Revenger's High

The man wearing a skull design mask gazed up at the night sky.

It was a clear evening, and the city was bathed in pale moonlight so bright it could've been mistaken for daytime. The sharply-defined outline of a massive, black building stood out far along the coast. Normally, a food processing factory in the Tenth District at this hour would be cloaked in darkness, barely noticeable without the noise of machinery.

A strict guideline prohibited abductions during nights when the moon shone exceptionally bright.

However, tonight was different. In just a few hours, in the dead of night, this up-and-coming kidnapper was about to execute his first major deal. The request from the human trafficking ring was straightforward: capture a total of ten individuals, either attractive women or competent dusters.

The ring, though not the largest in the business, had extensive connections. If he failed to deliver the goods as agreed by the deadline, unsavory rumors could quickly spiral out of control.

In other words, if he intended to continue in the kidnapping trade, backing out of tonight's arrangement was not an option he could consider.

Behind him, in an abandoned warehouse in the Tenth District by the bay, nine victims were currently being held captive. Snagging a competent duster wasn’t something that could be done easily, and in the final count, all of the "goods" were attractive women.

Either way, they were one person short of the required number.

Tch. Where are those bastards . . . ?

With a frown hidden by his mask, he grumbled quietly to himself.

His newly formed kidnapping organization consisted of five members, all wearing skull masks. At that moment, two of his henchmen were out trying to secure the last victim. The scheduled time for completing the kidnapping and meeting at the rendezvous point had long passed. Frustration welled up inside him, making him wonder if he was also worthless for managing such incompetent underlings.

At that moment, a cluster of particles resembling black sand floated past his eyes.

They were elusive dust particles. Not only in the Grand City but across the entire world, this divine natural substance drifted whimsically on the wind, and at times it rustled as it clung to his skull mask.

With a rough motion, he brushed the particles away, and they dispersed into a mist and drifted off.

Even though he was wearing a dust mask, commonly known as a Dress Mask, having one's face covered by the hazardous dust particles was never a pleasant experience. Inhaling them without a proper filter could leave a person vomiting blood for three days and nights.

His irritation grew more severe as he repeatedly checked his watch.

A low, rumbling engine sound reached his ears. Looking down the streetlight-lined road, he saw a pickup truck maneuvering between the shipping containers. It came to a sudden stop in front of the warehouse, and both the driver’s and passenger’s doors opened at once.

The two lackeys who stepped out were wearing the same skull masks as him. The numbers carved on the side of their masks followed his own, starting from one and then two, three, and so on.

You’re so slow, you numbskulls! Where the hell were you loitering?!

The two underlings flinched, showered in the man's harsh, phlegmy cry—but promptly opened the rear door to reveal the interior, as if trying to placate him with their explanation.

N-no, Ozzie. We found a prime target—a real gem—and I switched our target at the last minute!

Abbreviating his name, OZ Izzie was commonly referred to as Ozzie by those around him.

It’s an actress! Well, technically an aspiring actress, but damn, she is stunning. See? Just take a look!

The henchman spoke as if proudly showing off a perfect test score to his parents.

When Ozzie glanced around inside the vehicle, he saw a woman with her arms and legs tied, struggling wildly. She was wearing an oversized, stylized sheep mask covered in white, fluffy fur. Underneath, her mouth was apparently taped shut, muting her screams.

Are you out of your minds? You can't show me a damn thing out here. Hurry up and get her inside.

In a complex tone of anger mingled with relief, Ozzie pointed toward the door at the rear.

He opened the back entrance and proceeded down a narrow, L-shaped corridor, which led to a vast, hollowed-out interior. Originally, this space was used to store large quantities of ship parts, but following the bankruptcy of its parent company, the warehouse had been completely abandoned.

At the far end of the warehouse, near a dust discharger, nine humans were huddled together in restraints. Standing guard were two more henchmen with guns.

The victims trembled as one upon seeing Ozzie’s imposing figure. Although their confinement was secure, the threat of his meticulously instilled terror prevented them from attempting any resistance.

Ozzie, come on! You gotta see this broad!

The two subordinates returned to the warehouse and unceremoniously dumped the struggling, sheep-masked woman onto a mat.

Ozzie glanced briefly at the cheap D Meter on his left wrist. It was a sealed room and the dust discharger was functioning properly. Airborne dust concentration was within safe limits.

In other words, the indoor environment was safe enough that even removing the mask wouldn’t pose a problem.

Alright then, let’s check out what we’ve got here . . .

Ozzie swiftly removed the sheep mask from the woman, revealing striking long blonde hair and a stunning face. She tried to scream as the tape was ripped from her mouth, but Ozzie pressed a thick finger over her lips before she could say anything.

If you make a sound, I’ll kill you. Got it?

Tears began to well up in the woman’s eyes.

Ozzie removed his own skull mask to get a better look, revealing a surprisingly youthful face with lightly tanned skin.

With eyes clouded by desire, he assessed the value of his product. Although he was confident that the other women prepared for this deal all met the minimum criteria, their appeal was somewhat subjective. In contrast, this one had a look that had a broad appeal.

Ozzie turned to the two henchmen holding their breath and watching him with concerned anticipation. A grotesque smile spread across his face.

Good job, you guys. Look forward to your share.

The two flunkies visibly relaxed. More than anyone, Ozzie himself felt reassured—he was convinced they’d make the crucial deal on time. After readjusting the sheep mask on the tenth woman, he finally settled his nerves and sat down on a chair by the wall.

