The return to the Abyssal Gang's base felt like walking back into a cage that had grown too small. As Jarul, Kales, and Ezekiel crossed the threshold of the outer compound, the familiar atmosphere of casual violence and arrogance settled over them like a thick layer of dust.
The other soldiers—vampires who had spent years honing their cruelty—immediately swarmed Jarul and Kales, trading loud boasts and rough slaps on the shoulder. Ezekiel stood on the periphery, a ghost in their midst. None of them spared him a glance. To them, he was still the "lowlife," a bottom-feeder who happened to have a freakish gift for regeneration that made their best Blood Weave look like child's play. They held a special kind of contempt for him—a mix of jealousy for his resilience and disgust for his origins—but they kept their hands to themselves. Raphael's orders were absolute, and no one was suicidal enough to test the boss's patience.
The three of them pushed past the crowd and entered the main estate, moving toward the deep, reinforced heart of the building where the gang's finances were kept.
Standing guard at the heavy doors was a young man who looked like a softened reflection of Raphael. His black hair fell just beyond his shoulders, framing a face that carried a hint of the family's signature madness, though it was tempered by youth. This was Jay Night, the youngest of the three brothers and the keeper of the vault.
Jarul and Kales offered respectful nods—not bows, for those were reserved strictly for the eldest brother—and handed over the heavy bags of gold. Jay inspected the leather pouches with a clinical, quiet intensity before pulling a heavy key from his belt and unlocking the vault.
As the door swung open, Ezekiel caught a glimpse of the interior. Two mid-sized bags sat nearly bursting with gold, shimmering dully in the torchlight. To a kingdom, it might have been a pittance, but in a dying town like Fluxton, it was an absurd fortune. Ezekiel stared, wondering how many broken doors, shattered lives, and years of Raphael's "reign" it had taken to stack that much coin in one room.
Jay didn't give him long to look. He heaved the new tribute inside and slammed the vault shut, the heavy thud echoing through the hallway.
"You're done," Jay said, his voice surprisingly level. "Leave."
They nodded and turned back toward the exit. As they walked, Ezekiel found himself studying the back of Jay's head. Out of the three brothers, Jay seemed the most sensible—almost as if he were just a passenger following the dark current set by Raphael and Darion. But Ezekiel caught himself. It was dangerous to look for humanity in a bloodline that had only ever offered him hell.
Back in the outer compound, the social order reasserted itself. Jarul and Kales disappeared back into the fold of the gang, leaving Ezekiel to retreat to his usual corner. He sat on a crate, leaning his head against the cold stone wall, letting his thoughts drift back to the coming war.
How are you holding up with everything?
The voice in his head was so sudden it made his pulse jump. He hadn't heard it in what felt like an age—not since the Pillage began. It sounded different now, less like a command and more like a genuine question.
Ezekiel didn't move a muscle, keeping his expression flat for the benefit of any watching guards. *'I'm holding up,'* he replied internally, his mental voice hard and focused. Just enough to make sure that when the time is right, everything falls into place.
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The town of Wilson had always been a jagged place, but lately, it had begun to eat itself alive. In the streets, weakness was a death sentence, and the air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the smoke of constant, heated skirmishes. At the heart of this chaos sat the base of the Devil's Flames, a residence that had once been a monument to Patrick Gallows' undisputed power. Now, it was a hollowed-out shell.
The estate was a map of betrayal. Insidious cracks spider-webbed across the marble floors, and the once-lavish furniture lay in splintered heaps—the casualties of a house divided. Ever since Patrick had been dragged down into his own dungeon, his four generals had turned his prized sanctuary into a battlefield of greed.
The gang had fractured into four warring factions, each soldier picking a side in a desperate gamble for the top spot. The alliance that had brought Patrick down had been a fragile thing, held together only by a mutual desire for the crown, and it had shattered the moment the cell door clicked shut behind their former leader.
The four men sat in the wreckage of the great hall, the tension between them like a drawn wire.
First, there was Quel. He was scrawny, with short black hair and a face that seemed wired for malice. His slight build was a lie, a deceptive mask for the lethal speed he possessed. He was the one who had hunted down Selina, shattering her sanctuary and murdering her child without a second thought. To Quel, cruelty wasn't just a tool; it was a signature. He and the others had turned Selina's capture into a waking nightmare, using her body to satisfy their most twisted impulses just to ensure Patrick knew exactly how little they feared him.
