The rain in Aethelburg wasn't just water. It was a baptism of filth and despair, washing over the neon-drenched concrete and pooling in the gutters like liquid shadow. It tasted of ozone, pollution, and shattered dreams. For the citizens of The Dregs, it was the sound of their city breathing.
Tonight, it was a soundtrack for a hunt.
Elara's lungs burned, each ragged gasp a knife in her ribs. Her bare feet slapped against the grimy pavement, the tattered remnants of her shirt and trousers clinging to her skin like a second, colder layer of misery. The fabric was soaked, torn, and stained—a testament to her desperate flight.
Behind her, their laughter echoed through the labyrinthine alleyways, bouncing off brick walls slick with grime. It was a cruel, predatory sound that promised a suffering far worse than a simple death.
"Look at the little rat run!" one of them bellowed, his voice thick with sadistic glee.
"Nowhere to go, bitch! The Hand owns every shadow in this shithole city!" another crowed.
The Obsidian Hand.
Just the name was a curse. A name whispered in hushed, terrified tones. They were the landlords of fear, the collectors of souls. They had taken her brother, a journalist who had foolishly believed his pen was mightier than their blade. They had tortured him, broken him, and discarded his body like trash. All she had left was the data chip clutched in her fist—the evidence he had died for. And now, they were coming for her.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. Three of them. Hulking brutes with cruel smirks and the tell-tale obsidian ring on their pinky fingers—the mark of a "Knuckle," the lowest enforcers of the Hand. That was all it took to rule the lives of thousands.
Panic seized her. She took a sharp, blind turn, her body slamming into something solid.
It wasn't a wall.
It was a man.
The impact sent a jolt up her spine, and she stumbled back, landing hard on the wet, debris-strewn ground. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum of pure terror. She looked up, her wide, frightened blue eyes meeting… stillness.
The man was tall, impossibly so from her low angle. He was dressed in a simple, perfectly fitted black button-down shirt and black trousers that seemed to repel the city's grime. The rain slicked back his unruly black hair, but he seemed utterly unbothered by the downpour. His face was a sculpture of sharp, handsome lines, his expression one of mild, almost bored, annoyance. He held a phone in one hand, the screen glowing faintly in the gloom.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue, his voice a low, smooth baritone that cut through the noise of the rain. "This damned map... Is the 'Golden Dragon Pavilion' really this deep in the sewer?"
He was an outsider. No one from The Dregs dressed like that, spoke like that. He was a lamb who had wandered into a wolf's den.
Her pursuers rounded the corner, their jeering laughter stopping abruptly as they saw the scene. Their eyes raked over the newcomer, predatory gazes sizing him up.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" the leader sneered, cracking his knuckles. "A pretty boy in a suit. Lost, are we?"
The man in black finally lowered his phone, his gaze drifting from the device to the three thugs, and then down to the trembling girl on the ground. He took in her torn clothes, the fresh bruises on her arms, the sheer, undiluted terror in her eyes.
His brow furrowed slightly. "She seems to be in distress," he stated, his tone neutral, as if observing a curious phenomenon. He then looked directly at Elara, his voice softening just a fraction. "What did they do to you?"
The simple question broke her. A choked sob escaped her lips. "They... they killed my brother," she stammered, tears mixing with the rain on her cheeks. "He had evidence against them... The Obsidian Hand... I was trying to... to get away..." Her words dissolved into heart-wrenching sobs, the full weight of her grief and fear crashing down on her.
The air changed.
It wasn't a drop in temperature that could be measured. It was a fundamental shift in the atmosphere of the alley. The oppressive humidity was suddenly replaced by a cold so profound, so absolute, it felt like the heat had been ripped from existence. The rain itself seemed to fall slower, quieter.
The man in black, Kaelen, straightened to his full, imposing height. The bored indifference on his face vanished, replaced by an unnerving, predatory stillness.
And then, his eyes began to glow.
It started as a flicker, a glint of gold in the dark. But then it intensified, blooming into two pools of molten, radiant light. They weren't just bright; they were ancient, abyssal. It was the gaze of a primordial predator staring at insects.
The lead thug, who had been swaggering forward, froze mid-step. His bravado evaporated like steam on a winter morning. Every instinct in his body, every primal fiber passed down from ancestors who hid from things with sharp teeth in the dark, was screaming at him. Run. Flee. Danger. Apex. Death. The feeling was so overwhelming it made his bladder weak.
His two companions felt it too, their faces paling, their cruel smirks twisting into masks of confusion and dawning horror.
"What the fuck are your eyes...?" one of them stammered, his voice trembling.
The leader, driven by a foolish cocktail of pride and stupidity, tried to regain control. "Don't let him spook you! He's just one man! Fucking freak! I'll gouge those creepy eyes out myself!"
He roared and lifted his hand, a thick, meaty fist swinging towards Kaelen's face.
The motion was pathetically slow.
Kaelen didn't even seem to move. One moment the fist was flying, the next, his hand had shot up, catching the thug's wrist in an iron grip.
CRACK.
The sound was sickeningly loud, like a bundle of dry sticks being snapped in half. The thug's roar of rage turned into a high-pitched shriek of agony as his wrist bent at an impossible angle.
Kaelen's expression didn't change. His glowing eyes held the thug's terrified ones. "You shouldn't have done that."
Before the other two could even process what had happened, Kaelen moved. He wasn't just fast; he blurred. He spun, using the first thug's body as a bludgeon, slamming him into the second thug with enough force to shatter the brick wall behind them. A wet, crunching sound echoed as bones turned to powder and skulls cracked. Both men slumped to the ground, a grotesque, unmoving heap.
The third thug stared, his mind unable to compute the scene. His friends, his brutal, feared companions, had been neutralized in less than a second. He fumbled at his waist, pulling out a large combat knife. "Monster! You fucking monster!" he shrieked, charging forward in a blind panic.
Kaelen simply sighed, a sound of utter disappointment. He sidestepped the clumsy lunge, his hand chopping down on the man's extended arm. Not on the wrist, but the bicep.
It wasn't a chop. It was a cleaver.
The arm severed completely, flying through the air in a spray of crimson before slapping against the far wall and sliding down into a puddle.
The thug stared at his spurting stump, a gurgling, inhuman sound caught in his throat. His eyes, wide with shock and agony, met Kaelen's golden gaze one last time.
In that gaze, he saw not anger, but a vast, empty abyss. And then, nothing. His brain simply shut down from the overload of terror. He collapsed, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Silence descended, broken only by the gentle patter of the rain and Elara's hitched, terrified breaths.
The entire confrontation had lasted less than five seconds.
The few onlookers who had been watching from their windows or shadowy doorways, initially with pity for the girl and then with morbid curiosity, were now frozen in place. Their fear of the Obsidian Hand was a pillar of their existence. It was an unshakeable truth of their world. But they had just watched one man tear three of their enforcers apart like they were made of wet paper.
This wasn't a fight. It was an extermination.
The fear they felt for the Hand was being rapidly, violently replaced by a new, far more potent terror. A terror directed at the silent, god-like figure standing in the middle of the alley.
Kaelen paid them no mind. He casually shook a drop of blood from his knuckles and turned his attention back to the girl cowering on the ground. She was staring at him, her expression a mixture of awe, relief, and abject fear. He was her savior, but he was also the most terrifying thing she had ever seen.
He walked towards her, his footsteps silent. He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. The intense, golden glow in his eyes softened back to a low, warm glimmer.
He offered a hand, his voice calm and devoid of the previous killing intent.
"It seems my dinner plans will have to wait." His lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smirk. "Now... tell me everything about this Obsidian Hand."