The silence after Maelâs words stretches, heavy and unbroken.
Kristos didnât answer.
Couldnât.
For one sickening moment, he actually considered it.
Because what else was left?
The blade at his throat.
The warm stickiness of Impâs blood cooling at his side.
The weight of a dozen mistakes closing in.
Kneel.
Pledge yourself to service.
And you walk out of here.
His body wanted to survive.
But his mind knew the truth.
If he knelt, heâd never get back up.
His breath pulled slow through his teeth, shallow, measured.
Because his ribs ached from the beating.
Because the knife demanded stillness.
Because the weight of the Viperâs words settled over him like wet stone.
His fingers twitched. The only part of him he could move.
Wrists still bound.
Knuckles flexing, slow, deliberate.
Just coiled. Tense. Waiting.
Not yet.
Something else.
Something he hadnât named.
His gaze flicked, to the ground.
To Impâs ruined body.
His jaw clenched. Just slightly.
Just the awful, bitter finality of it.
Imp had really thought heâd save him.
Kristos exhaled through his teeth.
Not yet.
The moment stretched.
A heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Then Mael exhaled a slow drag of his cigarette.
Something else.
Annoyance.
Like a man dealing with an old dog who refused to come inside during a storm.
A sigh, low and drawn out.
âOf course.â
He let the moment sit, dragging out the silence.
Letting Kristos feel the weight of his own mistake.
Then, he flicked the cigarette from his fingers.
Ember trailing through the air before it hit the wet ground. Kristos watched it. It was the only thing he could do, watch the ember fade, disappear, swallowed by the dark. The smallest death in the alley tonight.
Mael stepped closer.
Kristos felt him before he saw him.
The heat of his presence.
The weight of him.
A shadow. A noose tightening.
"You always were stubborn."
Soft sigh. Almost regretful.
Then, quieter. Closer.
"You couldâve made this easy."
The enforcer behind Kristos tightened his grip.
Fingers digging in deep, pressing into muscle and bone.
A decision. A preparation.
The weight in his hands shifted. Adjusting.
The knife at Kristosâ throat pressed in.
Just a fraction of an inch deeper.
Just enough to bite.
Just enough to let blood well up in a thin, deliberate line.
A reminder.
A promise.
The third enforcer had already moved past it.
He peeled off his gloves, the leather tacky with blood.
Wiped his hands down the front of his coat.
Flexed his fingers.
Shook the remnants of Impâs existence from his sleeve.
Irritated. Unhurried.
None of them hesitated.
Because this was inevitable.
Mael rolled his shoulders, glancing at his men.
"Boys."
Just the one word.
A signal.
A decision.
The enforcer with the knife drew back slightly.
Not to spare Kristos.
To make room for the final blow.
And thatâs when it happened.
The shot landed before Kristos even registered it as something real. The air itself screamed, a sound that didnât belong in this world, a jagged tear in the space between seconds. The air ruptured, more than just a bullet, something sharper, something that sliced through space, leaving a momentary, fraying seam where the world had been forced apart.
No warning, just the gash it left behind.
The enforcer restraining him jerked violently, muscles locking in a final, useless effort to hold on. His grip tightened, then faltered, fingers twitching against Kristosâ sleeve.
His throat pulsed like something alive.
But his throat wasnât there anymore.
A guttural, wet choke tore through him, thick and mucus-heavy, as if his body was drowning on dry land. His fingers shot up, clawing at the gaping, ragged wound, a ruined mass of cartilage, tissue, and exposed vertebrae. Blood poured in fat, bubbling gouts, pulsing with each sluggish heartbeat. His lips moved in a frantic, soundless plea. His eyes bulged, veins bursting red, drowning in his own fluids.
For a second, his body didnât drop. It staggered, weight pressing into Kristos, breath rasping from a neck that no longer existed.
Then the sound caught up.
A scream of shearing air split the alleyway, a sound like fabric tearing, stretched too thin, snapping apart at the seams. The air rippled, distorted, as if something vast had just punched through the fabric of reality.
Kristos flinched.
BOOM.
The second shot didnât just hit. It violated the laws of what was natural.
The enforcerâs skull didnât shatter, not immediately; it collapsed inward. Flesh and bone folded into itself, imploding as if sucked into a void, before bursting outward in a gout of brain, skull, and liquefied marrow. Jagged splinters of teeth and jawbone blasted across the alley walls, embedding in stone like shrapnel..
A jagged seam of darkness hung in the air, its edges fraying, raw, unfinished. It pulsed once, twice, before vanishing with a sound like an exhale from something enormous.
The body lurched sideways, a half-step into oblivion, before it hit the ground like butchered meat.
For a second, just one, the world had no sound except the wet slap of the corpse hitting the ground.
Then the second enforcer dropped his knife.
Kristos caught the blade before it hit the ground, automatic, instinctive. The familiar weight settled into his palm, the grip worn smooth by years of use. No hesitation, just muscle memory as he drove it into the enforcerâs ribs.
The blade slammed through skin and muscle, punching deep, too deep. It caught on bone, grinding, before plunging through a lung.
The enforcer screamed, choked, gasped, then coughed a spray of blood straight into Kristosâ face.