He picked up a small device and examined it. The blue apparatus, known as an injector, was an essential, specialized item for modern humanity. Black dust particles smoothly swirled through the semi-transparent glass.

Dust particles, which governed all phenomena, were a toxic substance that couldn't be ingested in their raw form without causing harm. There was no disputing that—but it wasn't their most notable trait.

This mysterious substance, when consumed in the proper fashion, granted humanity boundless benefits; they could trigger unique special abilities that were different for each individual.

These came to be known as dust abilities.

That said, not everyone could harness these powers from the dust particles. Dusters were few and far between—even in the sprawling Grand City, they made up less than 30 to 40% of the population. And if you only counted those with truly useful dust abilities, that number shrank even further.

Ozzie took great pride in his own dust ability. The effectiveness of these powers was measured not only by their industrial and commercial utility, but also by their combat value—and by every measure, he was confident in his own prowess.

That was exactly why he broke away from the crime organization of the Seventeenth District he once belonged to and struck out on his own. It was just last month that he stole every last bit from the organization’s treasury and vanished without a trace.

Being part of someone else's organization meant that sometimes he had to answer to dusters who were far inferior to him—or worse, to non-dusters with no abilities at all. That was a world he simply couldn't tolerate.

At the moment, Ozzie's organization was clearly understaffed. In fact, he was the only duster in the group. But that didn't bother him.

He intended to use tonight's deal as a stepping stone for a significant leap forward. By earning the trust of the middlemen and expanding his operations, it was only a matter of time before he could recruit even more members.

In doing so, his organization would naturally grow, and his long-envisioned dream of becoming one of the major figures in the the Grand City underworld was starting to take form in his mind.

Ozzie kept his ambitions to himself as he smirked underneath his skull mask.

That's when it happened.

A heavy thump rang out from near the back door of the abandoned warehouse.

A puzzled expression flashed across Ozzie's face, and his henchmen exchanged worried glances.

He checked his watch. The middleman wasn't due to visit for quite some time. Any changes in timing would normally be communicated in advance. If a third party was involved, it meant either the warehouse manager had shown up at a bad time, or one of his goons had made a mistake and gotten followed.

N-no, Ozzie. I checked a billion times—no one was behind us.

When Ozzie glared at his subordinate, the denial came out in a flustered rush.

A moment later, all the lights in the warehouse went out at once with a crunch.

The panic among the kidnapping victims was palpable. The henchmen grew unsettled, but Ozzie quietly stood up and attached the injector to its designated spot at the back of his mask, fully bracing himself for an ominous turn of events before giving his orders.

Hey, one of you! The breaker outside—!

He was cut off before he could finish saying, "Go check it out."

Then came a series of suspicious tapping sounds from above, almost like someone was sprinting across the roof. The central skylight in the ceiling shattered.

What the . . . ?

Ozzie couldn't help but exclaim in surprise.

Amid scattering shards of glass, a lone figure landed soundlessly in the center of the warehouse. Bathed in moonlight as if illuminated by a spotlight, the figure made a striking entrance.

They wore a mask fashioned after a black hound. Clad in dark clothing that blended seamlessly with the shadows and wielding an almost impossibly long katana, the intruder who had descended from a great height rose gracefully, as if untouched.

The intruder surveyed the dimly lit warehouse and confirmed the presence of five individuals wearing skull masks.

What's goin' on . . . ? Hey, who the hell are you?

One of the henchmen called out to the disruptor, but Ozzie immediately sensed that questions like this were futile. The newcomer exuded no respectability or friendliness; they were clearly an armed intruder.

As if to confirm this, the figure in the black dog mask remained silent while unsheathing the sword nearly as long as their own body. They swung it in a smooth, circular arc before taking a forward-leaning katana stance.

Hmph.

They snorted once.

Get him, you idiots!

At Ozzie's command, two of the skull mask wearers quickly moved in. They deliberately chose knives instead of guns to prevent missed or ricocheted bullets damaging their valuable merchandise.

Their close combat skills were truly admirable. Even if they weren’t dusters, they more than satisfied Ozzie’s top requirement that his subordinates maintain a respectable level of fighting ability.

So, by the time the blood had splattered and the backspray covered his windbreaker, he assumed that the mysterious assailant had already been dealt with.

But, at that very moment, he saw the heads of both henchmen slide off simultaneously.

Soon after, two headless bodies collapsed with a heavy thud onto the hard concrete.

The impassive figure with the black dog mask fixed their gaze and blood-soaked katana on them. Thick, jet-black drips rained steadily from the blade, and Ozzie could hardly keep up with the fluidity of their swordplay.

A shiver of dread ran down his spine.

He pulled a nine millimeter MGC handgun from his breast pocket. Seeing their boss employ a ranged weapon, the remaining two lackeys also raised their guns.

This was no longer time to worry about the goods. Warning bells rang in Ozzie's mind, telling him this guy was dangerous.

A hail of bullets rained down upon the spot the figure in the black dog mask had just occupied before they leaped into the air.

Deafening sounds of gunfire echoed throughout the warehouse. With each burst from the dustificial ammunition crafted using specialized dust abilities, sparks flew in the dark interior. Like a scene from a movie, the person in the black dog mask moved swiftly between each flash and closed in on the two henchmen.

