Bouten did not wait for dawn.It waited for consequence.
Lucas stood atop an aging rooftop in the Western District, the night wind pulling at his clothes as if trying to drag him backward. Below him, the guard square burned under rigid rows of torches. Thirty-seven enforcers stood in layered formation some gripping rifles, others holding swords and spears. They appeared prepared for a threat that lurked in shadows.
But that night, the threat did not come from the shadows.
It descended openly.
Lucas dropped from the rooftop and landed hard at the center of the square. The impact of his boots against stone shattered the murmur of conversation. Several guards flinched. Some immediately raised their weapons. Others were too slow to understand what was happening.
Lucas stepped forward into the torchlight. His face was fully visible. No mask. No concealment.
His chest rose and fell not from exhaustion, but from something that had been restrained for far too long.
He lifted his head and his voice tore through the night.
"COUNT YOUR SINSSSSS!!!"
It was not a threat.
It was judgment.
The formation faltered. A commanding officer tried to shout orders, but Lucas moved before they could take shape. He charged the front line before rifles were fully raised. The two closest enforcers never had time to react. Steel flashed through firelight, and their bodies collapsed almost simultaneously. Their screams came too late after blood had already touched stone.
Gunfire erupted.
The first bullet struck empty air; Lucas had already shifted position. The second grazed his shoulder, tearing fabric as warmth spread beneath it. He did not stop. The pain did not slow him.
It sharpened him.
He seized the body of a fallen enforcer and dragged it upright as more shots rang out. Bullets tore into flesh that no longer felt them. Lucas advanced behind the corpse like a moving shield, each step closing the distance between himself and the riflemen. When he was close enough, he hurled the body forward. It crashed into two shooters, sending them sprawling across the stone.
Lucas was upon them before they could recover.
From the right, a spear-wielding guard lunged with a panicked cry. The spearhead thrust toward Lucas's abdomen, but he twisted aside, fabric tearing as the blade grazed past. He caught the wooden shaft mid-strike. His forearm muscles tightened violently.
The wood snapped.
For a brief second, the guard stared in disbelief at the broken weapon in his hands. That second was enough. Lucas reversed the jagged metal tip and drove it forward without hesitation.
The square descended into chaos.
Orders dissolved into overlapping shouts. Some enforcers attempted to retreat. Others fired blindly. Smoke from gunpowder mingled with the thin fog creeping in from the riverbanks, narrowing visibility and swallowing the edges of the battlefield.
Within the thickening mist, Lucas moved like something born for the hunt. He did not fight like a man surrounded. He hunted like a predator unleashed. Each step closed distance before rifles could align. Each turn placed him at an enemy's blind side. Each strike ended hesitation before it could become resistance.
He broke the neck of one guard who tried to attack from behind, then pivoted, twin blades cutting down two more before their swords could rise. Blood sprayed across stone, across his coat, across his face. His expression did not change. He did not shout again. He did not curse.
He simply moved.
Time seemed to stretch and fracture, though the slaughter lasted only minutes. One by one, bodies fell. Shouts turned into gasps. Gasps faded into silence.
At last, no one remained standing.
Thirty-six corpses lay scattered across the square, the air heavy with iron and smoke. The torches still burned, illuminating the consequence of Lucas's choice. His breathing slowed gradually. Blood dripped from his blades onto darkened stone.
The fog thickened further.
Behind an overturned supply crate at the edge of the square, a thin, frail enforcer had been hiding since the first wave of violence. He had dropped his rifle the moment Lucas shouted. He had not fought. He had not helped his comrades. He had simply crouched there, trembling uncontrollably, watching through the narrow gap between wooden planks.
He had witnessed everything.
He had seen stronger men fall as if they were nothing. He had seen Lucas standing at the center of it all not raging, not screaming just executing judgment.
When the final sound faded, the thin enforcer barely dared to breathe.
Lucas stood in the middle of the square and slowly turned his head, scanning for movement. His gaze drifted toward the corner where the enforcer hid. For one unbearable moment, it felt as though their eyes might meet.
The enforcer squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for death.
But the footsteps he heard moved away.
When he finally dared to look again, the square was empty except for corpses and fog. Lucas had vanished, swallowed by the night as though he had never stood there at all.
It took long minutes before the surviving enforcer found the strength to crawl from hiding. His legs nearly failed him as he stood. He staggered among bodies he recognized men who had trained beside him, eaten beside him, laughed beside him.
Now they were still.
He feld.
Not as a soldier.
As something hunted by memory.
By the time he reached the Western District headquarters, he nearly collapsed at the gate. The guards caught him before he fell completely.
"What happened?"
He tried to speak, but his voice broke apart.
"They're… they're all dead…"
"Who attacked you?"
"Si...sin Counter," he whispered, shaking violently. "He came out in the open… he didn't hide… he screamed at us… then he slaughtered everyone…"
The hall fell silent.
"How many attackers?"
"Just one."
Several senior officers exchanged glances not of panic, but of calculation.
The thin enforcer lowered his head, still trembling. "We were ready. We had rifles… formation… none of it mattered. He moved like… like something else."
"Why are you alive?" one officer asked coldly.
The question struck deeper than accusation.
The enforcer swallowed hard. "I… I don't know."
Outside, fog continued to swallow the streets of Bouten.
And somewhere in the darkness, Lucas walked alone. Blood on his clothes had begun to dry. His shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed him, but he paid it no mind.
His hesitation had died with thirty-six men that night.
He would no longer wait for lines to be crossed.
He had become the line.
From this night forward, the Sin Counter would no longer whisper in shadows.
He had stepped into the light.
And turned it red.