Epoch of the Unnatural

Ten years ago, my mother left me and my dad for another man.

Turned out, she'd been fancied by some rich aristocrat from the capital.

That broke my father. Seeing the woman he loved walk out on us, just like that—

It crushed him.

He drank for days on end. I couldn't blame him.

He loved her. We both did.

I kept asking him for food, again and again… but he wouldn't answer.

So I stole money from his pocket.

When I came back with bread and goods, he snapped.

He raised his fist, tears in his eyes—

But his stone-hard hand slowly relaxed.

He knelt on the floor and sobbed.

I didn't know what to do.

I was just a kid.

That anger turned into sorrow… and then into something else.

Resolve.

His eyes—red, burning with everything he couldn't say—locked onto mine.

"Son," he told me,

"Don't ever be like me. I was too damn naive.

In this world, the only thing that matters is what you have… and what you're getting.

Take what you want.

Use people if you have to.

Get power. Get money. Get everything.

Or you'll end up like me."

I didn't understand it at the time.

But those words stuck with me—especially after he died.

With no one left, I joined a local gang.

We started small—petty theft, turf fights, intimidation.

Then the suits came. Big-time gangsters. Slick hair, nice coats, polished shoes.

They broke us up and absorbed us into their "businesses."

Half of us pushed drugs in the streets—turned people into addicts and husks.

The rest worked loans. Shark loans.

Our clients? Junkies, gamblers, desperate people.

We handed them cash—no questions asked.

But the ugly part came when it was time to collect.

That's where I came in.

We beat them.

We threatened them.

We made them pay.

Sometimes I'd step outside for a smoke—just for a moment—

while the others stayed behind, doing things I tried not to think about.

And in that silence, I'd feel it—

That…Emptiness..

I'd tell myself to man up.

To see it through.

To remember what my old man said:

"The only thing that matters is what you have, and what you're getting."

Years passed, and a new ruler rose to power in the capital—

and believe it or not, he was actually a decent guy.

He drove the gangs out, cleaned up the streets, and did his best to help the poor husks who'd been left behind.

Bad for business, of course—

but we had no choice but to adapt.

We laid low, scaled back the dirty work, and slowly transitioned into something more... legitimate.

Using the money we'd extorted over the years, we opened bars, gambling houses—

brick by brick, we built a new image across the capital.

Before long, we didn't need to do anything illegal at all.

Some of the big shots even made me a partial owner of a casino—

said it was thanks to my smarts.

I was pulling in hundreds of thousands daily.

I had the women, the power, the money—

everything I thought I wanted.

But it was still there.

That emptiness.

Perhaps this is just how things are.

Maybe I'll just enjoy the ride, then...

A year had passed.

Then it happened.

"No, no, no—shit, this can't be happening!"

Hallucinations. Mood swings. Delusions. Violent tendencies.

These were all signs of turning into a Decadent.

After everything—after all the things I did to get where I am now—am I just going to turn into a fucking monster?

I thought about ending it.

At least that way... it would be on my terms.

While standing at the bridge, I took a deep breath.

And I thought—

Maybe I deserve this.

I—I ruined the lives of so many people.

And in the moment I thought would be my last... I cried.

"I'm fucking disgusting," I whispered to myself.

And out of nowhere, this man in shades showed up—

with an eye like a goat's: slanted pupil, unnerving stare.

He told me he could help.

He was a Seeker—people with the ability to read minds and emotions.

At least... that's the best way I can describe their abilities.

With just one look, he saw everything. My thoughts. My fear. My disease.

And then, he offered me a "solution."

I didn't have a choice.

Either accept his offer…

…or turn into a Decadent and be executed by the Capital.

He introduced me to something called Tonics.

He said there's a secret lab that produces them—and maybe, just maybe, they could cure the miasma.

"It sounded like bullshit, of course. But the Tonics worked—they suppressed the symptoms. And I didn't have any other choice.

I joined his caravan.

But it didn't go smoothly.

During the escape from the Capital, we encountered guards.

Venturing outside without a permit is illegal, so a scuffle broke out.

Some of the survivors got shot.

Some died.

I got shot in the forearm—the bullet shattered the bone as I sprinted toward the abandoned mine that led out of the Capital.

I was bleeding badly.

Most of the guards gave up the chase...

Except one.

He kept coming.

He finally caught up to me, gun raised.

He pointed it at my back.

"Turn around."

But I was already near the exit.

"I'm almost there," I muttered.

"I'm not stopping now."

He stepped closer—steady, certain.

As he aimed, I flung the blood dripping from my arm into his face.

He flinched. The shot missed.

"I'm not stopping now!" I screamed, pouncing on him.

Adrenaline surged through me.

Fear clouded every rational thought.

I bit into his neck—

Blood sprayed everywhere.

I was like an animal. That was the first time I killed a man

Eventually, I caught up with the others.

My left forearm was dangling, broken beyond repair.

Maybe it was from blood loss, or shock, but I don't remember much after that.

When I woke up…

my arm was already Amputated.

And well… when I got in that caravan, my fate was sealed.

I was turned into a Huntsman—forced to fight Decadents.

Sometimes, I think maybe I should try to join the others…

Talk to my fellow laborers. Open up.

But something keeps holding me back.

The guilt of everything I've done—the lives I've ruined—keeps me from speaking to anyone.

"HOW LONG ARE YOU GONNA STAY ASLEEP?!" 

'What was that?'

Nula opened his eyes—to see Peeros fighting off Decadents.

Five of them.

'He's going to die… Five Decadents? That's insanity.

Just run, Peeros…'

He watched as Peeros got beaten, slammed, overwhelmed.

'He's not running.

At this rate… he's going to die.'

"Dammit… I gotta move."

Nula grabbed his armament and crept through the battlefield, eyes locked on the Finger Decadent.

He took a deep breath.

"My life was full of mistakes.

I've hurt a lot of people… ruined so many lives…"

He raised his cleaver—and sliced through the Decadent again and again, taking advantage of its distraction.

"Maybe my father was wrong…

Maybe it was his pain talking when he said those things."

He stomped on the Decadent's twitching body.

The sight of blood—its screams—reminded him of the soldier he killed.

The battlefield.

The fear.

All the people he hurt.

All the lives he shattered.

The emotions he had buried for so long finally rose to the surface.

"I... I need to make things right!" Nula proclaimed

He grabbed his blade once more and slashed into the regenerating Decadent.

Then, without hesitation, he dashed toward Peeros,

just moments before the other Decadents could land a finishing blow.

"You could've woken up earlier," Peeros muttered

"Sorry," Nula said calmly. "And… thank you." 

He stood, gripping his blade. A smirk touched his face.

"Now—didn't you say something about taking all five of their heads as trophies?"

He raised his weapon and pointed it at the Decadents.

The three Decadents glared at them, feral and unrelenting, while the Bat Decadent circled overhead like a vulture.

Peeros glanced sideways.

"So… while you were lying there, did you think of a plan to get us out of this?"

Nula stood up, gripping his weapon.

"Yeah. We fight like hell."

Peeros scoffed.

"Shit plan."