"The liar never tells the truth." That was my line, repeated every time I sat in a bar or restaurant. Many heard it, but no one understood what I truly meant. I kept saying I was working on a new story, and they believed me. My father-in-law seemed to have heard it too, but he kept ignoring it. For me, that was a small victory, a quiet success.

That night, like many nights before, I let myself shrink into wine, seeking solace in its numb embrace. When I stepped out of the bar with others, gunfire erupted from all sides. I managed to evade the bullets, but the others were not so lucky.

Fear drove me into the shadows as multiple gunmen swarmed the bar. Shots rang out, screams pierced the night, and no one could escape. Every attempt to flee was met with precise gunfire; the wounded lay moaning on the ground.

The attackers moved systematically, storming nearby mansions. Gunfire echoed through the streets, each shot coordinated, each target covered. Anyone trying to escape was cut down instantly. The night reeked of fear, blood, and chaos, and no corner of the district felt safe.

I waited until the gunfire fell silent, then made my move toward the mansion. I stayed low, hiding in the shadows, as the gunmen cleared out outside. The stench of blood and death hit me, and with the wine still clouding my head, I vomited.

Once my stomach emptied and my mind cleared, I continued toward my mansion. My hand gripped a handgun, still hidden in shadow, ready to protect myself if the remaining gunmen or guards engaged. Every step was careful, deliberate; every movement calculated to evade both bullets and attention.

My mansion was near, but the path to it felt endless. Outside, the gunmen had already fought the guards, killing most and leaving chaos behind. As I approached, I saw my mansion's guards — well-equipped and numerous — mount a defense, pushing back the attackers.

Just as the first wave of gunmen fled past me, another group appeared from a different direction. Now the guards were under attack from both sides. I melted into the shadows of my mansion, blending with the darkness, and made my way to the elevator — a private shaft that led directly to the Emperor's palace, accessible only to the next noble family in line.

If I could reach the elevator and hide, I would be safe. Every step was silent, calculated; every breath measured. The mansion had become a battlefield, and I was both witness and prey, relying on wit and timing rather than strength to survive.

As the guards fought the gunmen outside, I continued blending into the shadows and entered the mansion safely. For a moment, I saw no immediate danger and rushed forward toward the elevator.

Then I stumbled upon a young nobleman, someone who had come to have an affair with my wife. At first, I didn't bother him and tried to move past, but he grabbed my shirt and struck me. Anger surged through me, this man had dared to violate my home and now attacked me.

Blinded by rage, I drew the handgun. The young nobleman hesitated, taking a step back. My hands shook, my mind blurred, and in a split second, I fired. The shot struck his head. He collapsed instantly.

The space suddenly went silent, leaving only a ringing bell in my ears. I stared at the corpse, my eyes wide and soulless. My hands trembled, not with rage, but with a profound fear. I had killed a man. My self-respect, my morality, everything I had ever believed in, shattered.

But then, another thought flashed, cold and cruel. I remembered my father-in-law's words: "Die, you money-sucking leech!" I remembered his contemptuous smirk. I remembered the feeling of being scorned, betrayed, and stripped of everything. The fear didn't vanish, but it was eclipsed by another, more violent and primal fury. This wasn't a murder. This was survival. I had done what I had to do.

I bolted toward the elevator, relief washing over me as it appeared before me. Inside, my father-in-law's family was already gathered, everyone except my wife, who would come later, after the affair with the young nobleman had been cut short.

I jumped into the elevator, but my father-in-law shoved me back. "There's still space left, let me on," I demanded.

The old nobleman shook his head, his voice dripping with contempt: "Die, you money-sucking leech! This place is for someone else. My daughter has already chosen a new husband, so die yourself!"

A dark smirk crept across my face as I remembered the young nobleman I had just killed. "Looks like he won't be joining you, father. That young man with long golden hair, in the blue shirt, who was running here to meet you? Forget him. I already took care of the one who had an affair with my wife."

The old nobleman's face went pale at my words, his voice rising in fury. "What do you think you're doing? That was the prince, the Emperor's son! My daughter is to be Empress soon with him!"

