Round 28: A Meeting Foretold

“A corpse collector? Corpse collectors are just a bunch of stinky rats hiding in the sewers of Marked City! They spy on you in secret, eager to see you suffer, and at the first chance they’ll swarm like vultures, stealing every last green coin you have, not even sparing your filthy, smelly underwear! Hahahaha!”
The floating skull-mouth emitted a chilling laugh, its crystal eyeballs rolling around in their sockets as it clicked and chattered, spilling out all the information it stored, even mimicking the speaker’s tone perfectly.
“Ugh… stop playing with these silly tricks to deceive outsiders, sir!” The prostitute who called herself Eponie tried to swallow the rat tail in her mouth, with three or four burnt pieces still stuck to her stick. “Corpse collectors aren’t like it says at all. Some biased bastard must have fed those nonsense into it!”
She suddenly stopped, pulled at her loose corset, and turned to look at Forty-Seven. “Sir, I’m sure you won’t mind if I teach this ‘skull-mouth’ some basic knowledge about Marked City too. I’m a true native of Marked City—I’ve been here since I was born!”
“They clean up the trash in Marked City, wiping butts for thousands of fools who come here just to ‘visit’…”
Morrill walked behind them. She remained silent, letting the girl fiddle with the floating skull as if no one else was around, talking to it in strange, crazy ways, leading them through the labyrinthine, dark streets of Marked City toward deeper realms.
“Pretty girl, you’re a prophet mage, right?” The prostitute turned to talk to her again. Since she started guiding Forty-Seven and the others, she seemed to have given up caring whether Morrill wanted to talk to her, often striking up casual conversations that ended in silence when she got no reply—
“Do you know? I also learned some magic techniques once!” She suddenly became excited, her expression on that face ravaged by hard times and youth wasted by aging looking like a withered flower in a dark alley, unable to see the sun: “As a child, I read my mother’s magic books and remember what she taught me…”
“That was a long time ago.” The girl stopped, hands on her hips, looking around at the ruined, dark buildings. The lights in the sky were too far away, leaving everything in darkness. There was no light in the holes that might have been windows, and even the child laborers who lit the street lamps at night never came to this area.
“Later, she found a way to leave Marked City and go home… Spells and potions didn’t help; it still took a woman’s trick. Want to know how I know? Because I participated too. But that broken door only allowed her to go back by herself—And that’s how it ended.” Eponie flicked her messy hair and suddenly started giggling. “I don’t care about whatever that woman said about her hometown. The earth and the sun—what’s so great about them? My home is Marked City, this big cage.”
She continued walking, humming a song.

In the dark world, human senses other than sight detect problems first. Shortly after turning into a narrow alley so dark one could barely see their hands, the sound of creaking axles came from ahead, along with a faint smell of blood. Eponine widened her eyes and quickly stepped aside.
“Make way, ladies!” she said, wrinkling her nose. “If you don’t want to get brushed aside!”
It was a broken, old cart. In Morriel’s dim vision, it appeared as a strange shape composed of numerous patches of varying gray tones. This made it nearly impossible to detect even the heat emitted by the cart’s driver—or rather, that person was almost indistinguishable from the bulky cart and its contents, merely another moving object.
The cart and its driver also tried to avoid those coming from the opposite direction as much as possible. As they passed by, the wheels accidentally fell into a pit that could snap a person’s ankle. Due to the same mechanical force, a harsh metallic crack came from somewhere on the cart—probably some nail finally giving way under the rusted shell. The entire cart seemed about to tip over and fall apart—had it not been pulled back by Forty-Seven.
The tarpaulin covering the cart slipped off. Perhaps thanks to the faint light from their eyes, half a face beneath the tarp became clearly visible—pale, swollen, a real half-face; the other half was either cut off by a knife or bitten off. Some twisted limbs surrounded the face, giving it an eerie resemblance to some kind of postmodern artwork.
The driver, also covered in tarpaulin, gave a barely perceptible nod to Forty-Seven, who had come to help. He bent down and strained to straighten the cart. In no time, the miniature graveyard vanished into the endless shadows. Everything seemed both real and illusory, as if the underworld and the mortal world passed by each other by chance, allowing creatures dwelling under their wings to glimpse something of the other side of darkness.
“It seems he had a good catch tonight—probably ran into a whole bunch of idiots with ‘Come and kill me’ written on their foreheads,” Eponine commented. “The dead will give him plenty of green coins for this. There are more of these these days, and sometimes I even think about switching to this line of work. But I don’t have the strength; I doubt I could compete with those veterans… Though they usually just pick up the dead, it’s not impossible they might create one themselves at some point. It’s funny, isn’t it—gravediggers becoming merchandise for gravediggers? I could turn it into a joke for my clients.”
They moved forward in the darkness, past dark houses that were utterly silent—like walking through a graveyard. But they weren’t the only ones there; other things wandered along different paths, behind different walls. Most of them weren’t alone—the living carrying the dead, all in ghostly forms.