Next to him sat Armal. At a glance, he was the diplomat—composed, steady, and soft-spoken. But the mask hid a monster who viewed death as a waste. Armal didn't believe in killing; he believed in the artistry of the rack. To him, life was only valuable as long as it could feel pain, and he took a sickening pride in ensuring his victims never tasted the mercy of the grave.
Then there was Pyrax, a man whose very silhouette seemed slippery. He was the most two-faced of the lot, a silver-tongued snake who had mastered the art of being everyone's ally and no one's friend. Even after years of serving under Patrick, none of the other generals truly trusted him, yet they couldn't afford to ignore him.
Lastly, there was Gunther. He looked the part of the veteran—mature, with a thick beard and eyes that seemed to have swallowed the light. But Gunther was the deepest rot in the foundation. He was the mole, the man who had been whispering the gang's secrets to the Abyssal Gang in Fluxton for months. His eyes, though glowing red, held a darkness that felt older and colder than the others combined.
The four of them were equals in power, a stalemate of monsters. They knew that in a fair fight, Patrick could have crushed any of them. Even together, a direct assault on the Boss would have cost at least one of their lives—a price none of these cowards was willing to pay.
Instead, they had chosen the path of the scavenger. They had used Patrick's one true weakness—his soft-heartedness for those he loved—to turn him into a shackled tool for the upcoming war.
As they looked at each other across the ruined table, the same unspoken question hung in the air. They had their weapon locked in the basement, but they still didn't know if Patrick Gallows would be the edge they needed to win the war against Fluxton, or if he was a double-edged sword that would eventually swing back to sever all their heads.
The silence in the ruined hall was so thick it felt like it could be cut with a blade, a stagnant pool of mutual loathing that no one wanted to disturb. It was Gunther who finally reached out and broke the surface.
Gunther moved with deliberate, slow grace, leaning forward until the torchlight caught the graying hairs of his beard. He chose his words like a man walking through a minefield, careful not to bruise the fragile, glass-thin egos of the three monsters sitting with him. A single wrong inflection could reignite the carnage that had already gutted the estate.
"We are scavengers fighting over a carcass," Gunther began, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "While we tear at each other, we forget that there is a far richer feast just beyond the border."
He began to weave the thread, planting the seed of a common goal: the Abyssal Gang. Ever since the Shadow War had torn the kingdom asunder, the old structures had crumbled. The West was a graveyard of broken hierarchies, leaving a vacuum where low-level gangs were rising like weeds in the cracks of a tomb. It was a time of swallowing or being swallowed.
Armal shifted, his eyes tracking Gunther with a predator's focus. "And if we strike?" his voice was silk over gravel. "Even if we break Raphael's back, we'll be bleeding. In Wilson, blood in the water only brings more sharks. What stops the next gang from sweeping in to finish us off while we're catching our breath?"
Gunther's lips pulled back into a slow, knowing smile. He had expected the question; in fact, he had relied on it.
"I am a man who values the truth," Gunther said. "And the truth is found in the places no one thinks to look."
He revealed his hand. For months, Gunther had been running a network of "bottom-feeders"—vampires with so little blood magic they were invisible to Raphael's arrogant gaze. They lived as common laborers in Fluxton, toiling in the soot and paying their tributes like cattle. But they had eyes. And they had seen something that defied the natural order.
"There is a variable," Gunther whispered, his eyes dark as pitch. "A boy. A lowlife who should have died a dozen times over, but instead, he awakened. My informants say his power isn't like ours. It doesn't just sit in his veins—it grows. It evolves."
The room grew colder. Evolution was the divine right of the Royals or the cursed luck of the Mutants. To hear of a commoner achieving it was like hearing a vermin had started speaking in tongues. Gunther let their imaginations fill in the blanks, painting a picture of a mutation that could be harvested, studied, or used to tip the scales of the entire region.
Armal's reaction started as a dry rattle in his throat before erupting into a loud, obnoxious burst of laughter that echoed off the cracked ceiling. The others stared at him, their expressions hardening, until he finally leaned back, wiping a mock tear from his eye.
"A miracle boy?" Armal's voice suddenly dropped an octave, turning deadly and sharp. He leaned across the table, his gaze boring into Gunther's soul. "It's a beautiful story, Gunther. Truly. But it leads me to the only question that matters: Why should any of us believe a single word that comes out of your mouth?"