Aleks Kotov
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Vol 8, Chapter 12
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 08:22:00 +0000 UTCThe Moscow Ripper — that was the simple nickname given to this serial killer.
For more than a year now, bodies had been found in and around the city. Some were drained of all blood, others had their hearts cut out. Still others bore strange, unknown symbols and carvings on their skin. There was no pattern to the attacks, not even a single method of killing. But one detail always appeared in the cases: a scalpel.
The number of missing persons suggested that the discovered bodies were only a small fraction of all the victims, yet the killer had never once been caught on camera, already a strange fact in a city practically drowning in surveillance… so strange, in fact, that the internet had branded him a demon and attributed paranormal powers to him. Although, really, what was so paranormal about it when most of the cameras were perpetually broken? With prisons packed to the brim, the government found it unprofitable to repair them. The more that slipped past their eyes, the more they could ignore. Petty thefts, muggings, everyday hooliganism — such trifles, especially when those on high were waging their sluggish war with the corporations for even a shred of lost power.
"What do you say? The way he cuts out hearts... Looks like an attempt to reach out to the Abyss, doesn't it" I ask Astarot while scrolling through victim photos on the boards. The damned censorship kept me from seeing the carved signs, but even so, my intuition screamed that coincidences like this didn't exist. I'd be very surprised if my deputy had nothing to do with it.
"Recte," the demon agreed. "But I don't think he succeeded. We cannot stand worlds without magic. The heart of an ordinary mortal, even though it is the vitalis centrum, is for us no more than a stale crust of bread. No one would waste power to enter this world for that. Even if he cuts out a hundred, it will still be useless."
With a sigh, I closed the uni and started surveying the park. Somewhere here, a body had been found today. Nearly bare trees and tons of fallen leaves that nobody bothered to remove, covering all the paths in orange-yellow, rustling layers. Of course, we'd send cleaning robots to the main streets so the sidewalks by city hall gleamed, but the park… Who cared about the park? Heaven forbid those delicate machines break down from leaves; they cost a fortune.
A quick glance at a streetlight pole. The glass was shattered, and where a camera should've been, exposed wires poked out.
And this was, damn it, one of the more respectable cities in the country.
Crunch, crunch, the leaves rustled under my feet as I circled the park.
"Do you smell it?" the demon suddenly asked.
I sniffed the air and nodded.
"Blood."
I turned off the path into the depths of the park. A few dozen steps later, my sneaker sank into deep ruts that had torn through the park: tracks from a police armored vehicle. It seemed this maniac had seriously rattled the local authorities.
Drops of blood on leaves, bushes, and trees. Already dried and blackened. The killing had happened right here, and the butchering too; far too much blood for anything else. I'd even say the work wasn't done carefully, as if in a rush.
"Interesting," the demon remarked.
"Mmm?"
"I can sense the trail. He carried the vitalis centrum away with him. I can find where, but only on one condition… you don't make me read anything until the end of the week."
"Until the end of the day."
"Assentior. Let's go," the demon exclaimed gleefully.
The trail wound through courtyards and entryways, skirting every functioning camera with care. With every hundred meters, trash piled higher, buildings grew more decrepit, and the landscape drearier. Half-hearted attempts at greenery: broken sticks jutting out of trampled flowerbeds. Only weeds still forced their way through faded cellophane wrappers. From time to time, people appeared, fitting the district perfectly. Tracksuits, sunflower seeds, cheap booze bottles. Sullen faces watched me with suspicion, but no one dared to interfere, maybe it was my determined stride that discouraged them.
The last housing block faded behind me. Ahead lay only an empty lot — well, the future site of construction begun long ago but apparently never to be finished. The fences had been dismantled to make shortcuts easier, the project passport trampled into the mud. A dump.
"We're close now. Somewhere in those buildings."
"Those aren't buildings, they're garages," I muttered tiredly.
