The night was thick with fog, the kind that rolled in from the sea and muffled the city's noise. Vallur's docks lay shrouded in mist, lanterns glowing faintly like dying stars. Ships creaked against the waves, their ropes groaning. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled midnight.
Arjun stood with Ratan's crew beside a stack of crates, his hand gripping the iron rod that had become his weapon of choice. His breath came steady, his eyes fixed on the shadows ahead.
This was no errand. This was business.
A deal had been arranged with a merchant from the south—contraband, weapons meant for rebels across the sea. The cargo was valuable, the payment heavy in silver. But Ratan's voice had been low when he briefed his men earlier:
"There's a rat among us. Someone's been whispering to the rival gangs. Tonight we find out who."
Arjun had listened, silent as always, his heart thrumming. Betrayal. It was inevitable in Vallur, a city built on greed. But the way Ratan had said it, the sharpness in his gaze—it was clear blood would be spilled before dawn.
The merchant arrived with his men, cloaked figures carrying satchels of coin. Words were exchanged, crates opened, goods inspected. For a time, everything moved smoothly, the rhythm of the underworld as steady as the tide.
Then one of Ratan's lieutenants, a man named Devan, stepped forward, his face pale, his eyes darting. "Boss," he stammered, "we've got company."
Figures moved in the fog—shapes, shadows, too many. Rival gang. Steel flashed in the mist.
Ratan's jaw tightened. He turned slowly, his eyes settling on one of his own men, a wiry fellow named Madesh. The man trembled under his gaze.
"You," Ratan said, his voice like stone. "You led them here."
Madesh shook his head frantically. "No, I swear! I—"
But the rivals burst through the fog, blades raised, and the docks exploded into chaos.
Steel clashed, shouts filled the air, men fell screaming into the sea. Arjun swung his rod, catching a rival in the knee, then smashed down on his skull. Blood spattered the dock planks. Another lunged; Arjun ducked, drove his shoulder into the man's gut, and sent him toppling into the waves.
The fog stank of salt and iron.
Through the madness, Ratan cornered Madesh, his dagger pressed to the traitor's throat. "You sold us out," he snarled.
Madesh wept, his knees buckling. "I—I had no choice. They threatened my family. Please, boss, spare me!"
Ratan's gaze was cold. He turned to his men. "Who among you will show this rat the price of betrayal?"
The crew hesitated. Some looked away, unwilling. Others shifted uneasily.
Ratan's eyes found Arjun.
The boy froze. He understood immediately. This was no accident—Ratan was testing him. To see whether his hunger was real, whether he was willing to cross the line that separated errand boys from wolves.
"Kill him," Ratan said simply.
Madesh fell to his knees, clutching at Arjun's leg. "Please, boy. You're just a child. Don't… don't do this. I swear, I'll vanish, I'll never cross you again—"
Arjun's grip tightened on the rod. His chest heaved, but his eyes remained steady. He remembered his mother's words: The world only bows to power.
If he hesitated now, he would remain nothing but a rat among wolves.
Slowly, he dropped the rod. He bent, drew Madesh's own knife from his belt. The man gasped, eyes wide with terror.
"Arjun," Ratan said, his voice low, commanding.
The boy raised the blade. His heart thundered, but his hands did not shake. Madesh sobbed, begged, clawed at him.
And then Arjun drove the knife across his throat in one swift motion.
Blood spurted hot and fast, spraying his hands, his face. Madesh gurgled, his body convulsing, then crumpled to the dock.
Silence followed—brief, heavy. The crew stared. Some with shock, others with a grim kind of respect.
Ratan's lips curled into a smile. "Good."
He clapped Arjun on the shoulder. "No hesitation. No weakness. Remember this, all of you—betrayal earns only death."
The crew roared their approval. The battle was still raging in the fog, but here, on this blood-slick plank, a new legend was born.
When the rivals were finally beaten back, their bodies dumped into the sea, Ratan's men gathered in the warehouse. The spoils were counted, wounds bound, rum passed around. Laughter filled the air, rough and wild, men boasting of kills and scars.
But Arjun sat apart, silent, staring at his bloodstained hands.
He felt no remorse. No sorrow for the man he had killed. Instead, there was a strange stillness inside him, a coldness that steadied his breath.
And beneath it, a fire.
Killing had not broken him. It had sharpened him.
He wiped the blood from his face, and for the first time, he felt something close to… freedom.
In the days that followed, word spread through Vallur's underworld. Of the boy who had slit a traitor's throat without blinking. Of the wolf rising among Ratan's pack.
They began to whisper his name in taverns, in alleys, even in the markets. Not with derision, but with a wary kind of respect.
Arjun was no longer just Ratan's errand boy.
He was his enforcer.
One evening, while drinking in a tavern with his crew, Arjun overheard a drunk guard boasting at a nearby table. The man's voice slurred, but his words carried weight.
"A mountain of gold, I tell you! Hidden from maps, guarded by devils. Dhanvara Mines, they call it. The Patils own it, the king pretends it doesn't exist. Thousands of poor bastards chained to the rock, digging day and night. But gold? Enough to buy a kingdom!"
The men at his table jeered, laughing it off as drunken nonsense. But Arjun's eyes narrowed. He leaned closer, his heart pounding.
The whispers he had heard as a boy. The rumors he had followed. Here they were again, spoken with drunken certainty.
A mountain of gold.
Arjun's mind raced. His hand clenched around his cup until his knuckles turned white. This city was nothing but scraps. But if the stories were true, if such wealth truly existed…
Then the world would bow.
And he would be the one to make it kneel.
That night, as Vallur slept, Arjun walked alone to the cliffs where his mother lay. He knelt before the grave, the sea wind lashing his face, and whispered:
"I killed tonight, Ma. And I felt no fear. No regret. Only strength. You told me to take what is mine. I will. There's gold in the mountains. I'll claim it. I'll claim everything."
The waves roared below, as if carrying his vow into the dark.
Arjun rose, his shadow long in the moonlight. He was no longer the boy who had buried his mother with bare hands. He was something else now, something harder, sharper.
The wolf had tasted blood.
And he was hungry for more.