“It’s almost here… Most of the corpse collectors in the lair use this as their base.” Eponine stopped under a bridge. The riverbed was dry, filled with all sorts of trash that, over the years, had become even harder than concrete—so hard that 47 could step on it without any damage.

“But let me make things clear first,” the prostitute said, standing at the edge of the bridge arch. “You’re looking for the source of that dangerous thing? I think it’s impossible. The corpse collectors get their goods from the dead, and the dead won’t tell you who their supplier is. Chances are it’s a waste of effort. Besides, it might have already been passed around three or four times, or more. Countless people from countless worlds come and go, but Marked City endures forever.”

“The only achievement of the Manhattan Project was showing us that nothing in the world is eternal.” The red glints in 47’s eyes flickered. “But war isn’t just about nuclear weapons… And the rule for mobile infantry is: never abandon a comrade.”

“I have no interest in knowing what that dumbhead of yours is looking for,” Morriel said coldly. Her face was pale, and she seemed to be sweating on her forehead. “But if you want to find it, you’d better hurry. I can tell you there’s still a chance now, but after an hour, it’s uncertain.”

“Alright, alright, ladies.” Eponine crouched and slipped into the bridge arch. “Follow me—hehe, do skull rats need girlfriends too?”

A few dozen minutes later, they stood in a large, dimly lit cavern with several exits. The floor, walls, and even the ceiling were made up of layers of trash and waste piled on top of each other. From the hidden passages beneath the bridge arch, the entire underground world consisted of tunnels and cavities formed by all this trash. The residents of Marked City discarded so much that it eventually formed a solid foundation strong enough to support an entire town.

“What do you mean?” Behind a counter made of broken wood planks, a thin, gloomy bald man glared at Eponine. He wore an apron made of oilcloth, so dirty it was as hard as armor. He rested his bony arms on the counter, next to a large butcher’s knife.

“Tell your friends to use their stupid brains,” the bald man snapped. “They can pay to take what’s here. But don’t even think about asking me where it came from. I’m not dealing with stupid owners—In the corpse collectors’ market, a son might buy his father’s lungs, and he’ll happily take them because no one asks questions!”

“See, it’s hard for women to explain things clearly.” 47 stepped forward. “Let me explain again.”

“I found out someone bought a bomb from you. Who gave it to you? Or where did you get it? From some corpse? Never mind. As a soldier, I can accept that. But I can’t accept refusal… I can’t accept someone hiding secrets I want to know and treating me like an idiot.”

As he spoke, 47 kept busy. He kept picking things out of the trash around him—a piece of iron bar, half a copper pipe, twisted nuts, and so on.