Right after the dump stretched rows of rusty boxes, haphazardly welded from sheets of metal. In a fuel drum, a smoky fire burned. Probably not for warmth… more likely to burn evidence, since I could see clothes inside. Nearby, a few tattooed men were openly dismantling a Tesla X20, and I strongly doubted it was theirs. The batteries already lay to the side, the hood crudely torn apart. On spotting me, they stopped. The bigger, taller one wiped his hands on a filthy rag and headed toward me. His shorter friend hesitated, but eventually picked up a crowbar and joined him.
Snorting, I walked to meet them.
We were practically on the very edge of the city. The police almost never came here, and I'd swear the locals would be glad if it stayed that way. At least, this particular pair of locals blocking my path certainly would.
"Did you come here for your car?" the first one asked, folding his muscular arms across his chest.
"Nah. I've got no business with you."
"Then what are you snooping around here for? Get lost!" his squeaky little friend piped up.
With a sigh, I opened the bag and pulled out a bottle.
"Here's the deal — I suggest we settle this peacefully. Just so happens I've got two bottles of good booze with me, one for each of you. I give them to you, and we go our separate ways. You keep doing your thing, and I keep doing mine."
"Heh. You got any cash?"
"Maybe a hundred or two credits if you answer whether you've seen a suspicious guy around here."
"Nah, you don't get it." He smirked. "You just hand over the cash and get the hell out."
"God knows, I tried."
In one motion I shifted my grip on the bottle to the neck and lunged. The thick bottom slammed deep into his throat. The thug clutched his neck reflexively, exposing his head. Swing!
The bottle smashed into his temple. For a long moment it was unclear which was tougher, his skull or the glass, until the sharp crack rang out. The bottle shattered into shards, and aromatic liquor drenched his filthy vest. The unlucky car thief collapsed like a felled tree.
I pulled the second bottle from the bag and turned toward his friend.
He glanced uncertainly at the crowbar in his hands, then back at me. I took a step forward. His eyes darted in panic, trying to decide whether the crowbar gave him any advantage. Another step.
With a shriek, he dropped the tool and bolted.
A short swing, and the bottle flew after him. A dull crack against his skull, a fall. This time, the bottle didn't break.
Looks like the back of his head wasn't quite as tough.
I picked up the crowbar and headed for the garages.
"This one," Astarot announced.
"Hm, I don't feel anything."
"Of course not, you don't have the Gift."
I eyed the target doubtfully. Just another garage, built from thick metal sheets. Red paint peeled with age, rust blotched the surface. Only the heavy padlock looked new. Otherwise — nothing unusual. No ominous aura, though… I sniffed the air. Amid the stink of garbage, sharp reek of gasoline and synthetic oil, faint whiff of excrement and the fresh aroma of brandy, there it was: the smell of blood.
Alright, time to begin.
I gripped the crowbar with both hands and jammed it into the narrow gap between door and frame. Clang, screech. The door refused to give.
"Claws would be faster."
"Fair enough," I agreed, aiming at the hinges temptingly exposed on the outside.
One strike tore through metal with a screech. The second ripped the hinge clean out, like a rotten tooth. Shoddy material; even standard infantry armor was stronger. Two more blows and the door sagged on its lock, letting me peer inside. Darkness.
I pulled out my uni and switched on the light.
The beam revealed several bloodstained tables, shelves stacked with jars of organs and blood, a few empty syringes, a quietly humming refrigerator in the corner… and a bloody hexagram in the center of the garage.
The design was entirely classic for Kingdom ritualists. A ring of runic symbols around it was meant to ease the flow of energy. At the intersections of the lines lay bloodstains, proof that organs had once been placed there. The focal center of the hexagram was covered in symbols — experimental work, but the evidence was clear. Even in another world, Randall hadn't abandoned his habits.
"Well, just what I feared," I muttered, kneeling before the ritual circle. I ran a finger along the lines.
The blood was still fresh. Fresh enough to smear my fingertip.
Considering the dampness of the garage, it couldn't have been drawn more than an hour ago. We'd just missed him.