I replied with a mocking edge, "And what would you do if someone had an affair with your wife, Father?"

My mother-in-law's shrill voice cut in. "What are you saying, you scum?"

Then my wife arrived, her eyes searching frantically. "Was he, Father?"

Before the old nobleman could reply, I said, "I killed him. That's how I deal with a man having an affair with my wife."

The old nobleman slammed the elevator doors shut before she could react.

Through the closing doors, my father in law 's voice rang out. "Let him die here — we can blame the attackers for the Emperor. Let it go!"

"No!" she howled. "But I love him, Dad! Let me out! I killed this scum with my own hands!"

The elevator lifted, leaving me behind, seething with anger as her cries echoed away.

"Fine," I muttered, crawling through the chaos. I could still make it out safely if I stayed sharp. Cursing the old noble family trapped in that cursed elevator, I scanned for a hiding place.

With my dirty clothes and the stench of my sweat, I blended into the kitchen, ducking behind a log of hanging meat. My presence vanished among the shadows.

Then, boom!

The elevator, with my wife and her family inside, exploded before my eyes and fell out. The impact rattled the room, smoke and debris filling the air. I pressed myself closer to the log, holding my breath, heart hammering, as chaos engulfed the mansion.

Those gunmen must have had some kind of handheld rocket launcher like RPG, the kind that could take down an armored transport, and they'd aimed it right at the elevator. It looked like their target was the nobles.

The servants came pouring out of the mansion, screaming, but the gunmen didn't shoot them. Instead, they stopped a few and asked questions. I saw the servants shake their heads. Looked like they were asking if there were any nobles still inside. The servants hadn't seen me.

From the kitchen window, I watched as the gunmen finally withdrew, and the servants scattered. I waited a while longer, then slipped out.

There was chatter and shouting near where the elevator had fallen. A few gunshots rang out, then silence. I went closer.

All the members of my wife's family were dead, each with a clean bullet wound to the head. I was about to turn away when I noticed movement.

Pulling one of the bodies aside, I found her — my wife. She was injured, bleeding, but alive. Her eyes widened when she saw me.

"Help me, dear," she gasped. "When I become the Empress, I'll never forget you."

I dragged her partway out from under the pile of bodies. Half her body lay outside now, the other half still trapped beneath a heavy steel door.

I grinned.
"My pain is because of you. You think I'd let you live, dear?"

I put my hand on the edge of the heavy door.
"This door's like you — half in, half out. Really heavy, you know? If it fell..."

Her eyes went wide.
"No, dear, forgive me! I promise I'll give everything back to you. If you want, I'm yours. We'll be happy, husband and wife—"

I shook my head.
"No. I will not take the Empress as my wife. I am not your husband. Never, my dear. I'll take all of your family's property. Tell me—who will get it if your whole family dies, including you? Me."

And on that last word, I let the heavy door fall.

It crushed her without another sound.

That moment, my destiny shifted. All I had to do now was wait for the army to clear the gunmen... and then claim what was mine.

All the time I'd lived in the Noble District, I knew one thing: when riots happened, the army killed all non-nobles they found inside. Servants without a noble owner to protect them were shot on sight—no exceptions. In my condition now, filthy and reeking of blood, the army would shoot me before even asking who I was. So I went straight to the bathroom, washed away the stink, and put on a fine noble suit. Maybe I would become the next target for the gunmen, but at least the army wouldn't kill me on sight.

If you asked me who I feared more—the gunmen or the army—I'd say the army. The gunmen's targets seemed to be nobles, but the army... their orders were to open fire on anyone who wasn't. If a noble happened to be in the line of fire, that was just their bad luck. So, although the army was here to protect us from the gunmen, I still feared them more.

Fear or not, I had to reach the army for their protection. Now dressed in a noble suit, my body scrubbed clean of stink, I slipped out of the mansion and kept to the shadows, hiding from the gunmen still lurking everywhere, as I made my way toward the army checkpoint not far from here.