“Get lost, you fucking ignorant bastard!” The bald man already gripped the handle of the knife: “I still have plenty of rotten flesh to deal with. Maybe your arm can be cut off and added to make a complete body to sell to the dead—”
The Tin Man placed what he had prepared on the counter—another mystery bomb. Aside from the rust stains, it looked almost identical to the mass-produced items of the Agus Empire.
“The kid who bought the bomb blew himself up. He was too careless, wasn’t he?” Light began to shine from the cracks in the bomb’s casing—a blood-red glow.
“What the hell do you want?” The bald man noticed the three women stepping back simultaneously. Their expressions made it clear this wasn’t an act. He immediately reached for the bomb, but the glowing, clanking metal lump stubbornly stayed on the counter, locking his fingers instead, its tiny iron claws extremely firm.
“Accidents happen, unfortunately.” The cold voice of Forty-Seven sounded like it was counting down: “No one asks questions… Do you think this saves you trouble? Good. Soon no one will ask you anything anymore.”
“Damn it! You’re crazy! This is Marked City! That lady won’t allow it—Wait, wait! I said! That bomb was brought by a little demon, a stranger, probably just arrived in Cage City recently! But I don’t know where to find it, really. All these Tanali brats from the Abyss are evil and slick… Hey! I see it over there! It just flew away! Let go of me and turn off this thing!”
Desperately, the bald man raised his free hand to cover his eyes, trying to avoid seeing the red light filling the room, a sign of death… After the crimson glow, there was no explosion. The bomb went out with a click, its appendages retracted, rolling to the ground like an ordinary sphere.
Forty-Seven strode away: “It’s yours. Don’t fiddle with it. Get rid of it soon.”
Holes of all sizes lined up one after another, dark and gloomy. A living person could vanish just by turning a corner, let alone a flying little demon—yet Morriel gave directions again.
“This way.”
Sure enough, it was correct. After stepping over a pitiful creature sleeping in the trash, they saw the dark green little creature flying around noisily.
“Mine! Mine!” It waved its thin, long limbs, zipping through the air like the little imp Luke in the tavern, screaming at the corpse collectors: “Pipi found it! We should get at least half!”
But no one paid it any attention, even though it was a Tanali Qasim—because this was Marked City.
“Get away, you fucking Tanali brat.”
“That’s right, scram! Stop flying around in front of us like a fly!”
“Yeah, stop bothering us, or there’ll be another zombie clown with a long tail among the dead tomorrow!”

The little demon, though furious after falling from its lofty position, kept a close eye on its surroundings. It noticed a group approaching—it seemed the ragged girls were hastily recruited guides, the young woman emitted a faint magical glow, clearly an extraordinary mage, the girl beside her might be her apprentice, and then there was that tall, gloomy figure clad in armor from head to toe, with pair of red eyes like those of an abyssal demon staring at it—somewhat familiar.

Another of those ridiculous Balo traveling groups. It was hard to believe: braver than rhinos yet dumber than snails, they even reached the Invincible Abyss. Blindfolded, they dared to go anywhere, do anything, dragging everyone who mixed with them down… The little demon had learned its lesson.

“Just wait! Just wait! I’m not giving up like this!”

The little demon uttered empty threats before activating its innate invisibility ability and flying toward a hole in the trash wall about the size of a human head. This route was perfect for it—larger creatures couldn’t follow.

But as soon as it entered, it was pulled out. Despite being invisible and at a considerable distance, Ironface reached out and grabbed it. The way his arm stretched and changed was inexplicable; no one could see clearly.

At first, the little demon tried to struggle, but soon realized it was futile. Ironface held its wings effortlessly, as if catching a dragonfly, able to decide its prey’s fate in an instant—this situation felt familiar.

“Let go! Let go!” it screeched in various languages. “Pipi isn’t a wanderer! Pipi has a powerful master! You can’t afford to mess with us!”

“Unfortunately for you, little liar. I know the guys you know too. Even if I tied them up and made ‘Death 3000,’ I could still handle it.” Forty-Seven held the little demon. “Tell me, out of old friendship—where did you get those doubt bombs?”

“Huh?” It stared at Ironface with its yellow eyes. “You know Pipi… Lord Steel Demon!”

