The air in this place always smelled the same: a cold mix of ozone, machine lubricant, and the sharp scent of antiseptic, as if sterility were waging an eternal war against decay. Deep underground, uncharted on any map, where steel walls held back the pressure of thousands of tons of earth and secrets, a laboratory operated in a humming silence.
This was a sanctuary for unethical science, a metallic cathedral for Doctor Reven.
In one of the dimly lit archive rooms, the figure of a girl—or something resembling a girl—was humming softly.
"La... la... laaa~ Cleaning up, twirling around, let no dust be left behind~"
Her voice was cheerful, a ridiculous contrast to the rows of specimen jars containing preserved organs on the shelf beside her. She was Tako. A pale-green-skinned octopus humanoid wearing a classic black-and-white maid uniform, complete with frills on the shoulders and a white headband atop her bald, slick head.
Instead of two legs, the bottom of her dress concealed a mass of writhing tentacles, allowing her to glide across the metal floor with a wet yet efficient squelching sound. She possessed four arms; the upper two held a feather duster, while the lower two carried a tray of freshly sterilized surgical instruments.
Tako stopped in front of an old mahogany workbench that looked out of place in the futuristic room. Atop it, amidst stacks of plasma weapon blueprints and notes on chimera anatomy, stood a simple picture frame.
It was the only object in the entire facility that radiated an aura of sentimentality.
"Ahh, Doctor always leaves this lying around," Tako muttered, setting down her duster. With one of her tentacles, she retrieved a microfiber cloth from her apron pocket and began to wipe the frame's glass with surprising gentleness.
The photo was black and white, its colors faded by time, the edges slightly scorched as if it had once survived a fire. The background was a vast, barren desert on the Amaria Continent, with black smoke billowing from an overturned ancient steam locomotive in the distance.
Yet, it was the subjects of the photo that made Tako pause every time she saw it.
There were three figures there.
In the center, held high in the right arm of a tall man, was a little girl. She was likely only five years old. She had the brightest, most innocent smile ever, her eyes crinkled with laughter, her little dress dirty with desert dust. It was Doctor Reven—before the stitches, before the feline eyes, before madness consumed her soul completely. She looked... happy. She hugged the man's neck as if that monster were the most loving father in the world.
The man holding her was a smiling nightmare. Over two meters tall, draped in a long black coat tattered by the desert wind. He wore a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that shaded his face, but it couldn't hide that gruesome grin—a mouth torn wide to the ears, revealing teeth in an eternal, forced smile. His eyes were completely white, pupil-less, staring into the camera lens with an intensity that could freeze blood. In his left hand, he gripped a long iron crowbar dripping with thick black fluid—the blood of something he had just killed.
Corvus Nightshade. The legend. The monster. And to the little girl in his arms, he was a protector.
And to Corvus's right stood a third figure, no less intimidating. The figure was even taller, slender yet radiating an elegant aura of death. Midnight Rose. She wore tight cowboy attire and a wide hat, her face hidden in shadow, but her posture implied lethal power. Her gloved right hand was outstretched, choking the neck of a giant Wendigo whose legs dangled helplessly in the air, as if the cannibalistic monster were merely a naughty ragdoll.
The most dysfunctional, dangerous, and strangely, the warmest family portrait in the history of Veridia.
"Haaah..." Tako sighed, thin green vapor escaping her small mouth. She carefully placed the photo back. "Doctor was so cute when she was little. Who would have thought she'd grow up to be a genius scientist who likes dissecting people's brains? Time is truly mysterious."
She tapped the frame once more with her tentacle.
"Hurry home, Doctor. The floors are shiny, and test subject number 42 has stopped screaming. It's so lonely without you."
With a hum returning to her lips, Tako turned and glided away to clean a stubborn bloodstain in Sector 7.
Far above the ground, thousands of kilometers from that underground laboratory, the world moved to a different rhythm.
Clack-clack... clack-clack... clack-clack...
The sound of iron wheels striking the rails was the heartbeat of this journey. Not the Spiritus Aeturnum ghost train powered by tortured souls, but a modern economy-class magitech train crossing the Nocturnus plains toward the border. The interior was dull—seats upholstered in balding red velvet, faded crystal lights on the ceiling, and the faint scent of cheap tobacco mixed with passenger sweat.
In one of the window seats sat a young man who looked like he had just walked off a horror movie set, then decided to go on vacation.
Devon—or Immortal, or whatever he called himself today—was busy. He had a dark brown leather messenger bag on his lap that looked expensive (because it was indeed stolen from the corpse of a vampire noble). With his right hand, which now possessed manicured yet sharp claws, he rummaged through the bag's contents.
He was back to the old ways: manual carrying.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue softly, his heterochromatic eyes (one pitch black, one blood-red with a vertical pupil) scanning his pathetic physical inventory.
Inside the bag lay a Desert Eagle .50 Action Express in chrome, glinting coldly. Heavy, impractical, but possessing stopping power that could drop an Ogre. Beside it were two boxes of ammo—maybe about a hundred rounds, if he was thrifty. A serrated hunting knife with a black handle. And a stack of Twilight Bond banknotes along with a few silver coins he had taken from the wallet of "Mr. Luis"—the owner of the black suit he was currently wearing.
"Enough to get to the next city," he muttered inwardly, closing the bag and using it as a cushion on his lap. "At least I won't starve to death in the next two days."
A thin, barely visible smile etched onto his face as he recalled how he had obtained these travel 'provisions.'
