Chapter 136: A New Hope's Dawn
Footsteps hammered the concrete in a rush. Too many. Water burst from shallow puddles as bodies tore through the back alley, four shapes colliding with walls and trash alike. A bin clattered over. A cat shrieked and vanished. Shoulders slammed brick. Hands shoved. Voices tangled.
Teenagers.
They shouted as they ran, half laughter, half panic, the balance tipped toward fear. They moved like kids who didn't know when to stop, clipping corners and wrecking the narrow space behind them. Thin auras bled off their bodies, faint but real, streaking color as they passed.
The maze finally gave way to a straight shot. Streetlight spilled ahead. Shoving and grabbing for the lead, a blond boy with bright green eyes burst from the alley grinning—then smashed chest-first into someone solid.
"Whoa!"
"Out of the way, ass—! Oh shit—I mean—oh god, I'm so sorry!"
He folded into a frantic bow even as the others piled into him, their snickers dying the instant they looked up and saw who stood there.
The man was tall, hair black and slicked back, posture relaxed. His eyes were kind. His mouth held the edge of a smile that never quite committed. The suit was clean, brown, modest in a way that felt deliberate. Not just some guy on the street. Of all the people they could have hit, it had to be him.
A dark-skinned kid with purple hair stared, eyes blown wide, then nearly choked.
"No way—my mom frickin' loves you, man—ooph!"
An elbow drove into his ribs. He laughed despite it, then bowed hard with the rest.
All four bent at the waist together.
"Good afternoon, Mayor—"
"Alright. Enough of that. Stand up, boys."
The man chuckled, hands light as he helped them straighten, brushing grime from their shoulders.
"There we go. Much better. Now—"
His gaze settled on them, calm and curious.
"What emergency has got you running like the city's on fire?"
The blond kid stepped forward, eyes locked on the man, rubbing the back of his neck.
"No emergency, sir. We just…we're running late."
"For?"
Snickers broke out behind him. Elbows jabbed ribs. Faces flushed. The answer was obvious, and the man read it without effort.
"You've got girls waiting on you."
That earned a chorus of shoves and embarrassed grins as they admitted it without saying the words.
The tallest of them, buzzed head, glasses sliding down his nose, checked his wrist and went pale.
"Movie starts in five!"
Panic hit all at once. Seeing it settle in, the man waved them forward, already clearing their path.
"Better move it. Never make a girl wait—they remember that stuff...forever. And watch where you're going. No more sprinting blind into traffic, alright?!"
They bolted, laughter spilling behind them as they dodged a pair of slow-rolling cars. Hands waved back. Voices overlapped. For a heartbeat, the city noise vanished beneath their excitement.
He watched them go, drew a steady breath, and held the smile a moment longer. Then it thinned, just slightly. Hands folded behind his back, he turned and kept walking.
Nods came easily. Greetings followed on instinct. He traded brief words as he moved along the clean concrete, stepping around planters and passing families without breaking stride. The street carried weight without crowding, busy and alive, but controlled.
Storefronts stretched in tidy rows. Cars rolled through intersections without horns or panic. Pedestrians flowed past one another without fear. Trash stayed in bins. Lawns held color. Faces held ease.
This mattered. Walking here mattered. Seeing it with his own eyes, hearing it breathe. These were his people. This was the fuel that kept him steady, that sharpened his resolve when harder choices demanded sacrifice.
At a corner, he stopped. Not hurried. Letting the buildings fill his view. Simple lines. Modest heights. More town than city, but it carried the same pressure, the same dreams packed into brick and glass. The same quiet hunger to keep going.
The sight settled into him. Restored something worn thin.
An engine purred at the curb. Black paint, polished to a mirror. A W mounted on the hood like a crown.
A man in a gray suit stepped out, middle-aged, glasses, thinning hair, the kind of face people trusted. He opened the rear door and bowed.
"Mr. Woon. Your meeting begins in twenty minutes."
"Thank you, Gill."
He dipped his head and slid into the car. The door closed. Gill circled and took the front seat.
As the vehicle pulled away, the Chairman of Woon Corporation watched the street for one final breath. Then he turned inward. The warmth drained from his eyes. The mask set hard.
"Are the contracts finalized?"
"Completed and reviewed multiple times. Every clause matches your specifications."
He leaned back as black fire crawled across his suit, charring it into something darker, something alive. From the bar beside him, he lifted a glass of brandy.
"If they're not, you'll be the first to die."
Gill's face blanched. He answered nothing. He'd spent forty-eight hours awake, rereading every line until the words bled together. He'd even passed copies to an intern to cross-check his conclusions, then killed her for knowing too much when she was done.
