The black market night was sour and stale, like the bottom of a barrel no one bothered to clean.
The neon sign of the Bronze Scale Casino flickered in sick spasms—two seconds alive, three seconds dying. The carpet at the entrance was worn bald, patched with mud, spilled beer, and dried streaks that looked too dark to be wine. Every shoe that crossed it left a story no one wanted to read.
Inside, the heat hit like a punch.
Sweat, liquor, and tobacco clung together, and the stink of orcs sat on top of it all like rancid fat. Dice cracked on wood, gamblers cursed, chips clinked like loose teeth. The whole place sounded like a scrapyard trying to sing.
Lingya leaned against a wall, a grass stem between his teeth. Half-asleep, half-hungry, eyes hooded but sharp. He looked like a dog napping on garbage—lazy, but snap your hand off if you tried to touch him.
Old Pilu hovered at the dice table, his grin stretched so wide his face looked like it might split. Rings glinted on his stubby fingers, his red nose glowing like rotten fruit. He barked through a mouth full of chewing leaf:
"Play on, gentlemen! Bronze Scale's fair as the sky!"
Drool nearly slid into his collar. No one believed him, but they still rolled.
Lingya chewed, smirked. This place doesn't gamble lives. It grinds them.
Then the door exploded inward.
The sound rattled the ceiling dust loose.
Orcs stomped in, shoulders wide as doors, iron rods in fists. The one leading had a buzz-cut, a scar down his face, and eyes lit like a rabid dog's.
Batu. Mad Dog's alpha.
He grinned with that split scar, cigar in his mouth, unlit. He chewed it until it cracked, then spat it on the carpet and ground it flat.
"Evening," he said, voice dripping rot. "Looks busy. Let's talk business."
The air snapped tight. Dice froze midair.
Old Pilu's grin twitched. His voice came out thin as paper:
"Brother Batu, what an honor, what brings—"
"Cut it." Batu swept the dice and coins from the table. "Market's booming. Your take's fat. Time you share. New rate—double."
A ripple went through the crowd:
"Double? Bastards'll bleed him dry."
"Casino's finished."
"Shut up, unless you want your teeth knocked in."
Lingya didn't move. He knew Batu wasn't here to collect. He was here to humiliate.
And then Batu's eyes slid to the barmaid. Half-elf, young, trembling so hard the glasses on her tray clinked against each other before they fell and shattered. She froze, pale as chalk.
Batu licked his tusk, hand reaching. "Pretty. She'll do for down payment."
The casino held its breath. No one blinked.
Lingya's stem snapped between his teeth. He spat it, stepped forward, and caught Batu's wrist.
"Hand. Off." His voice was gravel.
Batu blinked, then bared teeth. "The mutt thinks he can bark?"
Old Pilu muttered from the wall, "Saints save me… he picked the wrong night…"
Batu twisted back, scar twitching, and the glass in his grip shattered, blood spilling down his arm.
The whole casino stopped breathing.
"Kill him!" Batu roared.
Mad Dogs lunged.
Chairs toppled. Chips scattered across the floor, skittering like cockroaches. Dice bounced into puddles of beer. Someone screamed, someone laughed like a lunatic. The barmaid bolted under the counter, nails scratching wood.
Lingya moved ugly and fast.
He kicked one thug's shin—bone cracked. Elbowed another's throat—choking. Crashed a bottle across a third's skull—blood and booze dripping down together.
He fought like a man who never learned rules. Straight for soft spots.
The chandelier swung, slicing light in nervous arcs. Gamblers crawled under tables, one even hugging a pile of chips to his chest. Old Pilu screeched:
"Not the new cards! Watch the deck!"
"Shove your deck!" a thug coughed blood back.
Batu's rod came down like a hammer. Lingya slid aside; the table took it and split, chips raining like hail. Lingya flipped the wreckage into them, scattering bones and dice.
"Hell, he's using the table as a shield!" someone shouted, half admiring, half terrified.
An orc grabbed Lingya from behind. Lingya stomped his foot down, heel cracking bone, then rammed his skull backward—blood splashed his neck.
"Surround him!" Batu bellowed.
Lingya backed into a pillar, took one rod to the shoulder. Pain shot clear, but it sharpened him. He smiled, knife-thin. "Come again."
He cut low—palms, ankles, anything soft. Blood hit the sawdust, iron stink drowning the alcohol. Their rhythm faltered, courage leaking.
Batu roared. Lingya vaulted the bar, shattering glasses, knocking ale barrels over. Coins spilled like rain. Orc eyes flicked to the money for a fatal heartbeat. Lingya hurled a jagged board into one's throat—gurgling silence.
