After five minutes, a fleet of vehicles arrived in front of the building. Erik saw them parking before the building and started heading to the lower floor.
When Lysa arrived at the scene, a sight greeted her that sent a cold shiver down her spine. The building's entrance was an unhinged mess, evidence of a forceful entry, but it was what lay inside and outside that truly took her breath away.
lightsΝοvel The place was a ghastly panorama of death, a chilling spectacle that reeked of the finality of life. It was as if the grim reaper himself had visited this forsaken place, leaving behind a morbid tableau of the Crystal Cross Gang members.
The once bustling hideout was now transformed into a silent mausoleum, a testament to the cruel hand of fate that had swiftly descended upon its inhabitants.
Each lifeless body was a grotesque sculpture, frozen in its last moments of despair and shock. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting long, menacing shadows that danced on the cracked concrete floor, making the scene even more eerie.
Blood splatters painted a macabre mural on the peeling walls, each droplet telling a story of its own - of struggle, of violence, and ultimately, of defeat.
The bodies were scattered haphazardly, some slumped against the cold metal containers while others lay sprawled at unnatural angles on the grimy floor.
Their faces were masked with terror, eyes wide open in perpetual surprise, mouths agape in silent screams. Each one was dispatched with brutal efficiency - bullet wounds punctured their bodies, the dark crimson seeping into their clothes and pooling around them.
The crystal cross insignia that they proudly bore was now nothing more than a bitter irony, a symbol of their fall.
The air was heavy with the metallic tang of blood. The only sound was the distant hum of the city beyond the walls and the occasional drip-drip of blood from a lifeless hand hanging off the edge of a table.
The place was not just a scene of death; it was an art gallery of violence and power, each detail a brushstroke in this gruesome masterpiece.
Her eyes widened as she stepped further into the building, carefully avoiding the pools of blood that had gathered in the carnage's wake. The smell of iron hung thick in the air, and the silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant echoes of her men as they explored the building.
She found Erik descending the stairs from the first floor, his face concealed by his mask and the aura of a murderer around. His Flyssa was sheathed, but the glint of its blade, the blood on his clothes, and the stench he emanated bore witness to the violence he had wrought.
"What happened here?" she asked, her voice betraying a hint of fear, even though she had expected something drastic from Erik's earlier call.
"I took out the trash," he replied simply, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
Lysa's gaze lingered on him for a moment, reading the underlying message in his words. She knew he had done what he deemed necessary, but the reality of the situation was far more complex.
"Erik, you need to understand that…" she began, choosing her words carefully. "This situation is terrible. We're in the slums, yes, but people will notice this, as you didn't even try to take a hidden approach. They'll alert the authorities."
He looked at her, his face beneath the mask, unconcerned. But Lysa pressed on, her voice firm and authoritative.
"The guild always gives quests to kill people; why should it be a problem now?"
"Because you're not working for the guild at the moment, and these people weren't explicit targets the guild recognized. Killing them could be problematic. You need to get away from here. Now."
Erik's expression hardened, but he nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her words. He knew his actions had consequences, and he trusted Lysa's judgment.
Lysa turned to her men, her voice rising to a command. "Ransack the place! Find anything of value, but be done in ten minutes. Time is of the essence!"
Her orders sliced through the heavy silence like a blade, instantly injecting life into the grim scene. The echo of her voice lingered for a moment before being replaced by the cacophony of hurried footsteps. Her team, a well-oiled machine of efficiency and precision, sprang into action.
The building buzzed with a newfound urgency as the team worked in synchrony, their years of working together clear in their coordinated efforts.
They moved from room to room, their gloved hands rifling through drawers, cabinets, and hidden compartments. Anything valuable was swiftly bagged - bundles of cash, high-tech weaponry that could be sold - nothing was overlooked. Yet their primary objective lay beneath them, in the cold, dank cellars.
The cellars were a labyrinth of narrow corridors and dimly lit rooms, their walls lined with monstrous bodies preserved in transparent containers.
The team moved with practiced caution, their boots echoing ominously on the floor. The monsters' bodies, frozen in death, glistened under the cellar's weak lighting. Time was of the essence.
As Lysa and Erik made their way toward the exit, the weight of the situation settled on them both. The building had become a tomb, a monument to a battle fought in shadows, and its secrets were about to be laid bare.