I stood and opened the refrigerator. Inside was a neat row of hearts, each sealed in plastic. I touched one with a claw. Cold.
"It's full of power. Strange. Shouldn't the ritual have drained it?" the demon remarked.
"It could have, if a mage had performed it. Randall has no Gift, no magical reagents to substitute for a Source. He doesn't even have a demon to help channel life force. Put simply, he's got no tools. All he can do with just theory is draw pretty pictures in blood… Hey!" I shouted at the demon as the hearts began to shrivel and darken.
"What? The power in this room… It's almost enough to bring you back. Finish off one of those outside, and we can return right now."
"Before that, we need a thorough talk with the Ripper."
The refrigerator began to emit an annoying beep, hinting that it would be a good idea to shut the door. By the way, if there was electricity here, then there had to be light as well. Ah, there — a switch on the wall by the entrance.
"But before that, let's look this place over carefully… Maybe we'll find some clues to where he might be hiding."
I folded the uni and groped for the switch. Click.
The bulb flared up and instantly died. My ears rang with a deafening blast, my chest seared by hot air. Impact! My spine hit the iron door. The shockwave hurled me outside and dragged me along the ground. The garage roof unfurled like a flower, a wave of fire rising from within. Flames shot out of the doors too. So much for looking for evidence. Good thing I hadn't flicked the switch immediately.
Well done, Randall, you've learned how to use explosives.
Groaning, I got to my feet. My chest ached as though a bull had rammed it. My synthetic shirt was melted, and underneath — black scales. My hands flew to my head, checking for horns. No, all normal. Except that instead of baldness my fingers found a short bristle of hair. An interesting effect.
"I had to spend some of my strength. Even the lives of those two weren't enough; I'll have to drink the soul of one of them. By the way, look — one's already coming to."
I turned. The muscular guy in the vest was sitting on the ground, bulging his eyes at the fire. Hm. Sitting that close wasn't a good idea; a stray spark could reach him, and he was soaked in brandy.
Beep-beep. The uni flickered back to life. I pulled it out and grimaced — the screen was covered in stripes. Still, working was good enough. I'd buy a new one later.
A new message from (Yana).
"He's back."
So we'd missed him by just a bit. A pity. I wouldn't have minded talking to him here in the back alleys. No cameras, no witnesses. Speaking of witnesses… and the fact I was strutting around with black scales across half my torso…
"Hey!" I called to the man. "You got spare clothes?"
***
The day that had begun in a dump was predictably ending in one. I just hadn't expected the dump to be my own home.
The automatic door obediently beeped, accepted the alphanumeric code, and slid open. Or rather, tried to. The mechanism jammed. After a few convulsive jerks, it froze, leaving only a narrow gap for me to squeeze through.
I pushed inside and peeked behind the door. Several trash bags stuffed full of instant noodle wrappers blocked it.
"You son of a bitch, what did you do to my place?" I muttered under my breath as I crept deeper inside. Plastic crunched underfoot. My poor parquet… The stench barely pushed through the dense smell of incense. So thick that a bluish haze hung in the air.
I slipped past the kitchen, now roach territory, and stepped into the living room.
The trophy shelves were buried in dust, my VR suit and helmet lay tossed in a corner, reeking of stale sweat. At least he hadn't thrown them away… Two monitors were turned to the wall, at least two more smashed. On the table: half-eaten noodles and a mountain of syringes. The chair slashed with a knife in some fit of rage, though the one who had done it now looked perfectly serene.
The stranger inhabiting my body sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, muttering mantras under his breath. His head — my head — was wrapped in layers of kitchen foil. His eyes were bound with a runic band, incense burning all around, exuding suffocating smoke. And something told me this incense wasn't bought at a pharmacy.
"I feel it, I feel her! Magic is returning! Such tiny traces, the scent of leaves! Stonehenge! I must go to Stonehenge!"
"There is no magic in my world. You're insane," I said, leaning against the doorway with my arms folded.
"Who's there? Great One? You answered my call⁉ I promise hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of sacrifices — just grant me power!" he cried hysterically.
