Chapter 5

A muffled thud echoed as the man’s body slammed heavily onto the arena platform. His nearly bulging eyes stared blankly outward. He twitched twice before going completely still. Blood seeped from the hole in his throat and eventually flowed to Horne’s feet.

Horne stood in the center of the arena. He methodically wiped the blood from the knife handle with his sleeve, over and over, until it gleamed sharply again. His eyes flashed as he noticed the spreading blood. He disdainfully stepped back.

He sighed. He twirled the small knife into a flashy flourish in his hand and glanced sideways at the remaining few people standing stunned nearby. Tears streamed down his face as he smiled faintly. “Sorry about that. I just thought killing was illegal. I figured I’d wait until you tried to kill me first—that way, it’d still count as self-defense.”

The tears kept flowing down his face, a bit itchy. Horne casually wiped them away, smearing his face even dirtier. When he turned back, he saw the others frozen in place, staring only at him.

Horne tilted his head and touched his own face, puzzled. “What’s wrong? Does this face look bad when it cries? Ah, this one—I can’t help it. Someone else gave me this face. You can’t criticize my taste, okay? Or do you still want to keep going?”

The people nearby were terrified and retreated repeatedly.

Horne immediately felt bored. “Alright then. Are you withdrawing yourselves, or should I help you do it?”

He took a step forward, and the men who had just looked fierce and menacing retreated a step.

His steps were firm as he cornered them. He slowly raised his hand, the glint of the death knife barely leaking out.

The opponents exchanged glances, terror-stricken, just about to shout.

Horne’s figure blurred. He toppled straight over the edge of the arena’s barrier.

The Red Light District descended into chaos. Several staff members cleared the corpses from the arena. Ye Shu kept rubbing her temples as she paced back and forth, muttering, “Being in charge is no easy job. It’s really not. I have to suggest to Hels—no more deaths here. Let them do whatever, just not dying on the premises.”

As she finished speaking, a recon drone flew past the door from outside and paused briefly at the entrance.

Ye Shu looked at Horne, who lay unconscious in the booth. She let out a long breath and kept making the sign of the cross over her chest, murmuring under her breath, “Five thousand is safe. Thank heavens, five thousand is safe!”

Then she turned to glance at the door, puzzlement filling her eyes. The words she muttered changed. “So, where the hell did this five thousand even come from?”

Towering waves surged. Horne’s consciousness submerged in water that flooded his mouth and nose. Alien shrieks and human roars echoed in his ears.

At the water’s bottom, faces emerged one by one, only to sink into deeper abysses. He struggled to surface.

His brain had forgotten, but his body remembered how to protect himself to the maximum extent.

This place wasn’t safe. People nearby weren’t trustworthy.

The moment the alarm rang in his mind, Horne’s eyes snapped open. He sat up abruptly, startling the doctor who was bandaging his calf.

“Sir, p-please don’t move. Miss Ye sent me. You have too many wounds. I’m still trying to stop the bleeding.”

From the time he passed out until he woke, only twenty minutes had passed. But on the battlefield, twenty minutes was far too long—it would have cost him his life.

Horne gritted his teeth and vigilantly scanned his surroundings. No one seemed to be watching him, but he soon heard a light cough from nearby.

He turned his head. A man wearing a wide-brimmed hat sat behind him. One hand propped up his head while the other toyed with a keychain. His face was full of doubt, and blood stained the white shirt on his chest.

Horne lowered his lashes. It seemed that, in the instant before he collapsed, he had glimpsed this man’s clothing.

On the other side sat the little girl who had just been tied up. She watched him with worry.

The wide-brimmed hat man winked at Horne and probed tentatively, “I saw what happened in the arena. Most people who come to the Red Light District are desperate gamblers or here to unleash their primal evils. I didn’t expect someone to show up just to save people. That’s truly admirable.”

He deliberately skipped over Horne’s feigned innocent act.

Horne frowned without responding, but his gaze fixed dead on the tray on the table.

A bowl of noodles and a bowl of soup.

The wide-brimmed hat man slid the tray in front of Horne. “I ordered this for you. The doctor just said you’re severely malnourished—your stomach was completely empty.”

Horne didn’t move. He heard the doctor treating his wounds say, “Yes, yes. Your condition is terrible, and you have so many old injuries. I can only do basic treatment. I recommend you eat and then head straight to the hospital for a full body checkup.”

Horne’s silence froze the atmosphere for a moment. The man’s expression shifted, and he quickly added, “No poison. The Red Light District isn’t so twisted that they’d poison food from their own kitchen. And anyway, I didn’t even order it.” He gestured toward the little girl beside him.

Horne glanced at her. The little girl nodded slightly, then shrank back, opening her mouth as if to speak but ultimately staying silent.

Horne picked up the knife and fork.

The lingering blood scent in the air soon dissipated. Horne felt a thread of warmth gradually return to his icy hands.

The silver tray reflected his face—smeared with grime and blood. Most strikingly, the flat-cut notch on his shoulder. The scenes from before he passed out replayed one by one. Recalling them made him nauseous, and the food he’d just eaten churned in his stomach.

His hair hung past his shoulders, loose curls making him look like a… not-so-docile little lion in quiet moments. But not now—his face was etched with vigilance and killing intent.