Some army helicopters spotted me but ignored me — they didn't shoot anyone wearing a noble suit. It seemed they already knew my destination, because they began clearing the way ahead. From above, they gunned down many of the lurking attackers. I knew better than to step into the helicopter's light; if I died in that light, it would be my own fault. Some noblemen didn't understand that. They stepped into the beam with their servants and were shot dead instantly.

I waited until the helicopters had cleared the gunmen and flown away — a sign they hadn't spotted any more threats — then I ran for the checkpoint.

The army checkpoint wasn't far from my position. With ten minutes of fast movement, I reached it and saw a sea of people gathered there, shouting, swearing, and cursing at the soldiers to open the gate. But the gate stayed shut. I sensed something was wrong. I had lived in the Military District as a child — I knew how the army worked.

I slipped into a covered, shadowed spot to hide. From there, I heard sharp, precise cracks — the sound of sniper rifles. They weren't opening the gate. They weren't letting anyone who wasn't noble through, and they didn't care to let those nobles into the Military District either. The soldiers had always hated the nobles, and now they had their excuse. Using their scopes, the snipers could easily tell who was a non-noble dressed in noble clothes — and those people were shot on sight.

I stayed in the shadows, my back pressed to the cold wall, watching through a narrow gap. The crowd in front of the gate was chaos — nobles and impostors alike, all desperate to get through. The soldiers didn't speak, didn't shout warnings. They just watched from the towers, scopes glinting faintly under the pale light.

Then, without signal or sound, someone in the crowd's head snapped back — a clean kill. No one screamed at first; they just froze. Then the panic hit. People shoved, tripped, fell over one another as the snipers picked off targets one by one. Each shot was deliberate, each body falling with the same precision as before.

I noticed the pattern — they weren't firing at everyone, only those whose clothes didn't quite fit, whose jewelry was fake, whose posture betrayed years of servitude rather than nobility. To the army, those people were just trespassers wearing stolen skin.

I kept still, my fine suit sticking uncomfortably to my damp skin, wondering how many seconds I'd survive if one of those scopes turned my way. The smell of blood drifted on the night air, mixing with the stink of fear.

One by one, the non-nobles in stolen noble suits were shot down, each kill throwing the crowd into deeper chaos. Cries and screams rose like a storm, voices begging the soldiers to open the gate, but the gate stayed shut. I knew I had to slip away now — if one of those snipers caught sight of me, I'd be next. I was no noble, and I had only one life to gamble. Keeping to the shadows, I moved fast and low, heading for another checkpoint farther from here. That one was meant for servants, a direct link between the Merchant District and the Noble District.

The wailing crowd at the noble checkpoint had no time to grieve for the fallen non-nobles. From the dark streets beyond, the staccato roar of gunfire drew closer. Shadows moved between burning carriages and wrecked gates — the gunmen were advancing, rifles spitting death into the mass of nobles trapped outside. Panic shattered whatever order remained. Some tried to push toward the sealed gate; others scattered into the alleys, only to be cut down.

Then came the thumping rotors overhead. Army helicopters swept in low, spotlights cutting through smoke, their machine guns answering the gunmen's fire. But the attackers were ready — RPG flashed, and explosions clawed at the air, forcing the helicopters to weave and pull back.

Through the din, a voice boomed from a loudspeaker on the wall above the checkpoint.

"All citizens, return to your mansions immediately! Hide inside and do not interfere! Let the army do its work!"

But the gate stayed locked. The soldiers did not open it, not for anyone.

I knew better than to wait. The army would crush these gunmen fast — they always did — but an attack this loud, this bold, meant only one thing: highest alert. And when the army swept the Noble District after a fight like this, no non-noble would be left alive.

I'd seen it before. They didn't just search. They flushed people out — anyone without noble protection. Servants hiding alone, merchants stuck in the wrong place... all dragged into the open and shot.

So I slipped away from the checkpoint, staying in the deep shadow of broken walls. The gunfire ahead was only the first act; the real danger would come after. I turned toward the farther checkpoint — the one connecting the Merchant District to the Noble District. It was for servants and tradesmen, not nobles. Risky, yes, but it was my only chance.