Uncanny clangs resounded amid the chaos. The person in the black dog mask was swinging their katana and unbelievably deflecting bullets mid-air.

With extraordinary agility, they darted in close, then kicked one of the skull mask wearers in the side, sending him tumbling into his companion. In one swift motion, the black dog mask wearer plunged their katana deep into both of their chests, impaling them in a single, decisive strike.

The heart-wrenching scream of one of Ozzie's longtime acquaintances, who had come along from his previous organization, echoed painfully in his ears.

The gunfire ceased, and a momentary silence fell over the scene.

In what had seemed like a single instant, four henchmen were eliminated.

Now alone, Ozzie had a look of anguish. Neither guns nor blades were proving effective against his opponent. In that case, only dust abilities remained—and with this realization, he tossed aside his handgun.

Immediately afterward, he reached for his neck. A click signaled that his injector had been activated. The needle pierced his neck, and a familiar, localized sting shot through him. From a capsule within the injector, dust particles smoothly flowed out, injected toward the black crystal organ nestled within that spot.

In an instant, a cloud of sooty dust particles billowed from his entire body. His D Meter registered a rapidly rising airborne dust concentration—so high that anyone without a mask would promptly collapse.

Dust particles erupted from his fingertips.

The four pipes by his side began to float on their own.

The dusters, who now ruled the modern era, harnessed their power by absorbing dust particles—the Almighty Substance—through their black crystal organs, thereby extracting a single effect from infinite possibilities.

Although dust abilities varied greatly, Ozzie's Manipulation ability—the power to effortlessly control objects shrouded in his own dust particles—demonstrated exceptional versatility, whether in kidnapping operations or during combat.

The figure in the black dog mask observed this dust ability for a fleeting second or two. Then, looking bored, they raised their katana.

There's no way I'm gonna be killed by some clueless bastard like this . . . !

Ozzie deduced that the masked assailant was not a duster. If an injector had been activated, he would expect to see the characteristic swirling of dust particles around them.

In other words, the swordsmanship that had so easily dismembered his henchmen was merely a product of training. They were nothing more than an ordinary non-duster.

No matter how much a mere non-duster trains, they could never hope to defeat someone like me . . . !

He hurled four long aluminum pipes at the assassin. Confident in his precise control, he intended to slam them down on his target's landing spot if they attempted to dodge.

The dog-masked intruder cartwheeled out of the way. At that unceremonious evasion, Ozzie smirked, his broad mouth twisting beneath his mask.

Ha, idiot!

Ozzie swiftly altered the angle of his hand, adjusting the trajectory of the pipes floating in midair. No matter how exceptional this person's physical abilities might have been, no one could dodge an airborne attack like that. At that speed, a collision would inevitably cause compound fractures throughout the body.

The pipes shot toward the intruder at high speed as they sliced through the air.

Yet, there was no dull, heavy sound expected from a body being shattered into pieces.

Instead, the noise that reached Ozzie's ears was a sharp, metallic crack, like breaking minerals.

From behind the dark veil of dirt and dust particles, the dog-masked figure scowled as they burst forth—katana held in a single, decisive stance—advancing right in front of Ozzie.

Wha—?

In that instant, Ozzie braced for the end—but it didn't come.

In two decisive swings, the whooshing katana claimed not his life, but both his arms. The searing pain of having his limbs severed from the elbows down was unimaginable, and he screamed as though his own eardrums would burst.

Damn it, damn it . . . ! My, my . . . hands . . . !

He couldn't fathom how it was possible. Noticing that the four pipes he had launched had somehow multiplied into eight rolling around him, he was rendered speechless. It was an utterly outlandish display of swordsmanship.

No way . . . did you really slice through every single one of them . . . ? That's insane . . . !

The masked figure silently surveyed their surroundings. The corpses of the four subordinates formed bloody pools in the pale moonlight, and the ten gagged kidnapping victims trembled in sheer terror.

Why didn't you kill me . . . ?

Ozzie squeezed the words out through a pained expression hidden beneath his mask.

OZ Izzie, also known as Ozzie, I have a question for you.

For the first time, the figure in the black dog mask broke their silence. The eerie quality of the voice led Ozzie to furrow his brows.

It was an uncanny, mechanical voice. The cold, robotic tone, neither distinctly male nor female, echoed through the chilly warehouse.

They swung their katana, blood clinging to the blade splattered, tracing red streaks across the floor.

Ozzie gasped at this weapon capable of slicing metal and deflecting bullets without a single scratch, wielded by nothing more than a mere non-duster who hadn't even activated an injector. It was utterly unbelievable.

There were other anomalies as well.

Though difficult to make out in the dim light, a closer look revealed that the katana wielder's build was remarkably small and slender. In spite of that, they were armed from head to toe—in addition to the long katana that even the burly Ozzie would struggle to wield, multiple daggers were strapped to their waist, and a palm pistol rested against their thigh.

Ozzie looked up and was struck by the ghostly aura emanating from them as they stood right in front of him, causing him to involuntarily shriek.

Eek!

M-monster . . . !

He spat out the words.

What the hell is this?! Damn it! Where the hell did you come from, and what’s going on . . . ? Are you a purge officer or something . . . ?

He muttered the name of the tyrants who indiscriminately wiped out criminals in Grand City with bitter disdain.

I'm no purge officer.

The masked figure re-sheathed their katana with a clack.

