The Reignn industrial district smelled of rotting fish, cracked ozone, and heavy sulfur. The freezing fog rolling off the dark river clung to the cobblestones like a physical weight, masking the decay of the forgotten slums.
Devin walked through the thick mist with purposeful, heavy strides. He didn't bother sticking to the shadows. He didn't crouch behind the rusted shipping crates lining the docks. The Cyprian venom boiling in his stolen veins absolutely refused to let him cower. It demanded to be seen. It demanded to be felt.
The old Ironworks loomed ahead, a massive, decaying husk of brick and corrugated steel jutting out over the black water. The windows were entirely boarded up, but thin, sickly slivers of yellow alchemical light bled through the cracks.
Two men stood guarding the heavy, rusted loading doors. They were thick-necked bruisers wearing the signature studded leather aprons of the Pale Hounds. One was sharpening a curved gutting knife on a whetstone; the other was casually smoking a rolled cigar, the cherry glowing bright orange in the fog.
Devin didn't slow his pace. He walked directly into the pool of light spilling from the lone streetlamp.
"Hold it right there, rat," the smoker barked, dropping his hand to the heavy iron mace strapped to his hip. "This district is closed. Turn around and walk back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
Devin stopped ten feet away. He tilted his head, his dark, borrowed eyes locking onto the man's throat.
"I'm looking for Kevin," Devin said. His voice was a low, raspy hum that vibrated in the damp air. "You took him from his mother about twenty minutes ago."
The man with the gutting knife stopped sharpening. He looked at Devin, squinting through the fog, before a cruel, barking laugh erupted from his chest.
"Well, I'll be damned," the knife-wielder chuckled, elbowing his partner. "It's the barista. From the sub-human cafe in the square. The drunkard actually sent the coffee boy to settle her debts."
"Look at him," the smoker grinned, taking a long drag of his cigar. "He actually thinks he's a hero. Listen to me, boy. The kid belongs to the Alchemists now. His blood is already bought and paid for. Walk away before we decide to tap your veins, too."
Prince Devin Trangdar—the noble swordsman who believed in justice and royal duty—screamed from the depths of his mind to draw a weapon, to demand a parley, to fight with honor.
But Zain Ricky's body didn't listen.
The Cyprian venom fully engaged. It flooded Devin's nervous system, drowning the royal consciousness in a wave of dark, intoxicating euphoria.
Devin closed the ten-foot gap in a fraction of a second. He moved so fast the heavy fog physically swirled and tore around his shoulders.
Before the smoker could even drop his cigar, Devin's hand clamped around the man's thick throat. He didn't punch. He didn't strike. He simply lifted the two-hundred-pound thug completely off the ground with one arm, his fingers digging effortlessly into the man's windpipe.
The thug's eyes bulged, his hands frantically clawing at Devin's wrist, his heavy iron mace completely forgotten.
"You talk too much," Devin whispered.
He tightened his grip. The sickening, wet crunch of the man's larynx collapsing echoed loudly in the quiet night. Devin casually tossed the suffocating, dying man into the dark river below.
The second guard froze, staring at the empty space where his partner had just been standing. Panic instantly replaced his arrogant cruelty. With a feral shout, he lunged forward, thrusting the jagged gutting knife directly at Devin's chest.
Devin didn't dodge. He let the blade strike him.
The steel tore through Zain's woven jacket and pierced the skin over his ribs. But the venom-laced muscles underneath immediately clamped down on the metal like a vice. The blade stopped dead, barely an inch deep.
The thug gasped, trying to pull the knife free, but it was stuck fast.
Devin looked down at the blade, feeling a terrifying, primal rush of pleasure wash over him. The pain didn't register as agony; it registered as a violent stimulant.
"My turn," Devin said.
He reached out, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted sharply. The loud, sharp snap of the radius bone breaking made Devin smile. It was a cold, fractured expression that felt entirely alien on his face. He ripped the knife from the man's ruined hand, reversed the grip, and drove it smoothly up under the guard's jaw, piercing directly into his brain.
The man dropped like a stone.
Devin stood over the corpse, breathing heavily. His hands were shaking, but not from fear.
He was horrified. He was absolutely terrified by the undeniable reality settling into his bones. He enjoyed it. The slaughter felt incredible. The venom rewarded the violence with a massive, chemical dump of pure ecstasy, effectively blurring the line between the noble prince seeking justice and the feral Cyprian beast craving blood.
He was beginning to like the monster Count Sapien had turned him into.
Devin ripped the heavy iron loading doors open, snapping the internal deadbolt entirely off its hinges.
He stepped inside the old Ironworks.
The interior was a massive, hollowed-out factory floor. The smell of rust and industrial decay was completely overpowered by the sharp, sterile tang of alchemical preservatives and the heavy, metallic stench of fresh blood.
He walked out onto a rusted metal catwalk that overlooked the main factory floor.
Below him, the nightmare of the Reignn underworld was laid bare.