Just as the Decepticon heroes never hid their symbols no matter how they transformed, Forty-Seven’s blazing red eyes were his signature. Quasimodo had once known him well—when the Steel Demon laughed heartily, he didn’t laugh; when he was furious, he didn’t get angry. In his programmed indifference, the only thing resembling emotion was a hint of childlike innocence—a innocence that would make him spend an entire afternoon beside an ant nest, methodically crushing every ant that crawled out without a trace of pity.

Forty-Seven released his grip. The little demon Pipi dropped downward before flapping its wings to stabilize itself. Its wings burned painfully from being squeezed, but that wasn’t the worst—the Steel Demon was asking it questions, and that was troublesome… In the Bottomless Abyss, more Quasimodos had been devoured alive by their masters for bringing bad news than those who died in battles.

“…Bombs? Pipi, think… think…”

When the imp brought the Tin Man to its temporary nest and saw “that thing” in the pile of trash, Pippi felt she might truly have to say goodbye to the wonderful multiverse. If she ever got the luck to start over as a larva, should she remember to stay away from construct creatures?

But Forty-Seven didn’t shoot her to prove its evil—good messengers and good subordinates were just as rare.

This was the bottom of a massive underground trash mountain, a place even grave collectors avoided. Randomly formed traps and frequent collapses were already considered relatively mild threats. The groups of skull rats possessed far more strength and intelligence than one could imagine; when a hundred gleaming little eyes stared at a prey at once, dying quickly was a great blessing.

There were about a dozen skull rats scattered around. The disgusting, spiral-shaped tumors on their triangular heads still reflected a faint glow in the darkness. The combination of their gray matter meant multiplied evil—if they were still alive. And the skull rats weren’t just dead. Their ugly, filthy little bodies had undergone some terrifying chemical reaction, sticking to the surrounding substances in a semi-melted state. The trash and filth here mixed together, turning into black, rotten matter like the silt at the bottom of a stagnant pond.

Even as the dirtiest corner of Seal City’s landfill, it had its own areas of deterioration and corruption. Waves of intensely foul, poisonous fumes surged out like living things, even giving Forty-Seven’s entire body a faint rusty coating. But the Tin Man seemed unaffected. He stared thoughtfully at what lay hidden in the center of the corrupted land: unresponsive, curled up quietly like a sleeping baby. One could still faintly recognize the beauty and grace that the female figure once had, but now cysts and sores covered her slender limbs, dominating them completely. They ruptured, oozed pus, hardened, and formed new lumps, multiplying at a speed visible to the naked eye.

A container, a passage—vast, surging forces of hellish energy were slowly boiling her body, leaking out from her pierced shell, and building pressure until it completely blew her apart. Would this cause an ecological disaster in Seal City, or create a portal to the bottomless abyss? No one knew.

“It’s getting worse, Pippi! There’s nothing she can do!”

The imp shook its tail nervously. Its Tanali physiology allowed it to stay here temporarily as well. “The abyss, the power of the abyss! She was like this when we found her! She’ll be slowly corroded away until she becomes part of the bottomless abyss. There’s nothing to do!”

Forty-Seven stroked his chin and grinned.

“Pippi… you really are good at finding things.”

He turned to call for Morriel; they were both hiding at a distance under the protection of the “toxin shield.” “Hey, give me what Grandpa Bone gave you.”

Then the Tin Man crouched down and started fiddling with something—everyone else was driven away.

“You two seem quite familiar.” The female mage’s face was occasionally illuminated by flashes coming from deep within the cave, with streams of energy swirling around her. She even had the illusion that a prophet mage shouldn’t exist—those forty-seven inside were like a giant spider, with the entire web being woven around him.

“Blood Battle! Blood Battle!” After the crisis, the little demon began to boast proudly: “Pipi is Blood Battle’s strategist for the Steel Demons! Have you ever seen Blood Battle? Pipi has been there!”

Moriel gave it a cold glance. As a former member of the highly organized and order-conscious Red Robe Mage Order, she had always disliked the chaotic Tanali creatures, whose evil deeds lacked any logic: “You’d better be sensible and answer my questions properly. Who is that person in there? Your comrade from Blood Battle?”