Outside, traffic flowed. Voices carried. People laughed, argued, lived. A city that should not exist. A place untouched by Shatterbay's rot. Clean. Stable. Whole.
----
Inside the dark chamber, a wide circular table of heavily carved wood dominated the space. Five chairs encircled it, four empty. One held Mr. Woon, seated with documents spread in his hands while Gill stood close behind, leaning in to indicate key passages with a trembling finger.
Minutes passed in low murmurs before a sharp chime cut through the room. The tone was clean but wrong, the kind that left a sour pressure behind the eyes. Gill jolted at the sound, sweat breaking loose and trailing down his temple. The Chairman did not react. He squared the papers, aligned their edges, and set them down with deliberate care.
The lights flickered.
Cold crept in fast. Breath fogged. From the chair to their right, black smoke poured upward, coiling and folding in on itself until it took shape. Horns emerged first. Then a humanoid outline. A wide white grin split the mass, teeth bright against the dark, no eyes above them. The thing turned toward the Chairman.
"Is everything prepared?"
The voice carried calm, warped by something deeper, like embers drowned in water.
At the sound of it, the Chairman felt a brief, hollow regret for Skaal'ar's absence, then set it aside. Work came first.
"Focus on your role. The others will arrive shortly. Silence would be appreciated until then."
Gill leaned forward, intending to whisper, but the smoke froze in place—and so did he.
"Do not interrupt."
The demonic smoke resumed its slow churn. Gill sucked in air and straightened, color draining from his face as sweat poured freely. He wasn't built for combat, but even at the high end of B-rank, the gulf in power crushed down on him instantly.
"Mr. Woon, hospitality would be wise. Our partnership nears its end. We should enjoy—"
"Again, quiet until the others arrive. There is no need for private conversation, Demon."
The grin stretched wider as the horned shadow leaned closer.
"I have taken a name. All will call me Blight."
Receiving no response, Blight leaned back, smile fixed. The lights dimmed once more. The demon's mouth spread further as its voice dropped.
"Finally. Worthwhile company."
Red lightning split the air. Dark green sludge frothed up. Thick pink vapor rolled outward. The remaining chairs began to fill.
To Mr. Woon's left, a thin giggle rose from the pink haze, breaking into a wet, hacking cough. Flesh assembled in stages, organs, veins, bone, muscle, until it settled into bloated, mottled skin. An obese female demon took form, six heavy breasts drawn backward, nipples crudely stitched into her spine. Her distended gut sagged low, skin torn with stretch marks and festering abscesses. The face above it was more boar than woman, sparse black hair braided down into coarse chest growth.
It was a violation given shape.
From the green ooze, a skeletal hand slapped onto the table and hauled itself upright. Horns crowned a skull locked in endless decay, bones knitting and sloughing off in a constant cycle of growth and rot. Green light burned inside its empty sockets as it settled into its seat.
Last came the lightning. It collapsed inward, compressing into a single red sphere. From the shadow around it, a hand closed tight, and the demon stepped fully into the room. Chains wrapped every inch of its body, barbed links crawling and shifting like living metal. Despite the mass of iron, it moved in near silence, broken only by the occasional crack of electricity bleeding out from within.
The swollen demon claimed the floor first, her voice slick and foul, like vomit poured into the ear.
"Who is he? And where's Skaal'ar?"
Auras flared in response, pressure rolling outward as each new arrival turned on Blight. Before the Chairman could answer, the thing of bone and rot spoke, its voice layered with the sound of drowning throats.
"Skaal'ar is dead. That is his offspring. Unnamed."
"Dead?!"
A meaty fist slammed down. Sweat and pus burst free, splattering across the table's carved surface.
"How?!"
Black smoke curled and answered.
"That matter will be addressed later. Know only that I now assume his obligations. And your intelligence is outdated, Stagnant King. You will address me as Blight."
The skeletal demon clicked its jaw, green light swelling in its sockets, then sparks erupted as the chained figure's maw yawned open, the sound of it tearing like a saw through steel.
"My tolerance is exhausted. Continue the transaction. Or provide entertainment."
Shifts followed. Subtle. Predatory. Each demon reassessed, measuring weight, threat, hierarchy. Behind the Chairman, Gill locked his muscles and willed himself invisible, afraid even breath might draw notice.
The only human at the table, Mr. Woon's composure held. A slow inhale. Then the Chairman leaned forward.
"The contracts are ratified. Stagnant King. Mistress Grogh. The Bound. Blight. Your signatures are required."
Documents slid across the wood, one set placed before each demon, another left waiting at the center. He settled back, pulse hammering under control forced into obedience.