Dozens of heavy, wooden surgical chairs were bolted to the concrete floor. Above them hung a complex network of glass tubing and dripping brass valves. The chairs were filled with terrified, emaciated sub-humans, their arms strapped down tightly with thick leather belts. Needles were driven deep into their veins, slowly siphoning their dark, anomaly-rich blood into glowing, runic glass vials.
At the center of the room, strapped to a freshly prepared chair, was Kevin. The young man was thrashing wildly, tears streaming down his bruised face as an Alchemist in a pristine white coat prepared a thick, hollow needle.
Standing behind the Alchemist were the three Pale Hounds from the apartment building. The lead thug, the one who had struck Kevin, was casually counting a heavy pouch of Mortipian gold coins.
"Keep him still," the Alchemist ordered, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "If his heart rate spikes too high during the initial tap, the Holy Gene catalyst will curdle the batch. I need it pure."
"Just stick him, Doc," the lead thug laughed, tying off the pouch. "We have three more apartments to raid before sunrise."
"You aren't raiding anything else."
Devin's voice cut cleanly through the hum of the alchemical machinery. It carried a heavy, lethal weight that instantly silenced the room.
Every head snapped upward toward the catwalk.
Devin stood in the dim light, blood dripping slowly from the knife in his hand. He didn't look like a barista. He looked like the Grim Reaper draped in a canvas apron.
The lead thug's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. "You?" he shouted, pointing a thick finger up at the catwalk. "How the hell did you get past the door?"
Devin didn't answer. He vaulted entirely over the metal railing, dropping twenty feet straight down to the concrete floor below.
He landed in a heavy crouch, the impact barely registering in his augmented joints. The stone cracked beneath his boots.
"Kill him!" the lead thug roared, drawing a heavy, serrated broadsword from his back. "Tear him apart!"
The two remaining thugs charged.
The gaunt, scarred man reached Devin first, swinging a heavy iron chain tipped with a spiked iron ball. Devin ducked effortlessly under the whistling chain. He stepped directly into the man's guard, driving the palm of his hand up into the thug's nose. The bone shattered instantly, driving cartilage straight into the man's brain. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The third thug hesitated, his eyes darting to his fallen comrade. That fraction of a second of fear was his undoing.
Devin closed the distance, grabbing the man by the thick leather collar of his apron. He lifted him off his feet and hurled him violently into a heavy, cast-iron distillation vat. The vat ruptured on impact, spilling boiling, acidic alchemical fluid all over the screaming man.
The Alchemist dropped his needle, scrambling backward in absolute terror, slipping on the bloody concrete.
Only the leader remained.
The massive thug gripped his serrated broadsword with both hands, his chest heaving. He wasn't arrogant anymore. He was staring at a monster.
"What are you?" the thug whispered, his hands trembling. "You aren't a barista."
"No," Devin replied, his dark eyes locking onto the man. "I'm the regret Count Sapien promised."
The thug roared, charging forward with a desperate, sweeping horizontal strike aimed directly at Devin's neck.
Devin didn't retreat. He stepped inside the arc of the blade, his venom-enhanced speed making the heavy sword look like it was moving underwater. He caught the thug's thick wrist with his bare hand.
The momentum of the massive swing stopped dead. The thug strained, his face turning purple, but Devin's grip was like forged iron.
"My turn," Devin whispered.
He twisted the wrist, snapping the joint entirely. The thug screamed, dropping the heavy sword to the floor. Devin didn't stop. The Cyprian venom roared in his ears, a dark, euphoric symphony demanding a blood sacrifice. He grabbed the screaming man by the throat, lifted him high into the air, and slammed him down onto the heavy, unyielding edge of the wooden surgical chair next to Kevin.
The man's spine snapped with a loud, sickening crack.
Devin stood over the broken, paralyzed leader. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. He was entirely covered in blood—just like he had been with Emerald.
But this time, it wasn't a tragedy. It was an absolute, undisputed massacre. And the terrifying truth was that Devin didn't feel guilty. He felt powerful.
He turned his head slowly, looking at Kevin.
The young man was still strapped to the chair. The gag was still in his mouth. But he wasn't looking at the dead thugs, nor was he looking at the fleeing Alchemist.
Kevin was staring directly at Devin. And the look in the boy's eyes wasn't the look of someone who had just been rescued. It was the look of absolute, unadulterated terror.
Kevin wasn't looking at a hero. He was looking at a feral beast wearing his neighbor's skin.
Devin stared back, the euphoric high of the Cyprian venom slowly draining away, leaving behind a cold, hollow void. He reached out and snapped the thick leather restraints holding the boy down.
"Go home, Kevin," Devin ordered, his voice returning to a flat, dead tone.
Devin didn't wait for the boy to move. He turned his back on the slaughterhouse, walking quietly toward the exit, the grim realization heavy on his soul. He had come to the Ironworks to save a life, but he was leaving it perfectly assured of his own monstrosity.