Th-then, what the hell are you . . . ?!

I'm the one asking questions now.

Ozzie remembered the words his opponent had just said. "I have a question for you." The dog-masked figure drew a dagger from their waistband and gently placed it against the neck of the kneeling Ozzie.

If you answer truthfully, we can avoid the hassle of torture. It’ll be easier for both of us . . .

The cold touch of the blade triggered an immediate, almost primal reaction in Ozzie, and he roared back.

I-if it's something I know, I'll tell you! Just put that away!

Still in the same position, the figure in the dog mask calmly continued.

Do you know a man who wears a smiley-face mask?

Wh-what'd you say . . . ?

A thin man wearing a smiley-face mask. Everyone just calls him Smiley. Do you know him?

He seemed like someone entirely unfamiliar. Even the clue seemed to be a Dress Mask with a standard design. Ozzie furiously raised his voice.

You can't possibly expect me to recognize someone just from that description. That could be any of the millions of people living in Grand City right now . . . !

Maybe he's a kidnapper. Someone you work with, perhaps?

The connection between kidnapping rings and the man in question was unclear. Not someone easily fooled by lies, Ozzie found himself at a loss for words.

The dog mask wearer appeared slightly disappointed that they hadn't gotten the answer they wanted, and Ozzie got the sense that his use to them was rapidly running out.

W-wait!

He stopped them, clinging to his own life.

Please! Anything else! Doesn't he have any distinguishing features?! Is he a criminal? Give me a bit more to go on—maybe you just forgot something. It might come back to you!

In response to Ozzie's desperate plea, the masked figure replied quietly.

That thin, chilling laugh . . . it won't leave my ears.

Huh . . . ?

He's the kind of man who won't hesitate to do whatever it takes to keep laughing. Once you get involved with him once, you'll never forget him so easily . . .

It seemed that the one in the dog mask had no intention of offering any further details. As silence overtook the warehouse, Ozzie felt his life drawing to a close with each echoing footstep.

Not willing to be killed so easily, he forced himself to speak.

What the hell, man? Why . . . are you looking for that guy so bad?

He was about to ask why they wanted to kill him, but before he could continue, the assassin reacted.

Why, you ask?

As they murmured in their mechanical voice, they touched both of their elbows. Then, as if in an act of tenderness—or perhaps pity—they ran their hand over their own black bodysuit.

Why . . . ? I'm gonna find him no matter what, and when I do . . .

With those almost introspective words, the aura surrounding them shifted completely. The intense intent of murder disappeared, and the caution they maintained toward Ozzie faded all at once.

Ozzie gave him a frenzied look.

Maybe this was his chance. Unlike before, they were now exposed.

He focused on one of the pipes scattered behind the person in the dog mask. It rose silently as dusky dust particles rippled across it. The freshly severed, katana-sliced edge tapered sharply, glittering as it caught the moonlight.

What . . . are you gonna do to him?

Drawing attention to himself as he spoke, Ozzie adjusted the height of the pipe.

I . . . I'll . . .

As the dog-masked attacker responded, their gaze fixed on the void, Ozzie directed his pure rage toward them.

With a piercing glare behind the mysterious figure, the aluminum pipe streaked through the air at breakneck speed.

Their mistake was not finishing me off sooner . . . ! Now, spill your guts!

But, just as the tip was about to pierce his opponent's back, they instantly sidestepped to the right, slipped behind Ozzie, and pulled him up by his neck.

With a swift tug, they hoisted his body up. The deadly pipe, propelled by Ozzie's own manipulation, sliced through the air, and in the very next moment, pierced his stomach.

I'll chase him to the ends of the earth . . . and kill him with my own hands without fail . . .

Gah! Hff . . . !

With a gurgling sound, Ozzie spat out blood under his mask. The force was so strong that the dust filter on his Dress Mask designed to block dust particles detached and dripped black dust steadily onto the floor.

The dog-masked figure calmly gripped the hilt of their katana. Confronted by the imposing weapon before him, Ozzie summoned every last bit of strength to speak.

Wh–who the hell . . . are you . . . ?

Me? I’m Chumi Revenger. Not that there's any point or meaning in remembering it . . . you're gonna die, either way.

With a fluid draw of their sword, Ozzie's vision was plunged into darkness.

The dust particles drifting in the air vanished silently, as if in response to his last breath.

Neon signs flickered in the distant landscape of Grand City.

Chumi thought that the blending of black and white hues seemed to embody the very essence of this colossal metropolis.

Those who dwelled in the shadows like him hid away from the powerful figures who ruled the bright parts of Grand City.

After finishing the job at the abandoned warehouse in the Tenth District, he rode through the streets on an antique-looking bike. His destination was the outpost of a familiar informant who, despite his innocuous demeanor, managed murderers with unsettling ease.

The early February headwinds were bitter and cold. Most of the city’s shops were already closed at night. Flags announcing school year-end sales still fluttered outside. With the new school year approaching, every retailer seemed busily engaged in their trade.

It was Grand City year 149. It had been well over a century since the largest city on the continent was built.

No one alive remembered who first coined the name "Grand City." It was common knowledge, though, that it was the first orderly city to emerge since the collapse of the ancient civilization, triggered by the dust particles that came to envelop the world.

