The city of Babel was the last human stronghold, named after the mythical metropolis where a tower to reach communion with God was built. Much like its mythical counterpart, this modern city also had a tower at its epicenter. Yet, unlike the ancient structure, this new tower was never intended to reach the divine. Instead, it served as a precaution to keep humans away from the demons rummaging below.

Countless men sought to enter the sanctity of the floating city, but there was only so much space on board. Those who were denied entry settled below, and in the span of fifty years, a neon metropolis with a population of over thirty million residents was built. The city of Lower Babel, the city of contractors.

A filthy skyline blistered with countless advertisements, billboards, and neon signs—­a place where human depravity was given free rein to manifest itself. A domain largely ruled by contractors and their propensity for "evil."

Countless crowds could be seen scouring the city at all times: people wandering aimlessly, going to work at their mundane jobs, or committing something dubious. Inside one of these crowds, a certain man traversed the city—a man who didn't quite belong to any of these categories.

At first glance, he didn't stand out. He wasn't particularly tall, boasting a height only slightly above average. Nor was he especially handsome, his face adorned by a short, scruffy beard, and his left eye covered by a black leather eyepatch with a hideous scar barely peeking through. His only real defining feature was his salt-and-pepper hair, loosely tied behind his head. He walked the streets with a certain lighthearted slouch in his stride, lazy and careless. Those with insight could easily tell that only those of considerable strength could afford to be at ease within the city of Lower Babel.

The mysterious man walked carelessly through the city, periodically staring up into the sky, looking at the almost full moon with a blank expression.

Eventually, he reached a rundown bar hidden from the public eye inside a small alleyway, a buffer between two mega-buildings—­a place that was, without a doubt, built with certain shady purposes in mind.

The bar had several large blackened windows in front, with a small wooden doorway in between. It was topped with a large neon sign in the shape of a pistol. "Gun-barrel," the sign read.

The man made his way into the bar, looking around as he went inside. A thick smoke permeated the air—a heavy smog of burnt tobacco. Most of the people seated appeared to be illegal residents and vagrants, shady-looking individuals, men covered in tribal tattoos with prosthetic mechanical arms and legs, loaded head to toe with deadly weapons.

In the back of the bar stood a barkeeper dressed in a white buttoned shirt and a black vest. A barely visible dark-purple bruise poked out on his neck from under his shirt. He stood calmly, cleaning a glass, squinting his right eye in distrust as he watched the approaching stranger.

The man sat down on the barstool closest to the barkeeper. "Iron-plated," he noted to himself after inspecting the counter.

"Hey, barkeep, I'd like a double scotch on the rocks," he said, leaning forward with a strange, unnatural, almost creepy smile.

"We're out of ice," the barkeeper responded.

"Plain is fine too, I guess," the man replied.

The barkeeper backed away, grabbed a bottle off the shelf behind him, and poured a sloppy glass.

"So hey, you wouldn't know anyone looking for work?" the mysterious figure asked with the same nerve-racking smile, holding his chin with his mechanical prosthetic left hand.

The barkeeper slammed his palms on the counter, looking the figure directly in the eye, inspecting him as if he were a timeless artwork, an aged bottle of wine, a splendid tool. The man continued smiling, and the barkeeper suddenly turned away.

"I think you should leave," the barkeeper said with a worried expression.

The atmosphere inside the bar shifted in an instant. As the figure peeked backward, he could see the other customers eyeing him intensely, watching for his next move while grasping at their firearms. The barkeeper, too, stumbled for a bit. His expression grew rather stressed. He appeared to move his hand below the counter, as if to grab something. The mysterious figure took note of this. For a brief moment, his gaze turned confident.

"I come in peace. I'm here to offer some work," the man shouted, demonstratively raising both of his hands in the air. "I promise I can make it worth your time," he continued with a slight grin.

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"What are you looking for?" the barkeeper sighed.

"Phoenix!" the man responded and slammed his right hand down on the bar, leaning in closer to the barkeeper.

"You should leave if you think that life of yours has any value!" the barkeeper glared at the man.

The bar fell silent, overcome by an intense, eerie atmosphere. The cigarette smoke stretched wide across the room in a single, consistent veil, forcing its way into every little nook and cranny before being parted by the breath of those inside.