An arrogant mage from the Material World, Pipi thought to itself, but it knew it had to be cautious even when dealing with someone as powerful as the Balor Fiend: “No, Pipi doesn’t know her! Nor does Pipi know how she got there! She was fleeing, Pipi encountered her, she paid, and Pipi brought her to Seal City!”

“Are you trying to make me believe… that a Tanali demon would act like the Bartzu clan?” the female mage sneered, pulling Kayro to a relatively solid spot. The trash pit trembled slightly, seeming to contract and expand rhythmically, while the prostitute Eponie sat nearby, humming and enjoying the view, as if unconcerned about anything.

“Do I look like a fool? Or have you all gone mad to the point where you can’t even tell lies?”

“Absurd! Absurd!” The little demon flapped its wings frantically in anger: “Killing, setting fires, causing destruction—Pipi has no interest in that! Pipi has great ideals!”

Great ideals? No wonder it hung around with that guy, Forty-Seven. Moriel, who had been deep in thought, almost laughed in frustration: “Do you want to switch sides and join the Ninth Circle of Hell? I think you’d better confess honestly. I have many ways to get information out of you…”

Suddenly, the large trash pit convulsed violently. While the female mage and the little demon were talking, a solid web had quietly taken shape. Steel-like veins spread across the pit, connecting the entire area together. Under their control, the structure of the trash pit changed as well—stretching and twisting like clay, with debris falling like rain. The cave tunnels writhed and merged, gradually forming an egg-shaped chamber. Countless electrical pulses flowed through the dense metal network—endless energy drawn from the void, constantly converging toward the center. Forty-Seven stood amidst the sparks, hands behind his back, admiring his masterpiece: a silver egg even taller than himself.

The egg was clearly made of metal, yet it seemed to beat like a heart, its rhythm accelerating. With each vibration, ripples spread across its mercury-like surface, causing the entire cave to tremble. The dark, poisonous gases of hell vanished, or rather, they were filtered and absorbed by the energy flowing into the silver egg. With each “heartbeat,” light shone from within, revealing vaguely something curled up inside, like a baby.

“What have you done now?” Moriel shouted at him.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” said Forty-Seven, turning around. “Even mighty beings like the Planet Devourer sometimes need subordinates… But the method of the Flute Demon King is indeed a bit strange.”
“Nonsense—be careful!”
The intense contraction and expansion finally broke the metal’s tension, and a long, sharp spike pierced through the shell of the silver egg, pointing toward the ceiling. All the electric flames vanished at once. Soon after, several more spikes emerged, slashing in all directions, and the egg-shaped shell was torn to pieces like paper, with flames bursting forth from within.
The iron-skinned figure twisted and turned in ways that defied human anatomy to dodge the whip-like blades behind him. As for whether he felt the heat, that was another matter.
A tall figure stood up among the burning debris. After a brief pause, she leaped with terrifying agility and landed between Forty-Seven and Morriel—so fast it seemed like she simply appeared out of nowhere.
“Should I introduce her?” Forty-Seven’s tone was that of a master showing off his pet.
She was a full head taller than him. Without saying a word, she looked down… Her blood-red gaze swept over everyone, sending chills down their spines with that feeling as if thousands of beetles were crawling on their skin—except for those without skin. The only thing that could hint at her former identity was half of her face, a delicate and beautiful black-jade elfin face, while the other half was covered by a strangely structured silver mask, the same being true for the rest of her body. Twisted, curse-like dark red markings served as her makeup; hook-like claws, chains, serrated edges, and blades were her jewelry; and her armor, glowing with a dim light as if inhabited by some ghostly demons, was her dress.
“There’s no need… My lord.”
Forty-Seven was slightly surprised. She had changed her attitude and started speaking?
“I know you…” She looked at Morriel. One of her eyes remained elfin in its purity and clarity, while the other held a fiery intensity reminiscent of the iron-skinned figure: “Commander of the Northern Theater of War of the Agus Empire, Lady Morriel.”