In this city, assembled by some of the continent’s most capable dusters, the very foundation of daily life depended on dust abilities. Essentials such as fuel, food, water, and electricity were distributed as dustificial products processed with specialized dust abilities, symbolizing the city’s prosperity. Moreover, nearly all electronic devices—collectively known as dustificial devices—were produced in Grand City by repurposing the radio waves emitted by the drifting dust particles.

With a clumsy rumbling sound as it rounded the curve, Chumi's bike entered a sector of the Eighteenth District. A flashily decorated large motorcycle sped past him at breakneck speed. From its exhaust, residual dustificial fuel spewed out, forming a billowing black mist.

In the Eighteenth District, notorious for its complete lack of safety, it wasn’t uncommon to get entangled with completely deranged individuals driven mad under the influence of dustificial drugs or suffering from severe dust disorder. The further one strayed from the Central Districts, the more tumultuous the nights in Grand City became. In particular, the slums from the Fifteenth District onward, classified as the O-Fifteen, were places where no self-respecting citizen would dare venture after dark.

Chumi had no patience for these complications. Eager to reach his destination quickly, he found that his outdated small bike just couldn’t muster the speed he needed. In hindsight, he regretted that if he was going to resort to theft anyway, he should've stolen a higher-performance machine instead.

Turning the corner, he arrived in the back alley of a mixed-use complex and parked his bike by the roadside. Hoisting a hefty body bag, he descended a suspicious set of underground stairs that bore no sign whatsoever.

Proceeding straight down a corridor where lights flickered intermittently, he encountered a man wearing a boar mask with large, protruding eyes, seated on a metal folding chair.

Yo, is that you, Black Dog?

You reek of blood like usual. How many did you off today with that oversized katana?

Chumi offered nothing but a glare in response to the man greeting him with light banter.

The boar masked man shrugged in exasperation. Chumi presented the business card of their familiar informant as his entry pass. Boar Mask snorted, nodded, and pointed toward the door behind him.

When the thick navy-blue door opened, an irregular melody reached his ears—an electronic tune produced by a dust discharger equipped with a jukebox function.

The informant Sazaki sat at the bar, his elbows resting on the counter. His worn beige suit blended in seamlessly with the surroundings. No other patrons were present, perhaps due to some prior arrangement.

Chumi glanced at the D Meter wrapped around his left wrist. Even though the indoor environment was safe enough to remove his mask, he made no move to do so, instead drawing closer to Sazaki.

Sazaki sat unmasked with neatly trimmed blonde hair and thick-rimmed round glasses, intently gazing at the ceiling.

Hey, Chumi. Have a seat.

He pointed to the stool beside him, speaking in an almost suspiciously gentle tone. Chumi removed his katana from its guard, leaned it against the counter, and sat down.

What'll you have?

The bartender spoke in a gruff tone while meticulously polishing glasses like a man suffering from extreme germophobia.

Hot milk.

Chumi responded in his mechanical voice.

Naturally sourced. And be careful not to let a film form. Also, don’t forget the sugar and a straw.

The bartender glared at him with a disapproving look, as if to say, "When are you ever gonna order some booze?" But, Chumi had no intention of indulging in liquor or cigarettes; the dust particles were toxic enough.

It’s been a while since we met face-to-face, hasn’t it? Your mask’s mechanical voice is getting a bit harder to understand.

Sazaki patted his throat in a rhythmic, almost tap-like manner.

When was the last time you had it checked? If you like, I can introduce you to a skilled mask technician.

I'll pass. If I let you handle it, I know you'll tack on all the bells and whistles and end up overcharging me.

Haha, how perceptive of you.

Sazaki laughed in an affected, exaggerated manner.

What's wrong with a few bells and whistles here and there? How about adding a glowing visor to improve your night vision?

I’ve already loaded up on special features. I have no intention of switching mask shops.

That's unfortunate.

Sazaki's remark didn't sound particularly disappointed.

The mug of hot milk slammed onto the counter with a loud thud.

Chumi pressed the mouthpiece of his black dog mask to remove the dust filter. Thanks to an open hatch designed to accommodate straws, he could drink his beverage without needing to remove the entire thing.

The natural cow's milk from a dust-free facility was healthier than dustificial beverages, but the flavor was bland. Watching Chumi add several spoonfuls of sugar and stir it, Sazaki couldn't resist commenting with a grin.

C'mon, Chumi, you still won't show your real face?

You're still asking that?

Generally, when acquaintances gathered, it was customary for them to reveal their faces. However, Chumi had no intention of following that convention.

I dunno. I just always thought you were kind of a funny guy.

Sazaki sounded exasperated.

I know what the biz is like. I've dealt with plenty of people who keep their identities hidden, but even after more than a year, you still refuse to reveal your name, face, or even your voice—it's odd, is all I'm saying.

I have no intention of removing my mask in front of you, whether it's one year or ten.

Chumi gazed across the counter at the bottles of unfamiliar liquor brands lining the shelf, bathed in the soft glow of the recessed lighting.

I've looked into your background for my job, and all my sources tell me you've been wearing a mask since birth.

Sounds like your network is as reliable as ever.

Even the mechanical voice carried a sarcastic tone.

Well, at least it's a good sign if you're starting to crack jokes.

Sazaki continued, glancing briefly at the bag at Chumi's side.

So, how did tonight’s job go?

Easy targets. There was only one duster, and he was even less of a threat than usual.

Chumi handed over the body bag containing five severed heads along with the masks they wore. Under Sazaki’s contract, it was mandatory to return both the head and its mask for identification.

