Chapter Two: Crimson Shadows
I woke from a nightmare that tasted of iron and ash. A noble boy had struck me without mercy, binding me to years of servitude—though it seemed he only wanted to terrify me. Five days had passed, and he had not returned. In that time, my broken body had begun to mend; bruises faded, muscles ached less—but the rot in the air, in the district itself, remained.
The people who once averted their eyes now stared at me as if I were prey, wounded and exposed. Let them try something, I thought, teeth clenched. I would remind them why they called me the Crimson Falconi.
I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the wretched bathroom. The cold water washed away the grime of sleep and the lingering taste of fear. I stepped onto the balcony for a moment, watching the darkness of night give way to a reluctant dawn, before descending into the courtyard. At the well, I lowered the bucket and hauled it up with ease. My strength had returned, even if my pride had not.
I stripped, standing naked before a cracked mirror. Every scar, every muscle, every sinew of my two-meter-tall frame was a testimony to a life of violence and survival. Blood-red hair fell over my pale skin, my face hardened by a thousand street fights—a face made to scare ordinary men into running. Without this body, I would never have become the Crimson Falconi. Those days stirred a bitter nostalgia… but only briefly.
After scrubbing myself clean, I surveyed the half-empty burlap sacks in my kitchen, cooked a half-kilo of pitiful rice, and headed to the market. The streets were nearly empty, the few traders here and there lean and impoverished, their wares meagre. I approached the butcher's stall.
"One kilo of meat," I demanded.
He didn't flinch. His gaze was cold, detached, as if I were no more than a passing shadow. "Five silver coins."
I stared. "It was two."
His patience had thinned to nothing. "Buy it or leave."
Rage and humiliation surged in me. I lunged across the counter, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him clear off his feet. "You dare speak to me like that? Have you grown tired of living?"
His face drained of colour. Trembling, he stammered, "Three… three coins. I'll give it to you for three."
I dropped him, meat in hand, and left the stall. If I had not restrained myself, he would not have walked away under his own power. Everyone was getting bold. Everyone had forgotten the mountain of corpses I had climbed to claim my throne.
Back home, I cooked the meat, added it to the rice, and ate with ravenous hunger.
Afterwards, boredom became my prison. I couldn't move freely; enemies lurked everywhere. I could handle four, maybe five at once—but more? Impossible. And yet… they had not struck. Why? Everyone knew the Falconi gang was annihilated. The butcher's arrogance was proof that the winds had shifted.
Then, a knock echoed at the door.
I cursed the voice that summoned the devil and crept to the door, grasping the axe I kept beneath my mattress. Muscles coiled, ready to strike.
"Who is it?" I demanded.
"Me," said a young man's voice from the other side.
A trap, I thought.
I flung open the door, axe raised, heart pounding—but the instant I saw him, I froze. I lowered the weapon, trembling. My body betrayed me. That voice… I should never have forgotten it.
"Prepare yourself," he said, cold as a grave in winter. "Take whatever you need from this place. We are travelling."
I stared at him for a heartbeat, then hurried inside to gather my belongings. When I returned, his gaze remained distant, indifferent.
"We are going far," he continued. "A savage place… one that shows no mercy to the weak. You might die there."
I looked him in the eyes. Fear clawed at me, yet my voice was firm. "I am ready
Following the boy, we marched for four gruelling hours. As we breached the limits of my district, eyes trailed me—some wide with disbelief, others burning with naked, jagged hatred.
I cast a jagged glance back at them, and they folded instantly, their gaze hitting the dirt. Weaklings, I spat inwardly. I followed the boy until the stench of the slums was finally swallowed by the crisp, biting air of the wilderness.
Outside the city gates, ten caravans awaited, teeming with youths. None looked older than twenty-five.
The boy stepped forward and clapped his hands, a sharp, commanding crack that silenced the forest. "Into the caravans. Now," he barked. "Five minutes. Anyone left standing will answer to me, and believe me—you won't like the answer."
Before the echo died down, I was already moving. I hauled myself into the nearest caravan, claiming the seat directly behind the driver of the four-horse team. I didn't wait; I sat, watching the others scramble for space like rats on a sinking ship.
As the dust settled, faces emerged from the shadows of the wagons. Familiar faces. Thugs and cutthroats I knew all too well—allies, enemies, and rivals from neighbouring cities. I counted five: two who had sworn to gut me, one former associate, and two leaders from the northern districts.
Exactly five minutes later, the wheels began to groan.
Our driver was a man whose face was a map of exhaustion—a man beaten down by life so many times he had forgotten what it felt like to stand straight. A common labourer, hollowed out by a despair that had long since turned into numbness.
As we travelled, the forest unfolded around us. It was unexpectedly beautiful, a lush contrast to the grey filth I had called home. For a moment, the scenery acted as a bandage on my bruised pride.
When night fell, we halted near the edge of the woods. The boy moved through the camp, assigning guard shifts with cold efficiency. I fell into a dreamless sleep the moment I hit the ground.
An hour before dawn, a low voice pulled me from the dark. "Wake up. Your shift."
I surged up, a roar of anger building in my throat, ready to crush whoever dared wake me. Then, the weight of reality hit me. I wasn't a leader anymore. I was a number.
"Fine," I grunted.
I fumbled through my pack, wrapping myself in a thick, tattered cloak against the biting cold. As my eyes adjusted to the ink-black night, the world felt hauntingly silent—a vast, empty void of shadows.
We travelled like this for four days. Words were rare, traded only during the changing of the guard: "Your turn," or "Wake up." No one dared to bridge the silence with anything more.
Finally, we reached it.
A city so massive it defied my understanding of the word. Its walls were not mere stone; they were monuments—soaring, majestic, and terrifying in their scale. We pulled up to a gate that felt like the entrance to a god's fortress. The boy hopped down and spoke to the guards in hushed tones.
The gates groaned open, and we entered.
The order of the place was staggering. Streets paved with precision, buildings standing in perfect, arrogant rows. We reached the city centre, halting before a hall guarded by two titans. They were nearly my size, yet looking at them, I felt a primitive instinct crawl up my spine—the feeling that they could crush me without breaking a sweat.
They looked at the boy, their voices cold and metallic. "Have you come to complete the recruitment mission?"
The boy bowed his head, his voice unexpectedly humble.
"Yes," he replied. "I've come to claim my recruitment bounty for these."