"Hey, barkeep!" the man screamed out enthusiastically before downing his drink.

"Yeah…" the barkeeper responded, but before he could finish, the mysterious figure pulled out an energy blade from under his coat and cleaved the barkeeper's head clean off in one fell swoop.

"What gives you the right to give me advice, you disgusting parasite?!" the man screamed with a psychotic smile and a pissed-off tone.

As the head dropped to the floor, seven slimy tentacles sprouted from it, wiggling in all directions.

The man turned around, seeing the other visitors grasping their weapons. He picked the head up by the tentacles. "See, I told you he was a parasite," he shouted, waving the head in front of the armed vagrants.

"Help me, you idiots!" the barkeeper's head suddenly screamed.

Without delay, the armed men opened fire, forcing the figure to dive out of the way, hiding behind the iron-plated counter. He covered his head as bullets flew past, ricocheting in every direction. As the oncoming fire paused, he pulled out his pistol and fired back from over the counter. This, however, had little effect against the group of armed vagrants gunning for his life.

Seemingly out of options, the figure tied the barkeeper's head directly to his belt using the tentacles as makeshift straps, and shouted, "Ordinus, requesting level 1 limiter release!"

"Denied, no demonic energy detected in your surroundings," a robotic voice replied.

The man sighed. "Ordinus, please!" he pleaded, clasping both of his hands.

"Denied," Ordinus responded in monotone.

"Fine, I guess I'll do this the old-fashioned way," the figure said, grabbing the double-barrel shotgun from under the bar and proceeding to saw off its end with his energy blade.

"Here we go," the man sighed, grinning widely before jumping out from behind the bar with his new shotgun in one hand and his trusty pistol in the other.

"Boom!" he called out, firing the first shot and hitting one of his attackers directly in the chest, before quickly reloading and firing a second shot into the group of armed men.

The figure appeared almost stationary. However, whatever minimal movements he made were enough to avoid most of the bullets coming his way.

It was akin to a dance—a trance that enveloped both sides of the party. One against many, an intricate game of precision filled with interlocking feints and gestures of desperation. As bullets rained, a certain rhythm could be felt—­a captivating flamenco of marksmen that the figure was, without a doubt, leading. The smoke subsided; it was blasted aside by the strong odor of gunpowder.

"Almost got me." The man tilted his head, barely dodging a bullet. It made contact with his cheek, grazing it slightly and leaving a large gash right under his eyepatch. He paid almost no mind to it. There was no concern on his face, only a sick, maniacal smile and a bestial, entranced gaze.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, the bar was flooded with flames. A shadowy silhouette of a masked attacker could be seen standing outside, firing magic into it.

"Ordinus," said the man, narrowly hiding from the fire behind a wooden table.

"Demonic energy detected, limiter lowered by 1 level," the robotic voice replied.

Blue sparks emerged, scattering around the bar and covering it in a strange, hypnotic veil. The wound on his face, left by the passing bullet, began to close and shrivel away into nothingness.

The interior of the bar exploded once more. However, this time, it lit up in a captivating blue light. Before long, the man calmly emerged from the door, staring the masked attacker directly in the eyes.

In a flash, he vanished, only to appear standing directly behind his masked adversary. He grabbed him by the neck and slowly whispered in his ear, "Little piggy," wearing an even more sadistic expression.

Some time later, the Knights arrived, arresting and detaining everyone involved in the den of illegal contractors. A certain person stepped out of the patrol vehicle. He was tall and lanky, wearing a suit and square glasses that matched the shape of his face. This was none other than Senior Squad Leader Timothy Matsuhide.

"This was a perfectly good lead that you just went ahead and screwed up. You were going undercover for a reason!" Timothy shouted, scolding the man. "Sometimes I wonder what the director even sees in a mad demon like you," he continued before letting out a tired sigh.

The man threw the barkeeper's severed head to Timothy before walking away. "Always ask the barkeeps. You might be surprised by how well they know their liquor."

"Damn psychopath," Timothy whispered under his breath.

The man left with no further delay, sinking into another nameless crowd of this godforsaken city.

There were many rumors out on the streets concerning the man. No one knew his real identity; he was called by many names. But to those who knew him, he was simply known as X, the special-grade investigator.

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