Sazaki, renowned as an informant in the Eighteenth District, received contracts from the Grand City underworld to eliminate inconvenient individuals. He was in charge of scouting the location, and Chumi carried out the missions.

In this case, the client was none other than the boss of the multipurpose criminal organization in the Seventeenth District—the very group that Ozzie and his crew had split from. On paper, they claimed that killing a man who was once one of their own would be unthinkable, but the grim reality was that they just outsourced the job to avoid needless collateral damage.

Chumi almost mentioned the ten kidnapping victims at the scene, but ultimately refrained; they weren't part of the mission, so there was no obligation to report them. Besides, one of the women was in the middle of being stripped of her clothes and restraints, ensuring their escape regardless of his actions.

After unzipping the bag to check its contents, Sazaki nodded in satisfaction.

Yep, this is nice and gruesome, alright. The client who wanted revenge will be delighted. I wonder if these heads will be offered up to sandfalcons.

Upon hearing that, Chumi pictured a head impaled on a branch being pecked by ferocious, bald birds."When people drink . . . " he thought, as he grimaced.

Meanwhile, Sazaki continued with a smile.

From the looks of it, OZ Izzie didn't have any information connecting to you-know-who.

Nah.

Chumi flicked the rim of his mug with a gloved finger. He hoped this new player in the kidnapping game would have some information on Smiley, but the man he encountered claimed he'd never heard of him.

Sazaki seemed to have a peculiar eye for detail as he glanced at the disappointed look behind the black dog mask and offered some encouragement.

Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. The information you want may sometimes fall into your lap by luck, but generally, it's the steady, diligent search that bears fruit.

Chumi sighed. He had no need for cheap sympathy. What he really sought was sufficient compensation for the perils of his murderous hard work. Sensing the mood, Sazaki pulled an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table.

Chumi took the envelope and quickly inspected its contents. It felt strangely flimsy, and inside, there was only a single banknote—less than a tenth of his regular fee.

He shifted his gaze, realizing something was amiss. The informant interrupted him before he could utter a word.

Chumi, your work this past year has been truly remarkable. I, too, take pride in my trade, and it's been eating me up inside not being able to provide you with the information you really want. Out of character for me, I know, but I've done a whole lot of digging recently, and I ended up with this picture.

Sazaki then produced a photograph from his pocket.

Though the back of the photograph concealed its subject, it was undoubtedly the kind of intel Chumi had been after.

No way . . .

Chumi suddenly leaned forward in his chair.

So, have you found his location . . . ?

Yep. That's why I'm taking your kill costs for tonight as an informant's fee. Consider the money in that envelope a parting gift.

At Sazaki's signal, the bartender shuffled off into the back of the establishment with a frustrated look, leaving his glass polishing behind. Once he was completely out of sight, Sazaki continued.

I've been able to identify several criminals contracted by Smiley. If I recall correctly, there were two cases where the boss was already dead and one where they disappeared. Either way, because the information is so recent, I couldn't trace anything back to Smiley from the contracted organizations. Apparently, apart from the bosses, none of the members ever even see him in person.

Sazaki's tone carried a certain satisfaction as he discussed the elusive criminal.

The enigmatic criminal Smiley had been responsible for several kidnappings across Grand City. Even in a place teeming with crime like this, one would expect someone operating on such a large scale to be noticed. Yet, chillingly, almost no information existed about him.

This was because he never committed the crimes himself but instead always worked with criminal organizations who did his bidding. Moreover, if any details about him ever leaked, he promptly erased every piece of the organization down to the source—another reason why information about him remained so scarce.

Sazaki, cut to the chase. If there's a chance of contacting him, I'll pay for any information I can get. That's exactly why I've been doing this kind of work.

He focused his gaze on the photograph held between Sazaki's fingers.

So, is this one of his contractors? Or is it the person he's targeting?

Either way, it didn't matter. The possibility of finally making progress after so long completely absorbed him.

That would be the former. Naturally, I'll explain everything about the situation, but before that, there's something I need to tell you.

Sazaki's gentle eyes gleamed from behind his glasses.

Starting today, I plan to cease all contact with you for the time being.

I see.

Chumi replied in a low voice, lacking any trace of sentimentality.

It wasn't particularly a one-sided conversation. Sazaki made it clear from the beginning that if he ever felt endangered, he would cut off all ties immediately.

Above all, prioritizing self-preservation was the very essence of an informant.

As I mentioned earlier, consider that single banknote my farewell gift. You've proven to be quite the interesting business partner, Chumi Revenger. It's been a pleasure working with someone who's managed to keep their identity hidden until the very end.

And you've never been interesting to me in the slightest.

Chumi muttered under his breath, and Sazaki responded with a feigned laugh.

Okay.

With that, Sazaki finally turned the photo over.

In it, a man with a gaunt face was captured, dressed in the solemn ceremonial robes of the Dust Orthodox Church.

Well then, let me get right to it.

The ice in Sazaki’s glass clinked as it melted.

***

Leaving Sazaki behind, Chumi headed straight for the Fourth District in the southern part of Grand City—a section that, although not among the Central Districts making up the the First to the Third Districts where the elite gathered, laid on its comparatively quiet outskirts.

He observed the stone church dominating the center of a sprawling compound. The surrounding area was empty, with no one in sight and no traces of life.

Atop the triangular roof, he could see black dust particles naturally collecting and rustling in the breeze.