I kept moving fast through the shadows, keeping the noise of my boots to nothing. The streets of the Noble District were different tonight—no laughter from wine halls, no light spilling from the manors, just the echo of gunfire and the smell of smoke. Here and there, a servant lay face-down in the gutter, noble silk still clutched in their fists like it might save them.

Every few corners, I froze in place. Gunmen dashed past me, rifles in hand, too focused on the fight at the checkpoint to notice a man pressed into the darkness. I waited for their boots to fade, then moved again, weaving between abandoned carriages and shattered marble fountains.

The checkpoint fight was still raging behind me, but I knew what came after. The army would sweep the streets clean, and they'd draw out every non-noble like rats from a cellar. That meant me.

My wife's family was gone—every last one of them—and the property had no heir but me. But claiming it meant staying alive long enough for the army to put a noble seal on my name. I couldn't risk the main checkpoint; it was crawling with gunmen and army snipers.

The servant's checkpoint was my best chance. It connected straight to the Merchant District. If I could make it there, I could vanish until the dust settled—and when the army came to find the rightful owner, I'd be waiting.

The alley narrowed into a dead-end courtyard littered with overturned baskets and a broken market stall. I almost cursed, until my eyes caught the glint of metal under the wreckage. A sidearm.

I crouched, brushed away the splinters, and picked it up. Cold steel, scratched along the barrel, but the weight felt right. My father's voice came back to me instantly: "A pistol isn't for looking tough. It's for the man who knows he may have to use it."

I thumbed the release, checked the magazine—half full. More than enough if I aimed like he taught me. I slid the safety, held it low, close to my side where it wouldn't flash in the moonlight.

From somewhere behind me, boots clattered on the cobblestones. Gunmen. I pressed my back to the wall, slowing my breath. If they spotted me, there'd be no running.

One shadow broke from the mouth of the alley. His rifle swung lazily as he scanned the darkness. I let him take two steps closer. My stance shifted without thinking—feet apart, elbows loose, aim steady.

His eyes met mine. His mouth started to open.

One shot. Center mass. He crumpled into the dust without a sound loud enough to bring the others running.

I stepped over him and moved on, my fingers tight around the grip. Stealth was still my first choice. But if the shadows failed me, my father's training wouldn't.

I kept to the shadow, hugging the walls where the moonlight couldn't touch me. My steps were slow now, each one measured. Somewhere ahead, the faint hum of helicopters cut through the night, mixed with scattered bursts of gunfire.

Movement flashed in the open street. A nobleman—robe flapping, hair undone—came sprinting from the corner. His breath was ragged, his eyes wide. He didn't look left or right, just ran.

The shot came quick. One moment he was moving, the next he was folded over, collapsing onto the stones. I couldn't tell if it was the sharp crack of a rifle or the heavy thump of a gunman's round that ended him. Army or gunmen—it didn't matter. He was dead.

I stayed where I was, back pressed into the cold wall, until the street lay still again. My father used to say that in a battlefield, being unseen was as valuable as having a weapon. Tonight, I had both, and I wasn't giving up either.

The closer I drew toward the servant checkpoint, the more bodies I found. Not nobles now—servants. Their plain clothes and calloused hands told their story even in death. They weren't caught in crossfire. The patterns were too neat.

Two lying side by side with single wounds to the head.
One slumped over a supply crate, chest punched through.
Another sprawled halfway into a doorway, fingers frozen around a broken broom.

This wasn't the gunmen's chaos. This was the army's precision. I'd seen it before in the Military District—when they swept an area, no target lived.

From the direction of the checkpoint came the deeper booms of rifles and the sharper, quicker echoes of soldiers moving through the alleys. It hit me then: the army wasn't defending the servant checkpoint. They were attacking out from it. And every servant in their path was just another obstacle to clear.

I stayed in the dark, moving slower now. If I misjudged my next steps, I wouldn't even have the chance to wonder whose bullet took me.

I kept the pistol close, my grip firm but relaxed the way my father taught me. The alley spilled into a service lane—one of the routes servants used to move unseen between noble mansions. It should have been busy, even during riots. Instead, it was lined with bodies.