The barmaid peeked, tears streaking her cheeks. Lingya shoved her deeper. "Stay down."
She nodded, too scared to breathe.
Then fire hit.
Batu had ripped down a gas line. Sparks caught liquor, and blue flame raced across the floor.
The room screamed. Gamblers stampeded. Windows broke. Smoke bit the eyes.
Lingya grabbed a rag, smothered flames near the counter, kicked a barrel to steer fire toward empty tables. "Sand, corner! Dump it!"
Nobody moved until a skinny gambler bolted, dragged a sand jar, dumped it. Flames hissed. Others rushed to help, coughing, panicked.
Batu sneered through the smoke: "Playing firefighter, mutt?"
"I'm saving my turf." Lingya's words were flat steel.
Batu charged. Rod whistled. Lingya met him head-on. Each clash shook his bones, but he stayed quick, cutting at knees, sweeping feet. Third strike—he rammed Batu into a pillar, dust raining, blade to his throat.
The Mad Dogs froze.
"Back out," Lingya said, voice calm, almost casual. "Boots off my carpet. One wrong word, one finger less."
Batu's breath thundered, rage choking him. But he felt the edge bite. He spat a laugh, blood hitting the carpet dark.
"Fine. Tonight's yours. Tomorrow, your grave."
He shoved away, waving his crew out. The door slammed. The room breathed again.
Silence.
Then Old Pilu shrieked, crawling for chips: "My lamps! My wiring! Who stepped on my Aces?"
Lingya bound his shoulder with cloth, ignoring him. The old badge at his chest burned, letters faint:
[Event Recorded: Enemy repelled. Casualties: 0. District +3]
[Skill Unlocked: Command in Chaos (Novice)]
He muttered: "Always your damn scores."
The fire died, but the place stank worse. Blood and booze mixed on the floor, glass crunching under boots. Some gamblers picked chips out of filth, others laughed thinly, already planning to lie about what they saw.
Old Pilu clutched his cash box, eyeing Lingya. "Kid, you're hard to bury." He reached to pat his shoulder, saw blood, pulled back. "I'll… buy your medicine."
Lingya smirked, tightened his bandage. "Buy wiring. Stop using junk."
The barmaid brought cloth, cleaned his cut with careful hands. He muttered, "Next time you see them, hide deeper." She nodded, whispering thanks.
By midnight, the fight was rumor.
"Lingya stood against Mad Dogs."
"Batu nearly got his throat slit."
"Half-breed's insane."
Stories spread faster than fire. By dawn, every stall whispered his name.
Old Pilu hissed: "Don't go home. They love midnight revenge."
Lingya shook his head. "Hide, and you're prey. I'll walk."
He stepped out. The red carpet tore at last under his boot.
The street was cold iron. Neon trembled. Gaslamps stuttered. Lingya walked slow, collar high. Then—eyes on his back.
He slapped the wall. A shadow dropped. A girl in a cloak, eyes sharp. The Black Cat.
"You're busy," she grinned. "Fights, fires, Mad Dogs howling."
"Just passing through." Lingya's tone flat. "Whose pockets this time?"
She twirled a button, slipped it into his palm. "For luck. You'll need it."
The badge burned, words flickered:
[Temporary Task: Keep Bronze Scale blood-free 3 days. Reward: +1 Skill, +10 Reputation]
[Warning: Others will bleed if you fail]
Lingya chuckled dark. "Trouble's never optional."
Black Cat tilted her head. "Don't die in three days." Then she vanished, tile rattling above.
Lingya walked on. Rats, coughs, muffled cries. The city wheezed like broken lungs.
Near his flat, One-Eye stepped out—orc, bandage on socket. Voice rasped: "Boss wants a talk."
Lingya smirked. "Not afraid I'll carve him again?"
"Don't come, your casino's ash by morning."
Lingya scanned alleys, roofs, manholes. Two shadows trailed him.
"Tell him tomorrow. Shaft Three. Abandoned mill."
One-Eye blinked, spat, left.
The badge flared cold:
[Prepare: medical, combustibles, choke points]
Lingya looked up at the false stars.
"Fine," he muttered. "But quit trading their lives for mine."
He went in, lit a stub of candle. Sat, rewrapped his shoulder, set the cat-eye button beside the badge. Two mismatched eyes glowed—one sly, one cold.
"See you tomorrow, Mad Dog." He blew out the flame.
Darkness swallowed the room.