It happened a few hours ago, at a small weapon shop on the outskirts of Saint Veren's Gate. Devon, in his stolen neat suit and black umbrella, entered the shop like a civilized customer.
The shop owner, a massive man of the Cyclops race with one eye narrowing in suspicion, was cleaning a double-barreled shotgun. He looked Devon up and down, then spat on the floor.
"We're closed for tourists," he grunted.
Devon didn't answer. He just smiled. A smile that didn't reach his eyes. He walked around the display case, fingers tracing the pistols on display.
"I said get out, before I turn your head into a wall ornament," the Cyclops threatened, raising his shotgun. Two other customers in the corner—a pair of Lizardman mercenaries—laughed mockingly, hands grasping the hilts of their swords.
Five minutes later, Devon walked out of the shop. He didn't run. He didn't panic. He just stepped casually onto the wet street, sliding his new Desert Eagle into the messenger bag he had just 'acquired.' He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled smoke into the night air.
Behind him, inside the now silent shop, the Cyclops owner sat in the chair behind his counter. His single eye stared blankly at the ceiling, his mouth gaping. A rusty iron crowbar was driven from beneath his jaw, piercing through his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and exiting the top of his head, nailing him to the headrest. Blood dripped slowly. Drip. Drip. Drip.
In the corner, the two Lizardmen lay in unnatural positions, their bodies resembling pincushions. Knives, screwdrivers, even pens—whatever Devon could grab in split seconds—were now embedded in their joints and vital organs.
No magic. No energy blasts. Just efficient, brutal, and silent kinetic violence.
"Payment in full," Devon whispered at the memory, his finger tapping the cold barrel of the Desert Eagle inside his bag.
Then there was the ticket issue.
The station ticket officer, an old woman of the Harpy race with thick glasses, stared skeptically at the ID card Devon presented. The photo on the card showed a middle-aged vampire gentleman named "Mr. Luis," with a thin mustache and an arrogant gaze.
She looked at the photo. Then she looked at Devon—a pale young man with thick black hair covering part of his face, eyes that were definitely not normal vampire eyes, and two small red feathered wings jutting out from the sides of his head like permanent cosplay accessories.
"This is... Mr. Luis?" the Harpy woman asked, her voice squeaking with suspicion.
Devon didn't blink. He leaned forward slightly, flashing the most charming smile he could muster.
"I changed my hairstyle, Ma'am," he said in a flat but convincing tone. "And, well... plastic surgery in the Sanguine district is the trend this season. These wings are new implants. Cool, right?"
The Harpy woman stared at him for a long time. She looked at the long line behind Devon growing impatient. She looked at the tip money Devon slipped under the ID card.
"Makes sense," she sighed, stamping the ticket. "Train departs on Track 4. Don't cause trouble, Mr. Luis."
"Thank you, Ma'am."
Back in the present, Devon chuckled softly recalling that bureaucratic stupidity. He adjusted his collar, getting comfortable. The train swayed gently as it crossed an overpass, revealing a thinning cityscape replaced by endless dark forests.
He wasn't alone in his row.
Across the aisle sat a young mother of the Demon race. Her skin was ruby red, small horns curved from her forehead, and she wore a simple dress. In her arms, wrapped in a warm wool blanket, was a tiny demon baby.
The baby wasn't sleeping. Its large eyes, bright yellow with horizontal goat-like pupils, stared straight at Devon. The baby wasn't looking at Devon's face. It was staring at the side of Devon's head.
Specifically, it was staring at those small red wings.
The Valkyrie wings on Devon's head twitched slightly, responding to the attention. The demon baby's eyes went wide, its small mouth opening into an 'O'. A tiny hand with black nails reached out, trying to grab the wings from afar.
Devon, noticing the intense stare, turned. He looked at the baby with a deadpan face.
The baby stared back.
Devon, driven by a childish impulse that somehow always survived amidst trauma and slaughter, decided to interact.
He stuck out his tongue. Blep.
The demon baby paused. Then, slowly, a small purple tongue poked out of its mouth. Mimicking.
Devon pulled his tongue back. He raised an eyebrow, then stuck his tongue out again, this time rolling his eyes upward, making a silly ahegao face that was highly inappropriate for a mass murderer.
The baby giggled, a sound like popping bubbles, and tried to copy the face, though it only ended up spraying a bit of drool.
Suddenly, the demon mother, who had been looking out the window, turned. She felt her child move.
Devon retracted his tongue with lightning speed, returning to a stoic and cold expression, staring straight ahead as if he were an ice statue contemplating the meaning of life. He even tapped his chin in an intellectual manner.
The demon mother looked at Devon suspiciously. She looked at her child who was still smiling broadly.
Devon glanced from the corner of his eye, hoping the mother wouldn't call the guards or accuse him of disturbing a child.
However, instead of getting angry, the corners of the demon mother's lips lifted into a mischievous smile. She checked to ensure no other passengers were looking.
Then, quickly, the mother stuck her tongue out at Devon—a long, forked, and very flexible tongue—giving a playful tease before returning to gaze out the window with an innocent face as if nothing had happened.
Devon was stunned for a moment. He blinked.
Slowly, a rare, genuine smile blossomed on his face. He turned to the baby again, and with silent conspiracy, he stuck his tongue out once more.
The train continued speeding through the night, carrying a killer, a mother, and a baby toward an uncertain destination, accompanied by the rhythm of iron wheels and the small warmth of an absurd interaction in the midst of a mad world.