The first lay sprawled in a doorway, a tray still clutched in one stiff hand. The second was face-down in the gutter, the back of his shirt torn and soaked. I didn't stop to check for signs of life. I'd seen this before—once in my father's campaigns. The army didn't waste bullets unless they were sure.

Each turn revealed more. Three piled beside an overturned laundry cart. A young girl, no older than fifteen, her hair matted with blood, pressed into the corner as if hiding had worked for a moment—then didn't.

I stayed to the shadows, stepping over limbs, boots silent against the cobblestones. The air smelled of soap, sweat, and gunpowder—a strange mix of labor and execution.

Somewhere ahead, gunfire crackled. Not the chaotic spray of gunmen. Short, precise bursts. The army was close, sweeping these back corridors as they closed the net.

Every body I passed reminded me of the truth I'd learned as a boy: the servant checkpoint wasn't a sanctuary. It was a filter, and the army was deciding what made it through.

I tightened my grip on the pistol and kept moving. The shadows were thinning here, and the path ahead was marked with fresh blood.

The closer I crept toward the servant checkpoint, the more the night boiled with sound. Gunfire was no longer sharp bursts—it was a constant, deafening storm. Shouts and screams bled together, the chaos folding in on itself until I couldn't tell who was advancing or falling back. Somewhere ahead, the army was pushing from the servant checkpoint, trading fire with the gunmen.

Then it happened.

A flash lit the street like daylight for half a heartbeat—followed by a roar so deep it seemed to tear the air apart. The ground heaved under me, dust and shards of stone pelting my face and stinging my eyes. My ears screamed with a high, metallic ringing.

Instinct slammed into me. I dropped into the nearest patch of shadow, pressing my back against cold brick, hands clamped over my ears, trying to make myself vanish into the wall. My breath came in short, ragged bursts.

Through the ringing, other sounds began to seep in—low moans, wet coughing, the crackle of fire. I risked a glance. Flames licked along the street, painting the bodies in flickering orange. Some still moved—crawling, writhing, hands outstretched toward help that wasn't coming.

A burning piece of timber crashed down a few meters away, throwing sparks into the darkness. The smell hit next—smoke, scorched fabric, and the thick, sickly sweetness of burned flesh. My stomach twisted hard.

Somewhere out there, soldiers barked orders. Gunmen answered with wild bursts of fire. The fight wasn't over. But if I stepped out now, I wouldn't live to hear how it ended.

I pressed myself deeper into the corner, where the light couldn't find me. Shadows wrapped around my body like a second skin, hiding every breath, every tremor in my hands. My heart thudded so hard I feared it might give me away.

The fight raged on somewhere beyond the street—bursts of gunfire, the sharp crack of rifles, then the hollow thump of grenades. Each sound seemed closer, sharper, until suddenly... it began to fade. The shouting turned into short, clipped commands. Gunfire came in single, deliberate shots. Then silence.

I didn't move. Not yet.

Boots struck the pavement in steady rhythm. The army. They had won. The sound grew louder, until they filled the street, marching in tight formation. Rifles ready. Helmets glinting faintly in the scattered firelight.

I didn't breathe. I didn't blink.

They passed so close I could smell the oil on their weapons, the sweat soaked into their uniforms. But the shadows held me like a cloak. Their eyes slid past, scanning the street for enemies. None of them saw me.

Only when the last soldier vanished into the dark did I allow my lungs to fill again.

The servant checkpoint was close now—too close. The air was thick with the stink of gunpowder and burned cloth, and the sound of boots pounding metal stairs came sharper, closer. Orders were shouted, rifles clinked as they shifted in hands.

They were coming in force. I could hear the squads stacking up, one after another, their weight making the stairwell groan. The army was pushing hard from here, pouring more men into the Noble District. In minutes, the whole place would be crawling with soldiers, and every one of them would be hunting for non-nobles.

I crouched back into the shadow of a collapsed awning, my breath slow, eyes sweeping the ground. Bodies lay scattered here—servants, mostly, some still clutching tools or trays, their faces frozen in shock. A few gunmen too, their rifles fallen just out of reach.