He finished the bowl of noodles and stiffly said, “Thanks.”

The little girl hesitated for a long moment before speaking. “Thank you too, big brother.”

The wide-brimmed hat man’s puzzlement deepened. He pretended to idly play with his keychain—twirl, pinch, twirl—while asking Horne curiously, “I saw you didn’t gamble or do anything else. Are you waiting for the holographic game to start?”

Horne didn’t mention that a homeless man had unilaterally sold him here. He latched onto the second half. “What’s the holographic game?”

The man stared at Horne, doubting his lack of basic knowledge. “The holographic simulation game that the Red Light District runs in partnership with DOL Tech Company. You don’t know?”

Horne leaned back, slightly relaxing his body. His tone remained indifferent and curt. “No idea. What is it?”

The man’s puzzled frown turned into an understanding chuckle. He dropped the probing and relaxed, slowly explaining, “First time in the Red Light District? It’s a special project here—a holographic killing game. Opens once a week. Random themes, random tasks, random PvP or co-op, even random punishments. The only sure thing is that the winner can wish for something from Hels. If he can make it happen, he will.”

Unfortunately, Hels almost never let regular players win the game. In the end, people played the game, but controlling the game itself was his game.

That didn’t stop people from eagerly trying their luck week after week, hoping for overnight riches. After all, Hels occasionally had a burst of kindness and let people win naturally. As long as there was a sliver of hope, they flocked to it.

The man pointed toward the depths of the Red Light District. Horne’s gaze followed. Around the corner lay darkness, invisible from here. All that was visible was its black abyss of an entrance, drawing countless people to plunge in and shatter.

The aliens ruled humanity, driving them to depravity—and humanity obliged.

On the corner wall hung half of The Creation of Adam, tilted. God was there, but Adam was absent. Centuries later, Michelangelo’s painting endured, but in this form.

God had abandoned humanity, and humanity had abandoned itself.

“Here, lots of people sign body contracts. Poor folks from elsewhere in the city can join too. Win, and you’re redeemed—money, an advanced mask, overnight status flip, a noble identity. Even make someone you hate drop dead outside the Red Light District.” At this point, the wide-brimmed hat man laughed, his sarcasm unmasked. “What do you think? Tempted?”

Horne had stared at that corner—the black hole of humanity’s future. After a moment, he withdrew his gaze.

The man’s leisurely expression turned troubled. His legs shook up and down in a figure-four. “To be honest, I’m here waiting for the next round. I want something, but I don’t know if Hels can deliver.”

Horne suddenly remembered why he had come here. “Where’s Hels?”

The moment he asked, the doctor’s hand trembled while staunching his blood, making Horne hiss in pain.

The wide-brimmed hat man gripped his keychain tightly, frowning and rubbing his brow. His voice rose unconsciously. “What do you want with him?”

“Nothing.” Horne didn’t want to say.

The man’s words sped up. “Just asking about him scares people. You want to find him? He’s no good guy. Best to steer clear if you don’t have business with him.”

“Why?”

In the Red Light District, the arena incident had passed. The blood and bodies were cleaned up. Screams echoed constantly from other areas, impossible to tell if from extreme excitement or terror.

The air was murky. Stay long enough, and you got used to it. Looking out from the only exit door revealed a fading sunset, its deep orange haze making passersby at the entrance sway unsteadily.

Those inside were alive yet as good as dead; those outside dead yet clinging to life.

The “hope of life” was a fleeting, sorrowful illusion.

The man’s voice blurred, like stagnant deep water unable to ripple Horne’s heart.

People said Hels was born into a happy family. His mother was kind, his father gentle. Both made masks—the only shop in the city back then. But those masks were just silicone or other human materials: not skin-tight, not breathable, unable to perfectly mimic expressions. Still, the Hels family made ones people loved. Over time, competitors vanished. They even got special access to the Tower District.

But when Hels was ten, everything changed.

His mother died of illness. Father and son depended on each other. That winter, his father died horribly in the Tower—killed by aliens for unknown reasons. The happy family vanished. People thought the ten-year-old would struggle alone, surviving on mask-making. But he didn’t. He went mad—screaming at home, on the streets, attacking anyone he saw. No one dared approach. People figured the boy was ruined, driven insane by trauma, doomed to madness or early death. But then he did something—

He charged into the Tower and massacred aliens.

Horne interrupted. “Ten years old? Killed aliens?”

“Yeah, ten. Killed aliens.”

At ten, Hels slaughtered aliens in the Tower District. The massacre lasted days. Since it was against aliens, people loved it—even took glee in it. The Tower District gates stayed shut, no guards. After a while, people assumed the boy had died inside too. But the day after the gates reopened, Hels appeared back home.

He hadn’t died. The aliens had taken heavy losses. Yet they didn’t pursue him. Returning home, he found that during his Tower rampage, his parents’ relatives had looted their property, taking much to gain custody.

“I heard they wanted to steal the masks he made to sell,” the little girl suddenly added from the side, then shrank back.

Stories varied. Some said Hels had an early romance; among the stolen items were gifts from someone he liked.

So Hels snapped—he killed all his relatives.