But the deeper implications of Erik's discovery were still resonating in his mind, a puzzle that was far from complete. The Crystal Cross Gang was just a piece of a much larger picture, one that was coming into focus.
Rebecca quickly arrived at the entrance where Lysa and Erik were.
"We are leaving," Erik said. She nodded and started going out.
With a last glance at the grim tableau behind them, they stepped out into the day, leaving the ghosts of the slain behind.
***
The car's engine hummed as it sped over the dark streets, the glimmering lights of the city passing by in a blur. Inside, Erik and Rebecca sat silently, each lost in their thoughts. The day's events had unfolded in a whirlwind of violence and discovery, leaving them both with a sense of unease.
Rebecca glanced at Erik, noticing his foul mood. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but she could tell that his mind was elsewhere.
"What's the problem?" she finally asked, breaking the silence. "You're really quiet."
Erik turned his gaze to her; then, he talked in a way that made her heart skip a beat. "We'll talk about it once we reach the guild," he said, his voice low, pointing at the driver. His caution was clear; he didn't want anyone else to hear what he had to say.
Rebecca nodded, understanding his concern. She settled back into her seat, feeling the weight of the day's revelations pressing down on her. The car continued its journey; the minutes ticking away as they drew closer to the guild's headquarters.
Finally, the vehicle pulled up to the entrance, and they were met by a rush of workers and attendants from Erik's guild.
They greeted the two mercenaries with smiles and nods, their eyes briefly flickering over their bloodstained clothing. But they said nothing, accustomed as they were to the often brutal nature of their profession.
Instead, they offered Erik and Rebecca clean pairs of boots and assisted them as they exited the car.
Erik's authoritative presence commanded respect, and he issued instructions with calm efficiency. "Rebecca, go wash yourself and give your dirty clothes to the staff. They will take care of it. We will meet in my office in an hour."
She nodded. As she made her way to the washrooms, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was true that they made a mess at the Crystal Cross Gang base, but it wasn't the first time she did something like that. So why was she feeling so restless?
Erik, meanwhile, was aware of the severity of the situation. The information he had gleaned from the Crystal Cross Gang's computers clarified he needed to understand what was happening around him. He also wanted to make the Crystal Cross Gang pay and find out why the blackguards or the military went to his home.
Erik stripped off his bloodstained clothes, each piece a grim reminder of the day's battles, and left them in a heap on the cold, ceramic floor.
He then stepped into the tiled bathroom. The shower was simple and clean, with its polished chrome fixtures and the faint scent of pine-scented soap hanging in the air.
Turning the shower knob, he was greeted by a jet of water that cascaded from the overhead rain shower.
The water was icy at first, a shocking contrast against his heated skin, but it gradually warmed to a comfortable temperature. Steam filled the room, fogging up the mirror and creating a soothing, misty atmosphere.
"What a mess…" he said while thinking about the situation.
Erik stepped under the rainfall shower, allowing the warm water to wash over him. It coursed down his battle-hardened body, tracing the contours of his muscles and washing away the grime and blood that had clung to his skin. The water pooled at his feet before spiraling down the drain, taking with it the physical remnants of the day's violent encounters.
He reached for a bar of soap nestled in a niche in the wall, its fresh scent cutting through the steamy air. As he lathered it between his hands, the soap turned into a rich foam that he worked into his skin, scrubbing away the sweat and dirt.
The water pressure massaged his tense muscles, easing the aches and pains that came with the day's battles. He tilted his head back, allowing the water to rinse through his hair, washing away the day's stress.
As he stood there, enveloped by warmth and the rhythmic sound of splashing water, Erik allowed himself a moment of reflection. His thoughts drifted to the day's events - the gruesome scene at the gang's hideout.
He didn't relish doing this, but every time he fought against people, it was like a demon possessed him. He quickly realized he didn't really like people in general. Or was it just because they were Crystal Cross Gang members? Each memory was like a snapshot, vivid and raw in his mind.
Yet in this moment of solitude, under the soothing spray of the shower, Erik found a semblance of peace. It was a brief respite from his demanding role, a chance to wash away not just the physical grime but also the mental burden of his responsibilities.
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