"Open your eyes, idiot." I snapped my fingers.
He tore the cloth from his face.
"D-emon?" he stammered.
"A little."
"How did you get in here?" he asked nervously, glancing around.
"I used the backup password."
He laughed.
"I should've guessed, realized you wouldn't leave me alone. You reek of my explosives. Surprising you survived."
"I'm surprised you smelled it through the stench. By the way, nice explosives. What did you use?" I asked cheerfully.
"You destroyed my laboratory and want to have a chat?"
"Why not? We've got plenty of time. You're not going anywhere now. By the way…"
I pointed a clawed hand at his foil hat.
"Didn't my memories tell you — that's just conspiracy nonsense?"
"Why should I trust your memories? You're just a talentless peasant, a worthless wretch, trash! What could you possibly know of magic, of the great and subtle art of magic?"
"I suppose I know everything you know."
He grimaced, then nodded.
"Fine, let's talk. What do you want?"
"To begin with, I want to know what your teacher is planning."
"Which one? I had many teachers. For example, Baron Clemen. How's he doing, by the way?"
"Not at all. He burst from his own arrogance."
"Pity, pity… But I won't shed any tears for him." He chuckled and rose from the floor.
"You know I meant Dastan. Let me be clear — what I want to know is how exactly he intends to destroy the world."
"Ah, that. And why do you need to know?"
"What do you mean, why, idiot? To stop him, of course."
"Why stop him? You're here now. In your native world, and possessed, as I can see. Which means you have access to magic, even if limited. Let that other world slide into the void. Together, we can conquer this one!"
I raised an eyebrow in surprise, but Randall was already rambling.
"You know, when I woke up — it was a real nightmare. Even with your memories it was terribly hard to make sense of everything… And then someone from the Golden Dragon called me right away, asking why I was late…"
His complaints made me smile.
"Pfft. Some problem. Think it was easy for me? I woke up in a ritual circle with a demon being forced into me. The ritual went wrong, and Clemen tried to get rid of me. Tell me, did anything like that threaten you here?"
"They locked me up among cattle," he hissed. "They deprived me of magic. That is a hundred, a million times worse. I always hated my weak Gift, but now… Now I'd sacrifice anything to become even an apprentice. That bastard… Samael! He took everything from me, everything! I wrote to him through your device, but all I heard back was an offer to play — and then he'd return my magic. If I could win, of course. I thought I could. You had beaten him, and your skills had become mine. The body's reflexes stayed the same, and all your tactics and strategies were there for me. But I lost. Again. And again. No matter how much I trained, I couldn't beat him. Why did I lose? What was I missing? I chased him through every tournament, from world to local. Second place. That's all I ever got…"
"I'd say you forgot about the team."
"Tsk." He clicked his tongue in irritation. "Fans are already writing romantic fanfics about the two of us. The media won't stop buzzing about the obsession of the former champion… I'm offering you a deal. I'll tell you everything. Absolutely everything. But first, help me win."
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully.
So this bastard had been calmly playing games, tossing me into another world, and at the same time humiliating my body! Sounds like a strong reason to be furious… but honestly, I couldn't care less.
"That's all you want? Magic?"
"Yes! If I become the only mage, do you know what kind of power that will give me? I'll be king of this world!"
"More likely you'll end up in a mental hospital," I replied skeptically, raising an eyebrow. "I've seen what you did to get magic. How many have you killed?"
"I was locked here with all this talentless cattle, without a drop of magic! What else could I do but turn to demons?"
"For example, just live?" I suggested.
He brushed the argument away like a fly. I noticed his hand was terribly thin. What a wreck he'd made of my body…
"Live? Life without magic is not life, it's mere existence. The unGifted are cattle, and I'm ready to sacrifice millions of cattle if it brings benefit. You don't understand my torment. You don't know what it's like to stop being a mage. To know that magic exists, but have no way to touch it."
"Technically — I do know. And you know what? To hell with magic. It's just a tool," I countered.
