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墨書 Inktalez
The night enveloped the city like a curtain, with lights flickering in the cracks of the urban landscape, resembling a flowing illusion that reflected a gradually unraveling metropolis.
Jack gripped Tommy's wrist tightly, his steps hurried and his tone fervent as he muttered, "We need to do something, Tommy. We must overturn the city's corruption and injustice; we must be part of this Revolution!"
Tommy followed behind him in a daze, his consciousness hazy and his steps unsteady. The world before him spun like a kaleidoscope, dazzling yet chaotic. His mind felt eroded by alcohol and something even more frenzied, leaving him unable to focus on anything except Jack's firm grip and the wild fire burning in his eyes.
"Where are we going?" Tommy murmured, his voice languid as if he had not fully awakened.
"To witness history, to see the future, to witness the birth of a Revolution." Jack's voice carried an unusual fervor, as if the night itself was witnessing some great and irreversible change, and he had become part of it.
They slipped into a dark alleyway where several figures stood at the entrance, resembling guards or sentinels wary of strangers. Without hesitation, Jack approached them; they merely glanced at him before nodding, signaling that they could enter.
At the end of the street lay an abandoned factory lot, where lights cast eerie colors in the night, resembling an altar of the Underworld. A crowd gathered in the center—dozens, hundreds—standing by the firelight, intently gazing at the stage.
On stage stood a group of people holding various banners filled with fervent slogans—"Death Angel!", "Vigilante!", "Judgment Day!" At the top of the stage hung a rough banner depicting a blurred silhouette: a lone man in a hood wielding a weapon, like the darkest judge of this city.
Carter Black.
"Do you see it, Tommy?" Jack's voice trembled with excitement, his eyes sparkling with an unusual light. "This isn't just worship; it's a movement—a true Revolution! We are not the only ones who see this city's decay—everyone here is waiting for the day to overthrow it!"
Tommy stood there as the lights flickered and twisted before him; the world remained chaotic, like an unawakened nightmare. His mind was still foggy, unable to fully grasp where he was, but he could feel the fervor around him, hear the repeated chants echoing in the air, and smell the burning scent wafting through.
He wasn't sure if this was where he belonged or if this was the path he should take. But at that moment, Jack's hand remained tightly clasped around his wrist, and this crowd, this city, this movement surged forward toward an unknown direction that no one could stop.
The flickering flames cast shadows that illuminated faces filled with excitement and distortion, the air thick with a near-religious fervor.
On stage, a man stood at the center, his hands raised high. His voice was hoarse yet brimming with passion, and his shadow loomed large and twisted against the backdrop, resembling some dark faith awakening from slumber.
“Carter Black is not a person!” he shouted, his tone fervent as if preaching like a Cleric. “He is not merely a vigilante, not an ordinary assassin, not the kind of lone outlaw you think he is! No—he is a belief, an ideology!”
The crowd erupted into deafening cheers, screams and whistles intertwining like hunting dogs catching the scent of blood, filled with wild excitement.
“The government of this city tries to crush him, the gangs try to eliminate him, the police try to arrest him, but he still exists, still walks among the streets, still makes those damned corrupt tremble! Why? Because an ideology has no physical form! Ideology does not bleed! Ideology does not die!”
“We cannot be defeated!”
“We cannot be defeated!!”
“We cannot be defeated!!!”
The crowd seemed possessed, chanting this phrase madly, fists waving in the air, their eyes sparkling with fervent light. Tommy stood among them, squeezed between bodies caught up in madness. His consciousness remained hazy; the world around him twisted and chaotic like a kaleidoscope. The sounds roared in his ears, pounding against his brain and making him feel slightly nauseous.
Then a strange thought suddenly flashed through his mind—
“Wait a minute… this script… this routine… why does it sound so familiar?”
His gaze drifted among the frenzied crowd. The man shouting about an undying ideology, these fanatical worshippers of a vigilante, this scene that sanctified a killer—it all felt oddly reminiscent… but reminiscent of what?
"Damn, isn't this just the nonsense that the masked freak in *V For Vendetta* talks about?"
In an instant, his mind seemed to awaken briefly from chaos. He had seen this kind of mad belief in "the idea never dies" before—but that was a movie, a film! What was wrong with these people? Did they really think Carter Black was some transcendent being? He was just a man, a vigilante who took down bad guys with a gun, not some damned symbol of revolution!
But these people believed it; they believed it fervently. They no longer saw Carter as just a man but as a faith imprinted deep within their souls. Their cheers echoed in the night sky, and the city was brewing a greater storm, one that would sweep everything away in the name of "the idea never dies."
Tommy stood among the crowd, allowing the frenzy around him to engulf him. He felt his stomach churn, as if he had stumbled into an absurd farce. Yet he couldn't find the words to speak because he knew this farce was no longer a joke—this was a real movement, and when people began to believe that ideas were more important than life itself, blood would inevitably be shed.
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