Taking his copy, Blight read, his pale grin widening as pages turned. When he finished, the papers lowered. A quill bled into existence in his grasp, scratching once across the page.
"No objections."
Mistress Grogh snorted and hawked onto the page. The spittle spread, blackened, then thickened into a mark as her name finished forming at the bottom.
"Clever humans taste like filth. You must be rancid."
A polite smile from Mr. Woon followed as attention shifted down the table. The skeletal figure was already signing, the pen floating, guided by force rather than fingers.
"Did the shard-slave behind you draft this. I must borrow him one day."
Gill nearly folded. The Stagnant King's gaze stripped him to meat and marrow. Relief hit so hard it bordered on worship when a hand rose between them.
"That will not happen. He would not survive your use."
Bones clicked—then metal ground. Lightning screamed. The room flushed red as current ripped through the air, snapping and tearing until it collapsed into a single burning arc that scorched a signature into the paper.
The corpse-thing laughed. So did the bloated woman, eyes shining as she tore free another scab and chewed on it.
"Don't feed him the thrill. He outplayed us all."
Mr. Woon's expression stayed even...but presence deepened. Darkness swelled outward, swallowing the corners of the room.
"You all knew contracts cannot be used against me. You shouldn't have even tried. As a courtesy between partners, understand this now: when this arrangement concludes, any attempt to move against me, directly or otherwise, will end with your return to the Maw. You may pursue your ambitions freely—elsewhere."
Each demon reacted differently. Tension. Amusement. Calculation. None spoke.
Except Blight.
"Threats are wasteful. And unwise. Our interests extend beyond your borders. Beings of our tier concern themselves only with Kings."
Praise and insult shared the same breath. Grins spread among the demons. The Chairman remained still, but inside, the truth settled without protest. King was a summit he could not reach. Not without tearing down everything he had built.
Gesturing toward the document at the table's center, Mr. Woon let his gaze travel across each presence before he spoke.
"This is the final draft. Every one of you will sign. From this point forward, our souls are linked for the term of the agreement. Injury to one echoes to all. Death carries the same consequence."
The contract passed from hand to claw to smoke, each line studied with predatory care. No haste. No trust. When the last mark settled, the parchment slid back across the table. The Bound leaned forward, eyes crackling, chains shifting as metal drew itself into something like a smile.
"Satisfy the opening clause. Explain your purpose, human. And disclose your weakness."
It had been non-negotiable. Every demon had demanded it. Motivation and vulnerability, laid bare. He'd forced the order of operations in his favor, ink before confession, but the demand itself had never been optional. Truth was the price.
A small gesture summoned Gill. The man startled, nearly dropping the device pressed into his hand as light bloomed over the table. A city took shape in the air, vast and orderly...alive. Clean streets. Structured flow. A place that breathed without violence.
"New Hope. This is the reason. For every step I've taken. Everything I've burned. I built it to protect this place. Something I can no longer do on my own."
Reactions fractured along familiar lines. Calculation from some. Indifference from others. Mistress Grogh and The Bound leaned in closest, hunger plain in the way they studied the projection.
Grogh turned toward him, mucus trailing as she grinned.
"You hide behind a blind?"
For a fraction of a second, surprise broke through. Not fear—respect. The glutton had followed the trail faster than expected.
"I found it by accident in my youth. And I used it to raise New Hope. Fed my city with Shatterbay's refuse. My intent was to endure until S Rank..."
The Bound spoke next.
"But the Blind is degrading."
For the first time since the meeting began, something slipped. Just barely. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, gone as soon as it appeared.
Blight's smile spread, slow and knowing. He'd learned every detail in his father's insides long ago, but hearing the Chairman admit it face to face carried its own satisfaction.
A small gesture dismissed Gill, the hologram collapsing into nothing.
"Now you understand. My clock has expired. You will help me advance, and when it's done, you may walk the world. Shatterbay's remains are yours when you depart. Think of it as a farewell indulgence."
Grogh snorted, folds of flesh shuddering.
"The rite leaves nothing behind. Hollow promises."
Smoke curled as Blight inclined his head, amusement thick in the air.
"Users adapt. A few will survive by accident or spite. Enough to make our arrival entertaining. Imagine the Lords' reaction—four Warlords slipping the Maw at once. Do they laugh, or do they bare their teeth?"
Laughter tore through the chamber, harsh and layered. The humans didn't share it. The Chairman didn't bother pretending to care.
The machinery was set. Every piece had started to turn.
From the very beginning, one certainty had steadied him, quieted every doubt.
This was all for them. All for New Hope. Even if it meant wagering his soul, and dragging everyone in Shatterbay down with it.