Chapter 44: The Symphony of Death under the Crimson Moon
Under the mantle of a sky stained blood-red by the eclipse, the square before Big Ben was a living embodiment of hell. Amidst the clashing of steel and the roar of gunfire, the primary confrontation isolated itself: Edward Ferguson facing the "Baron of Ravencroft," the supreme commander of the enemy forces.
Their duel began like a dead dance; the Baron lunged with his heavy sword, delivering brutal strikes fueled by desperation, while Edward evaded with a chilling grace. Edward did not fight like a nobleman, but like a killing machine stripped of all mercy. With a lightning-fast maneuver, Edward pivoted behind his foe, his blade carving through the Baron's shoulder before plunging his dagger into a gap in the armor. The Baron's cry was not merely one of pain; it was the shriek of the Ravencroft empire collapsing beneath the feet of the Ferguson heir.
As Edward finished his opponent in cold blood, the scene shifted to the heart of the square, where a sudden, terrifying silence fell. There, amidst piles of corpses stacked like hills, sat Toula.
These were no ordinary casualties; they were bodies meticulously piled into a gruesome throne of flesh and broken steel. Toula sat atop the apex, legs crossed, his golden pocket watch dangling from his hand, ticking in rhythm with the dying breaths of the fallen. His body was still, as motionless as a marble statue, yet the aura emanating from him paralyzed all who looked.
Around that "funerary throne," dozens of enemy gangsters stood frozen like pillars of salt. Their eyes were wide with terror, their hands gripped their weapons, but their minds had lost all control over their limbs. Toula looked at them with his glowing eyes, his gaze acting like shackles of steel, forbidding them from moving or even screaming. It was a scene beyond human comprehension: a demon perched upon the harvest of death, while the living awaited their turn in absolute silence.
Across the rest of the square, the general battle had been decided. Once the high-ranking heads rolled and the leaders fell, the mercenaries' morale crumbled. Those who remained split into two groups: those who saw Death standing by Edward's side and threw down their weapons, kneeling for mercy—and those blinded by stubbornness who continued to resist, only to be ruthlessly crushed under the hooves of Edward's horses and the tireless blades of his men.
The fighting ceased, and the mist crept over the square, veiling the faces of the slain. Edward stood facing Toula, blood dripping from his sword, declaring that London had finally fallen into the grasp of the King of Shadows.