"Pff. The thinking of rabble! Magic is art."
"You know what, let's cut this crap. Even now I think my home world is better, even if… with its many flaws."
He froze as if he'd slammed into an invisible wall.
"B-better?"
I nodded, which sent him into a rage.
"Then tell me, what makes this world better?" he shouted hysterically. "Corporations rule everything, those unlucky enough not to be born with a silver spoon scavenge through garbage! This world deserves ruin even more than mine! You know it, don't deny it! That's why you always disappeared to those reenactor gatherings, the nineteenth century, 'the good old days when honor still mattered'! Those were your words! Remember, I know everything about you! Everything!"
He jabbed a finger at his head… my head.
"You're right, I did say that," I admitted. "And more than that, I don't take those words back. My world is a damn trash heap. However… I lived a year and a half in your world, and I'm ready to conclude that it was, and still is in many ways… even worse. At least outside my county."
"You're lying. Lying! Mocking me!" he twitched nervously.
"I've no reason to lie. Your world is literally the quintessence of what I can't stand. In ours, the rich bastards at least don't physically differ from common folk, but in yours they're literally superhuman. Luckily, that doesn't save them much from bullets."
"If my world is so bad, then why save it?" Randall asked.
"Because it can be fixed. You only need to overthrow the monarchy and balance power between commoners and mages. With technology, of course."
"You're no less a madman than Dastan. That's impossible."
"It's doable, but only if the King doesn't pull anything."
"The King? Robert?" Randall clarified.
"No. He's dead. Dastan is king now."
"So Dastan killed him after all. A shame. I wanted to kill that traitor myself, that betrayer who ruined my whole life!"
"Before his death, he was starting to change," I added, but Randall didn't want to discuss it.
"I don't care." He waved it off. "By the way, since Dastan is already king, you'd better hurry. Now he has enough tools to put his plan into motion. My terms are clear: help me defeat Samael."
"Maybe I will. But first answer one small question…" I lowered my voice. "Where. Is. My. Mother?"
He raised his hands, and I saw they were covered with marks from injections.
"Listen… I'll try to explain, but stand still, don't move. I was desperate. Almost all my knowledge was completely useless. There are no alchemical herbs here, nothing magical! Everything I ordered online turned out fake! And my Gift, my Gift simply vanished! I writhed in despair for months... until I realized. The Abyss. It exists beyond worlds, you only need to reach it. Reach it through ritual sacrifices. A sacrifice of someone truly valuable was required, but all your… our friends were too well-known. Their disappearance would spark investigations. So I used the mother. Our mother. The public barely knew about her. I admit, it was hard for me too. I never knew what it meant to have a loving mother…"
"And you killed her for a phantom chance at magic," I cut him off coldly, barely holding back my rage.
"THAT SACRIFICE SHOULD HAVE WORKED!" he screamed.
"You wanted me to fight Samael… Just one question. What makes you think I hate him?"
"What?" he asked, stunned, thrown by the sudden turn in the conversation.
"I admit, at first I wanted revenge. He'd dumped me into such a hellhole… But… day after day, month after month, the longer I lived in your world, the more my hatred dissolved. Now I understand: he gave me what I truly wanted. What I desired deep down. Whether he did it on purpose or not doesn't matter. Moreover… I now understand that he gave you too what you truly wanted in the depths of your black soul."
"What nonsense are you spouting?" he cried, pressing into the corner.
"You had a chance to start a new life. You got my life, and not a bad one. You had my friends, my mother. Your friends. Your loving mother… But you didn't appreciate it. You had a second chance. You didn't use it… and you never will." My voice turned into a growl. This was a verdict.
"You won't kill me! You need information!"
"I do. That's why I'll rip it out of you along with your soul."
I had barely stepped forward when something struck hard into my side. Clang. The scalpel, bent from the strike, clattered away.
"Right in the liver. A nice try... But now it's my turn."
Comments
Johan Timmers
tftc
Robert King
RIP the loving mother :(