My eyes stopped on a dead gunman. He was lying face down, his back torn by shrapnel, but there was no bullet wound to the head. I suddenly remembered an old rule from my father's campaigns: the army doesn't waste bullets on those who are already dead. Especially those who are already marked. The bloodstained shirt of that soldier was a ticket. A perfect trap.

I acted fast. My hands worked at the buttons of my coat, yanking it off. I stripped the bloodstained shirt from him, the stench of sweat and cordite hitting me like a slap. It was still warm. I pulled it on over my clothes, smearing dirt and soot over my face and hands.

Then I dropped beside him, half-sprawled, my handgun tucked under my arm where no one could see it. I let my limbs go loose, my cheek pressed against the cold pavement.

Boots drew closer. Heavy, deliberate. The sound filled the street. A shadow passed over me, then another. They didn't stop. The dark covered me well enough, and to them I was just another body in a warzone.

I stayed still, heart pounding, waiting for the tide of soldiers to march past.

I stood the moment the last soldier passed through. No one saw me, no one heard me. Their march was fast, purposeful, and I knew I had only a small window before reinforcements poured in. I had to get down—fast.

If this squad did their job without losing too many men, there would be no immediate backup. But if they took heavy casualties, the reinforcements would arrive—and that would be the end of me.

The checkpoint now stood empty. It didn't need guards; the soldiers had just slaughtered every servant foolish enough to approach and gunned down every fighter bold enough to attack.

I reached the top of the staircase. That's when I saw him.

A gunman. Rifle in hand.

He spotted me at once. Luck was the only reason I was still standing—luck, and the bloodstained shirt I'd stolen. Without it, his rifle would have barked, and I'd already be lying cold on the concrete.

But his steps didn't quicken. He advanced slowly, the muzzle of his weapon just shy of aiming at me. He wasn't ready to fire unless he was sure of what I was.

I kept my handgun low, my grip steady. Too far. Still too far. My father had taught me well—patience was as deadly as the bullet itself.

The gunman drew closer. His eyes narrowed.

Now.

I moved first—side-stepping hard and bringing my pistol up. My shot cracked through the air, the bullet finding his head just as my father had taught me to aim.

But his finger was already on the trigger. His rifle coughed once before he fell, and I felt the hot punch in my belly.

Pain exploded through me.

The gunshot still rang in my ears when I caught the sound of boots thudding from beneath the staircase. Soldiers. They'd heard.

I dropped to the ground, letting my pistol slip just out of reach, and lay still. My blood was already soaking through the stolen shirt—most of it mine, some of it the gunman's. The hole over my chest came from his shirt, not my body. The real wound burned in my belly.

A soldier emerged from the shadows below. His eyes scanned me in a quick, lazy sweep. No kneeling. No pulse-check. The bullet hole over the heart told him all he needed to know.

He stepped over to the other corpse, nudged it with his boot, then shouted down the stairs to his squad,
"One deserted, and one tried to kill the deserter. Both dead."

Laughter answered him from below—hard, mocking bursts.

The soldier laughed too, turning away and heading back into the darkness under the stairs. His boots faded until the silence swallowed them.

In pain, I pushed myself upright, every movement dragging fire through my belly. Step by step, I approached the staircase.

Below, the guard post's light spilled upward, casting long, sharp shadows across the steps. That light could betray me—but it could be evaded.

I hugged the wall, moving slowly... slowly... timing each shift with the sweep of the light. My back brushed the cold wall of the post. I waited for the beam to swing away, then slipped past in a quick, silent step.

Blood dripped from me onto the stairs at first, but there was already so much red smeared here that it didn't matter. Still, once I passed the post, I pressed my palm harder against the wound. No more drops. Not one.

I kept descending, slow and steady, the air getting colder, the shadows deeper. I don't know how long I went on. Minutes? Hours? My vision swam, edges darkening, sounds turning distant.

And at last... my legs failed. The world tilted, the steps rushed up to meet me, and everything went black.