The streets of Ember City had a rhythm that night: chaos, fire, and whispered incantations. Kael landed on the asphalt with the precision of a predator. Rain hissed around him, steam rising where molten magic met cold concrete.
From the shadows, figures emerged—Black Sun Syndicate enforcers, their bodies augmented with alchemical implants that made them faster, stronger, deadlier.
"Thought you could hide, Draven?" their leader sneered, a tall man with a metal mask etched with sigils. His voice was distorted, but Kael could hear the mockery beneath it.
Kael flexed his hands. His veins pulsed bright silver beneath his skin. The Iron Veins, a secret passed down through generations of bloodlines, responded to the scent of danger. Every strike, every dodge, every movement was powered by it.
Bullets met magic in a symphony of violence. Kael moved like a shadow—one second on the ground, the next scaling a building, sending shards of enchanted glass raining down. Rourke covered his flank, twin pistols erupting with sigil-charged rounds that tore through reinforced armor.
Despite the chaos, Kael's mind remained sharp. He could sense patterns—weak points in the Syndicate's formation, moments where their magic flickered. He exploited them, a storm of fists, steel, and arcane energy.
Then came the tremor—the unmistakable pulse of something ancient awakening beneath the city. Kael's heart sank. This wasn't just a gang war. Something far older and deadlier had stirred. And it was coming for him.