He didnât flinch.
He wrenched the blade free, twisting hard. The man spasmed violently, lips peeling back in raw, animal agony. His hands scrabbled weakly at the wound, but there was no stopping it. Blood gushed thick and steaming, pouring over Kristosâ fingers as he drove the knife back in, again, and again.
Ribs cracked. The enforcer thrashed, a broken marionette jerking on half-severed strings. One hand clawed weakly at Kristosâ wrist, until another thrust sent his fingers spasming open, limp.
Something vital burst. Kristos felt it: the wet crunch, the way flesh gave way beneath the blade. The man let out a strangled, gurgling whimper, but Kristos didnât stop. His breath came sharp, ragged, each stab funneling something deeper, years of failures, of broken bones, of hollow nights.
Blood slicked his hands, warm between his fingers, clinging in sticky ropes to his sleeves. The enforcerâs body seized with every new wound, gasping, eyes bulging, lips parting as if to plead, but no words came. Only a deep, bubbling wheeze.
Kristos buried the knife to the hilt. Dragged it up, tearing through soft meat. The breath hitched. Then broke.
Even then, he didnât let go.
Didnât hear the sick squelch of steel in ruined organs. Didnât feel the heat of fresh-spilled blood painting his forearms.
Just the weight of his own fury.
Kristos ripped the blade free and stood over the man, gurgling as a torrent of blood flooded from his wounds, thick and ropey. His eyes darted around wildly, his mouth agape, before he finally stopped moving.
Kristos exhaled, sharp and ragged, flicking the blood from the blade. His eyes darted, his sword was near. So was his flintlock. Tossed aside, left to be collected later. A mistake.
He reached first.
Two strides closed the distance. He dropped the enforcerâs knife mid-step, fingers locking around his own steel. The greatsword slid against his palm, familiar, grounding. The flintlock, slick with grime but untouched, fit his grip like memory. Loaded. Ready.
The swordâs weight settled heavy in his grip. He didnât sheathe it. Didnât need to. His fingers curled tight around the hilt, already bracing for what came next.
But there was no time.
Gunfire again.
Not wild. Not rushed. Deliberate.
A bullet slammed into the stone at Maelâs feet, detonating a cloud of dust and shattered rock.
The alley shook. The walls groaned under the force.
And the impact did not fade.
Instead, the wound in the stone hissed, seethed, as if singed by an unnatural heat. Cracks bled outward from the point of impact, glowing faintly at the edges, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Mael flinched.
For the first time, his mask of control cracked.
A flicker of tension at the jaw. A shift of weight, controlled but edged with readiness.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Another shot, closer.
A void-black seam ripped open the wall beside him, distorting the air, warping the light. A chunk of stone exploded against his cheek, spraying him with grit. His eyes widened.
Then he moved.
Sharp. Fast. Instinct taking over.
Mael dove for cover, coat flaring as he yanked a flintlock from his belt, already cocking it back. The last enforcer scrambled after him, slipping in the blood-slicked alley, until Kristos moved.
The enforcer barely had time to turn. Kristos was already moving, the greatsword gripped tight, blood-slick but firm in his hands. The greatsword arced in a single, brutal swing, too fast for something so heavy, too final for anything else. Steel met flesh. Then bone. Then nothing.
The enforcer made a sound, half a gasp, half a wet choke, as his body gave out. His ribs shattered, spine severed, torso peeling apart in a ruin of steaming viscera. His upper half crumpled sideways, spilling onto the cobblestones in ruin. His lower half collapsed seconds later, legs twitching as if they hadnât realized they were no longer connected.
Mael saw it. Watched the enforcer fall. His flintlock stayed raised, but he didnât fire.
They werenât moving.
Kristos. Mael. The alley itself.
The shooter was still firing.
A shot shattered a crate behind them, splinters hissing past Maelâs face. He pressed his back against the wall, flintlock gripped tight, but useless. He couldnât move. Couldnât risk it.
The enforcer beside him was frantic, shaking. The alley held its breath.
Then,
A click. Metal on wood. A cartridge locking into place.
Kristos didnât think. He turned.
Maelâs gun was already rising. A flicker of motion, too smooth, too practiced. Kristos saw it too late. The flintlock cracked, the shot slicing past his temple, close enough that the heat burned his skin. Close enough that for half a second, he thought it had hit. The bullet sliced past his temple, close enough that heat burned his skin, close enough that for half a second, he thought it had hit. He didnât stop to check. Just ran
Blood still on his hands. His breath sharp in his lungs. But not before his eyes met Maelâs.
Across the alley, through the smoke and gunfire, Mael watched him, not with rage, not with urgency. Just calm inevitability.
His flintlock hung in his grip, cocked, ready. He could have fired. Could have ended this.
He didnât.
For the first time, he reacted. A flicker of something in his gaze. Not fear. Just mild irritation.
A sigh. A slow shake of the head. He muttered, just loud enough to reach him,
"Run, little rat. Run."
Kristos disappeared. And Mael let him.
For now.
He leaned his head back against the stone and exhaled. Then his voice rose, cutting through the alley like a blade.
