimination does not fail! Six sets of explosives is the bare minimum!"
The explosives on the table continued to be assembled while calculation papers filled with notes suggested that this was pure science rather than an art of slaughter about to claim countless lives.
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