It was his first visit to the place, but he was aware of the Dust Orthodox Church's existence.

He touched the relief of the goddess carved into the door and felt the firm, cold surface of the stone statue through his leather gloves.

There were many religions that worshiped dust particles, but none were as ancient as the Dust Orthodox Church, with its symbol of a goddess releasing dust particles from her palm and scattering them across the earth. The compound eyes even on her forehead embodied the notion that she was a being beyond human understanding.

In other words, it signified that something above human comprehension had bestowed dust particles—a substance that humans likewise couldn't understand—upon humanity.

It was said that dust particles first appeared in this world several hundred years ago.

The mysterious substance supposedly arriving from space had an immediate impact on humanity that could be summed up in two words: destruction and rebirth.

Documents concerning the great disaster known as the Dust Calamity that led to the collapse of the ancient civilization hadn't survived in large numbers. Passed down like a fairy tale through the ages, it was understood by those living in the present as a legend whose authenticity could no longer be confirmed.

It's said that over 90% of humanity perished at that time, either because the harmful dust particles affected people's health, or because they interfered with the radio waves of the machinery upon which the ancient civilization depended, triggering massive panics.

However, the biggest reason for the ancient civilization's downfall was actually quite simple.

Dust abilities—when people started incorporating dust particles into the marble-like black crystal organs in their necks, they gained mysterious powers.

Dust particles, also known as the Almighty Substance, were thought to be a special assembly of molecules with a four-dimensional structure. Dust abilities referred to the unique skills different in every person to extract specific effects from it.

In modern times, talent directly referred to the dust ability a person possessed. Before the dust particles emerged, differences in people's abilities were at best mere variations in physical performance or mental acuity—a stark contrast between then and now.

Considering the norms of the ancient civilization, it was hardly surprising to imagine the impact when these suddenly bestowed dust abilities enabled those who had once been weak and those with bad intentions to acquire tremendous power.

Chumi could still clearly remember the picture book he read when he was a kid about the Dust Calamity, with a cover showing a man summoning a massive tsunami with his formidable dust ability.

Thus, the emergence of dust particles led to unprecedented chaos, eventually causing the complete collapse of the ancient civilization. As a result, humanity entered a dark era where ethics and common sense no longer prevailed. Eventually, though, after a long period of strife, civilization was rebuilt once again.

Moreover, in stark contrast to back then, the civilization that exists now was almost entirely dependent on the benefits provided by dust particles. Most of the essential framework of Grand City was supported by dust abilities, and naturally, even culture and religion weren't exempt.

Embodying both destruction and rebirth, dust particles came to be revered as a divine icon in everyday life, commanding a mix of awe and respect among many.

The Dust Orthodox Church was a religion that forbade mere mortals from unreservedly exploiting dust particles, as they possessed powers beyond human understanding.

Consequently, strict edicts were in place that denied the existence of any devices used to artificially manipulate dust particles.

Even the use of everyday necessities such as injectors that facilitated the uptake of dust particles without oral ingestion or dust dischargers that emitted artificial radio waves to eliminate dust particles were strictly regulated.

The edict that one must remove their mask and willingly endure the toxins of dust particles before using their dust ability seemed downright absurd to Chumi, who wasn't so devout. That was perhaps the reason many of the Dust Orthodox Church's clergy suffered from dust disorder, and their mental and physical faculties became impaired by the dust's harmful effects.

Well, it's none of my business what other people believe or how they act . . .

The problem, according to Sazaki’s information, was that members of the Dust Orthodox Church were using their status as clergy as a cover for engaging in kidnappings.

Chumi adjusted his mask and once again surveyed his surroundings.

There wasn't a single guard—only pervasive silence. He proceeded along the building's outer wall to check the rear, but there was no service entrance of any kind.

Returning to the entrance, he grasped the double doors and pushed them open.

The cold air inside the church made his skin prickle through his bodysuit. With the lights off, he couldn't see more than just a few steps down the long corridor.

He cautiously pressed forward, thinking back to the informant's joke about equipping his mask with a light.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of water splashing.

He looked down and realized he had stepped into a pool of blood. A gust of wind rushing toward the closed entrance carried its familiar lukewarm scent.

It quickly became clear that the interior of the church was shrouded in an atmosphere of death.

Too late, huh . . . ?

He muttered the words under his breath.

Along the corridor, a row of corpses lay face down—a lineup of clergy in grotesquely contorted positions.

Chumi crouched down to get a closer look at the bodies.

When he removed one of the simple Dust Orthodox Church-mandated masks adorned with their ring-shaped design of dust particles, the deathly visage of a young man was revealed, frozen in his final cry of agony.

Proceeding cautiously yet briskly past about ten bodies lining the corridor, he reached a heavy door.

When he opened it, a large, circular chapel unfolded before him. The interior, which must have once been intricately crafted, now laid in a tragically ruined, partially collapsed state.

Wooden benches shattered to tiny pieces, a Dust Orthodox Church goddess statue missing half its form, a splintered altar, a body pressed against the wall with its head blown off . . .

Judging by the number of bodies, it seemed that around fifteen people had been killed, including those in the corridor.

Each corpse bore the mark of an unnatural death. Some were twisted haphazardly, as if wrung out like rags.

Chumi retrieved the photo that Sazaki had given him from his leg pouch.

Bishop Lono Babels, thirty-six, male.