"You canât run forever, Fortier!"
It echoed, bouncing off the walls, rolling through the empty streets long after Kristos was gone, long after he was too far to hear it. But it wasnât for him.
It was for the world. For whatever came next. For whoever found him first.
Kristos was running. Not thinking, not planning. Just moving.
Stone slammed beneath his boots, uneven and slick. His body was too stiff, too raw, too slow. His legs worked, but they werenât his own. The gunfire was still in his ears, a heavy, concussive roar. Like the world itself had cracked open and didnât know how to close. The kind of sound that stuck to the ribs, rattled in the bones, refused to leave.
His breath caught, just for a moment. A misstep in his rhythm. A tremor, like a skipped heartbeat.
Then, another shot. Sharp. Violent. Too close.
Kristos didnât stop. Didnât think.
He vaulted over a broken crate, shoes scraping against the rain-slick cobblestones. His breath was too fast, too thin.
The weight of the greatsword dragged at his balance, its bulk throwing off his stride. His flintlock, still gripped tight in his left hand, made it worse. He wasnât built for running with both. Every step jolted through bruised ribs, every movement an effort just to keep his footing. The sword wasnât meant for flight, it was an executionerâs weapon, and right now, it was a curse.
Donât stop. Donât stop.
A sharp turn, too sharp. His shoulder slammed into a wall, tearing into bruises already forming. He swallowed down the pain. Kept moving.
Then, the rifle cracked again. Not a burst. A single, deliberate shot.
Farther this time. But not far enough.
The echo followed him.
Another turn. Another step. Another second away from death.
But Imp was still there. Somewhere inside him, like a hand wrapped around his ribs.
His body was moving forward. His mind wasnât.
"You talk too much."
The words came back like a fresh bruise pressed too hard.
He could still hear it. The wet crunch. The sound of skull giving way. The way Impâs breath had shuddered before it stopped.
His stomach lurched. His legs almost locked mid-stride.
He kept running.
Then, the rifle cracked one last time. And stopped.
No ring. No echo. Just, silence.
Kristos staggered, breath too fast, too thin. His broad shoulders, stiff with bruises, ached beneath the weight of his coat, the fabric heavy, stiff with blood, dragging like dead weight. The splatter stung his eyes, ran in hot rivulets down the sharp angles of his cheekbones, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. Every step protested, every motion a fresh reminder of how much he'd taken tonight.
He slowed, just for a second. Turned his head slightly, listening.
Nothing.
The silence stretched too long. Like something had been ripped out of the night. Like the world had been reset.
His pulse hammered. His feet kept moving, until instinct told him to stop.
He needed cover.
His body veered left, slipping into a narrow cut between two buildings. A dead-end storage alcove, half-hidden by stacked crates. Dark. Tight. A place to breathe.
He pressed himself against the wall, chest heaving. Waited.
No footsteps. No voices. No rifle reports.
Safe.
The thought came fast, too fast. His body wasnât convinced.
His hands were shaking. His skin felt too tight. His lungs burned as he forced himself to breathe, to listen.
Still nothing.
His arms ached, muscles locking, tendons burning from gripping steel too long. The weight of the greatsword was unbearable now, the flintlock dead weight in his fingers. He let them drop. The sword hit first, a dull, exhausted thud against the cobblestones. The flintlock followed, landing beside him. His arms felt like lead. His whole body felt like lead. His breath wouldnât even out.
His body wasnât just exhausted; it was wrecked. The sword had drained him, every muscle screaming from the effort of carrying it through the streets. His lungs clawed for air, but it wasnât enough. His legs wouldnât stop shaking. His hands still trembled, blood-slick and useless. The night pressed against his skull, thick and heavy, sinking him deeper into the alleyâs shadows.
He closed his eyes, forehead pressing into the stone. Just for a second. Just to breathe.
He had nothing left.
But,
The air felt wrong.
Thicker. Closer. Like the alley was holding its breath.
A prickle climbed the back of his neck.
Kristos turned his head slightly, just enough to see the mouth of the alley. Still empty. But that feeling, the one that lived in the gut, the one that whispered when something wasnât right, it wouldnât go away.
Then,
A shadow moved.
Small. Subtle. Barely more than a ripple in the dark.
Kristos stiffened. Someone already there. Waiting.
His fingers twitched, but the weapons lay where he had dropped them, spent, useless. No strength. No plan.
Then,
A voice. Low. Steady. Almost amused.
"Youâre welcome."
Kristos turned, too fast, too sharp. The motion sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him. His pulse hammered in his ears.
A man stepped into view, rifle lowered. He didnât carry himself like a soldier or a thug, no rigid stance, no swagger, just the effortless weight of someone who knew how to move unnoticed. Lean and quiet, like a shadow slipping through the cracks.
The dim light caught on the sinew of his arms as he adjusted his grip, tattoos shifting over muscle, rippling, then vanishing back into darkness. His face was sharp, unreadable, eyes flicking over Kristos without urgency, as if he had already taken the full measure of him in a glance.
A smirk. Almost lazy. He tilted his head, exhaled slow, then pointed up at Kristos.
"I think youâve got blood on your face."