I
I
The scream was drowned out by the thunderclap, rendering it inaudible.
Dropping the sabre he'd brandished into a pool of water, the large policeman crumpled to the stone pavement. He screamed like a woman because his hand had been broken completely and was twisted at a weird angle. As he slid backward trying to escape the shadow slowly edging toward him, the deadly weapon cocked and turned, directly hitting his chin.
Water splashed high where the huge body fell onto the street with a silent scream. The scattered showers, which hadn't ceased since sunset, suddenly got much stronger. As the rain intensified, the evil shadow with uncannily flashing green eyes darted through the dark after a fresh victim, finding one more policeman in his path.
The cop slid his hand toward the location of his handgun. His eyes bulged in wonder as he tried to pull the trigger, but the long iron staff that the shadow grasped revolved, cutting through the rainy night more quickly than the cop had expected. "C-crazy! T-too fast!" he stammered.
Thunder rumbled as though heaven had fallen, casting a white glow on the dark streets. Against a backdrop of only light and shadow, the evil weapon gleamed as it reflected the lightning's flash. By the time the thunder's echoes had disappeared into the night air, the handgun that had been launched from the cop's hands was rolling on the stone pavement.
"Argh!" Having lost his only hope, the policeman, still clumsily sitting on his butt, gnashed his teeth. He widened his eyes in horror as the iron staff raised high above his head. If he took one blow from the weapon on his crown, his skull and all its contents would be crushed. As he struggled to vocalize his overwhelming terror with a scream, the policeman felt a gust of wind rush over the top of his head. He timidly raised his eyes, wet with tears, to discover that death hadn't visited—the iron staff had stopped as if stuck in the air.
In the face of the evil shadow that revealed itself with a lightning flash, dark green eyes burned like phosphorescence. "Disappear—and don't follow me again. The next time we meet, I'll kill you for sure," said Hugue in a low, corpselike voice as he crept into the depths of the night.
"Eek!" cried the policeman. Compared to the sound of the rain, which was cascading like a waterfall, his voice was rather quiet. Finally picking himself up from the ground, he scurried down the street, stumbling along the way. He continued to run desperately, sighing faintly as he kept an eye on the figure behind him. Casually combing back his soaked blond hair, the cop peered down in horror at the victims on the ground. Ten policemen were unconscious, each with arms or legs broken. Regardless of whether they regained consciousness, his comrades wouldn't be able to do anything except scream.
A look of pity dwelled in Hugue's green eyes as he surveyed the cruel sight. But as he spun the iron staff in his hands unemotionally, he walked off through the streets as though nothing had happened. Stopping, he glanced at the wall next to him, narrowing his eyes slightly. A notice with the photograph of a young man was posted on the wall. '"Invasion of Antwerp Police Commissioner's Mansion—Hugue de Watteau. Reward for whomever captures him, dead or alive," read Hugue. His throat rumbled softly as he looked at the notice more closely. Between the sparsely sprouted beard stubble, his thin lips twisted as if mocking somebody. "Terrorist? Yeah, it's just like they say."
Hugue shredded the notice, mercilessly grinding it into the wet stone pavement with his foot before once again embarking into the rain. He had no destination and traveled at that kind of unreliable pace maintained by those whose sole objective was to wander.
What interrupted Hugue's stride this time was a strangely monotone voice that belonged to a short shadow that was blocking his way forward. "What are you doing here, Father Watteau?" asked Tres.
Hugue's eyes, which had grown as large as glass balls, intently fixed on the man's thin, haggard face.
The priest, donning a clean cassock without one chink, gazed expressionlessly at the silent man as he repeated his question. "I asked what you were doing in a place like this, Father Watteau. Your duty doesn't have anything to do with the city of Brussels. If you have a special reason to be outside your operation zone, I request you disclose it," Tres urged.
"It's none of your business what I'm doing, Gunslinger," Hugue replied firmly, raising his shadowed face. Hugue had been camping for the past week and was far from meals. He hadn't gotten much sleep, either, which had caused his normally pale face to turn a ghostly stark white. Still, his low voice resounded clearly in spite of the fierce rain. "I'm investigating an incident in Amsterdam now. My current business is connected to that investigation, so I came to this city. Please don't interfere, Father Iqus."
"Negative. You've been relieved of your duty to investigate the old church incident in Amsterdam and have received alternate orders. I request that you leave Brussels at once and return to Rome," Tres directed.
A dry laugh escaped from Hugue's throat. "Return to Rome? Return?" he asked. Glancing back at the other priest, who was still staring at him blankly, Hugue laughed once more—but his truthful eyes certainly weren't laughing. Composing himself, he said earnestly, "There's nowhere for me to return to anymore." A wild light still brightening his eyes, he thrust out his jaw. "I can't go back to Rome anymore—and I'll quit AX, too. Go back and tell the Duchess of Milan, Gunslinger."
"At present, Brussels is under martial law," Gunslinger— Father Tres Iqus—replied, lacking warmth. As if announcing the result of a chemistry experiment, he added, "The vampires in this city, including an individual named Thierry Darsus and his clan, are wary and sense your approach. They've mobilized all the city police. The probability that you can capture or destroy Darsus is at most no more than point zero six percent. Operation actions are meaningless as well as fatal."