This member of the clergy involved in secret abductions, and a criminal who had struck a deal with Smiley, gazed blankly at Chumi.

The fact that the information had reached Sazaki inevitably meant that details about Smiley had leaked from within. There couldn't be much doubt that this massacre was an act of retaliation.

At that moment, moonlight streamed through the skylight in the ceiling, gently illuminating the entire chapel.

Noticing a peculiar pattern on the tiled floor, Chumi knelt down to examine it.

They were strange footprints, gigantic things far too large to be measured even with both of Chumi’s hands, irregularly scattered around—they definitely didn't seem like they could be made by a human. It was the first time he had ever found a clue at a crime scene. Tracing the edge of one of the bloody prints with his finger, Chumi rose to explore the interior of the church.

The church was large, but its interior was surprisingly simple—it was just a single corridor. Outside the chapel, there was only a ladder leading down from a small closet in the back to the basement.

Upon descending down, Chumi found the body of an armed clergy member lying beside a door that seemed to have been forced open. The walls were lined with a material that seemed to be used for soundproofing; when he tapped it with his finger, it squished noiselessly. This appeared to be a room used to hold kidnapping victims.

Surrounded by shelves stocked with vast arrays of preserved food and cabinets full of clothing, he began searching for the item he was after.

He already knew from previous tracking efforts that a clue known as Smiley's list existed.

It was supposedly a list documenting the individuals targeted for abduction that Smiley would pass on to his partners in crime—exactly the kind of evidence that Chumi needed.

After searching for a while, he exhaled deeply.

According to Sazaki, this case was supposed to have fresh information, but it ultimately turned out to be another dead end.

I thought I was finally getting closer this time . . .

Thinking back, the dark emotions he usually kept in check began to surface.

He gently touched his neck; it had been ages since he last activated an injector. Even the localized sting now felt like a distant memory. For a while, he stayed in that same position, waiting for the simmering emotions to subside.

Just then, he heard a heavy clattering sound.

He sprang into action. The sound came from the ground floor of the chapel, where dead bodies were piled high.

Moving quickly, he climbed back up the ladder and gazed into the dimly-moonlit upper floor.

He wondered if it might be the murderer, but that didn't seem likely. After all, this wasn't the work of some petty arsonist. What kind of criminal would return to the scene of their own crime?

In any case, he had to see for himself. He gripped the ladder and climbed up quietly, careful not to make a sound.

Once he emerged from beneath the floor, he cautiously peered into the chapel through the glass closet door.

In the center of the chapel, he saw a bizarre, lanky man towering well over two meters in height and carrying an oversized coffin engraved with a cross and wound with chains.

Most notably, he wore an extravagant, large Dress Mask with a pumpkin-like shape, much like those seen during festive occasions.

That's . . .

Chumi gasped.

Purge officer Botchie Taidara . . . ?

The emblem that was emblazoned on the chest of Botchie's robe signifying his affiliation glowed ominously.

He belonged to the public institution tasked with maintaining order within Grand City—the Grand City Central Alliance.

This elite unit trained from youth was commonly known as purge officers.

They were a violent organization dedicated to purging the unworthy from Grand City and eliminating criminals—a group that instilled fear not only in the underworld but also among ordinary citizens. For someone like Chumi, who lived in the darker outskirts of the city, they were the last people he wanted to encounter.

Among them, the purge officer known as Botchie Taidara was a notorious figure—not simply because his appearance was conspicuously gaudy, but chiefly due to his dust ability and the infamous epithet that stemmed from it.

The nickname Firebotchie derived from rumors of Botchie’s supposed Blaze dust ability. It wasn’t just that he manipulated the combustible dust particles; he was said to transform every battleground into a blazing inferno, moving nonchalantly amid the flames like a monstrous figure.

The Dust Orthodox Church was situated on the outskirts of the Fourth District, with no residential buildings nearby. Even if a massacre had occurred, it was unlikely that anyone would have reported it. And even if they had, you wouldn’t expect someone like Botchie Taidara to show up.

And yet, here he was.

The Central Alliance is tracking Smiley’s movements too . . . ?

It was only natural. Though there was still more to consider along that angle, Chumi halted his line of thought.

The pressing issue before him now was how to evade the purge officers. If he got spotted here, he'd inevitably be implicated in the crime. Even if he could prove that the massacre at the scene wasn’t his doing, it wouldn’t change the fact that he was already a prime purge target.

According to the Grand City Laws and Regulations implemented by the Central Alliance—commonly known as Grand Law—only registered citizens with a civil status were granted protection. Chumi, who did not possess a citizen ID, was doomed to be apprehended by the purge officers and subsequently disposed of.

He scrutinized the layout of the concealed closet once again. There was only a small bookshelf filled with scriptures and a basket stowed with old ceremonial vestments. It was a dead end. There was no exit but the way he had come in.

Chumi held his breath, watching intently for any movement.

Botchie, standing alone in the dark chapel with his peculiar appearance, looked almost inhuman. He simply fixed his gaze into the void without any sign of searching his surroundings. His stillness was almost like that of a machine with its power cut, and as Chumi grew more suspicious, he abruptly started moving again.

Botchie scanned the entire chapel, taking in the collapsed altar, the half-ruined goddess statue, the shattered pews, the corpses, the pools of blood, and the strange footprints, and finally directed his pumpkin-like head toward the small room where Chumi was.