"I know—I'm not so much a fool that I don't know that," Hugue replied, screwing his mouth self-mockingly. Turning around, he gazed gloomily at the policemen he'd defeated earlier. They'd been strictly ordered to use any means necessary to capture Hugue, and the struggle to deplete his battle strength without killing him caused extreme exhaustion. It already had been one week since he'd arrived in Brussels and Hugue's mental and physical strength were weakening as a result of a lifestyle that meant rarely eating or sleeping. He could already see his future.
Hugue's body had been soaked by rain and his survival instincts had been paralyzed. As he tried to sort through his thoughts, the young man's eyes went blank like a dead man's. Family, castle, fiancée—I have nothing. He'd lost everything—both a place to go home to and the meaning of life—and felt he had no reason to go on living. He didn't expect to live an unreasonably long time, but he was rather afraid of doing so after carrying out his revenge. Hugue was afraid of spending his life alone and in mourning with no place to go. "Let me go, Father Iqus." Turning his back on his silent comrade, Hugue exhaled heavily, declaring over his shoulder, "I have nothing to do with the Duchess of Milan or the Vatican anymore. I'm already—"
"Securing you is the Duchess of Milan's top order," Tres interrupted with no sign of hurt feelings in his voice. At the same time, there was a small, unmistakably metallic noise—the ring of a handgun's firing hammer being lifted. "Leaving you alone more than this will prove to be a big disadvantage to the Duchess of Milan's political situation. If you insist on refusing to go back with me, it's possible that I'll choose to shoot you to death."
The faint water noise Hugue heard in the background was the sound of ruin bouncing off the handgun pointed at him. As he listened over his shoulder to Tres' flat, somewhat inhuman pronouncement of punishment, his mouth relaxed slightly. Barely gripping his iron staff, Hugue teased, "Shoot me to death? Can you kill me, Gunslinger?"
"This is the final confirmation, Sword Dancer," Tres pronounced.
Beyond the screen of rain, Hugue heard the sound of the safety catch being released.
Tres' voice no longer sounded cold and as if he were reminding Hugue of his fate—it instead rang as if prideful for following the proper procedure. "Will you return to Rome with me, or do you intend to keep refusing my order to return and stay in Brussels? Disclose your answer."
"I can't return to Rome . . . again," Hugue mumbled with little emotion. With his blond hair stuck flat against his head, he turned and flashed a gruesome smile. "Go back and tell the Duchess of Milan that Sword Dancer will kill all of them—and will never see her again."
All of a sudden, the clank of a sword being drawn overlapped with the sound of a gunshot. Splashes from bullets striking near Hugue's feet splattered one after the other as he jumped to avoid being hit. And the stone pavement blasted apart wherever it was gouged by bullets, causing stony fragments to hurtle toward the swordsman from all directions. Hugue didn't counterattack, though. Dodging bullets by a hair with his sword drawn from its scabbard, he thrashed through the neighboring streetlamp. The moment Tres edged away from the streetlamp that was falling toward him, Hugue's body balled up, literally rolling into a side street.
"You won't get away, Sword Dancer!" shouted Tres.
Listening to Tres' voice trailing behind him, Hugue exchanged his empty magazine and ran pell-mell through the unlit streets. I can't die yet! He remembered swearing over the sounds of ferocious thunder that he couldn't die until he killed the tribe—the one who'd stolen his sister before his eyes—ten years ago. Was it his turbid thoughts or his power of concentration, diminished by exhaustion, that was leading Hugue into danger? It was when Hugue approached the corner of a twisted alley and realized that he was paying attention only to what was behind him that he became aware of his own naiveté.
"Caught target within effective firing range. Open fire," Tres shouted.
If Hugue had heard the monotone voice over the stone wall right next to him and jumped back a second later, Hugue's body undoubtedly would've been torn apart and scattered into meat fragments. Following the rain of bullets that grazed the tip of his nose, a short shadow wrapped in a flawless cassock appeared, breaking through the wall.
"Target in sight," announced Tres. Dusty with stucco, the killing machine raised his gun. The red light of the laser sight burst forth, lighting up the left side of Hugue's chest. "Fire!"
The Jericho M-13 Deus Irae—the largest battle handgun in the world—bared its thirty-millimeter fangs in the air toward Hugue, who instinctively blocked his body with his sword.
However, it was Tres' body that was thrown backward by a spray of bullets that fired sideways. His body, close to four hundred forty pounds, was forced to the side by countless rounds that struck him with savage speed, and his cassock, which had been turned into a honeycomb, scattered around the area like rags.
"Get on, Father Watteau!" said a voice. Seconds later, the sound of an engine roared like a beast, followed by a dazzling white flash that nearly blinded Hugue. Then, a motorbike sped from the alley, causing water to spray up on either side of it, and came to a sudden stop next to the priest, who still didn't understand what had happened. "What are you doing? Get on — hurry!"
The young man motioned toward the tandem seat with his chin. His face was obscured by his black raincoat and goggles as he shouted angrily, engaging the clutch with his tall leather boots. "I'm your ally — at least for now!"
Hugue, still silent, didn't jump onto the seat because he believed that the man in black was his ally, rather because a beam of red light was rising, pushing through the rubble into the stream of rain. In the darkness, the laser sight drew a line, catching Hugue and his rescuer.
"Go!" Hugue shouted, hurling a dagger drawn from its sheath toward the short figure. The motorbike took off so powerfully that it could've taken flight, but the bullet narrowly missed the engine muffler because the dagger diverted the shot.
"Hang on tight, Father Hugue!" yelled the man.
Hugue had thought that the young man gripping the handlebars was shouting something, but he couldn't catch his voice, which was drowned out by the sound of the torrential downpour.