Kael stood frozen before the most dangerous man in District 9—a title Feng Yang had earned through rivers of blood, mountains of narcotics, and an empire built on hextech and flesh. Whispers slithered through the slums that he was preparing to overthrow the Black Fangs, the reigning gang in the Outskirts—the festering underbelly of Grein City, a forgotten stain on the edge of the Aurum Empire.
The Outskirts were a graveyard of ambition, divided into nine districts, each ruled by its own syndicate of cutthroats and parasites. The nobles in their gilded towers siphoned the empire's wealth, leaving the slums to rot. No law. No order. Only the gangs.
And Feng Yang was second only to the top.
"I accomplished my mission," Kael said, his voice flat.
From the folds of his tattered cloak, he produced a cube—six faces, each etched with intricate, glowing engravings. The air around it hummed, a low, resonant thrum that pulsed like a hidden heartbeat. A faint cerulean light seeped from its carvings, casting eerie shadows across Feng Yang's face.
The gang lord's eyes widened. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin.
"Wonderful," he breathed, snatching the cube from Kael's grasp. His fingers traced the patterns with near-childish fascination. "I didn't think you'd actually retrieve the Synthesis Core. And yet… here we are." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Buying you from that slave market was the best investment I ever made."
Kael's jaw tightened. "According to our agreement, once I delivered the Core, you'd release the slave sigil."
Feng Yang's smile stretched wider, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp, too hungry.
"Ah, well… about that." He sighed, as if disappointed by the necessity of his next words. "There are… technicalities. You see, you're far too useful to let go. My other men? Incompetent. Messy. But you?" He tapped the cube against his golden jaw. "You leave no traces. No loose ends. It'd be a waste to set you free."
Kael's breath hitched.
Today was supposed to be his freedom. The day he finally repaid his debt. The day he could leave this hell and awaken.
But Feng Yang had other plans.
Rage—white-hot and razor-edged—flooded Kael's veins. His fingers twitched toward the dagger hidden at his hip.
Feng Yang noticed. His grin turned feral.
"Oh, please," he mocked, spreading his arms wide. "That little knife won't even scratch me."
Then—
CRACK.
Feng Yang's aura exploded outward, an invisible tsunami of force. It slammed into Kael like a falling building, driving him to his knees. The air turned to lead in his lungs. His bones groaned under the pressure.
"I'm at the Knight Tier," Feng Yang sneered, stepping closer. "No one in this district can touch me."
Another wave of crushing energy. Kael's ribs splintered. The stone floor beneath him fractured, spiderwebbing outward as his body was pressed deeper into the ground. Blood trickled from his nose, his lips.
But he didn't scream.
He refused to scream.
Unseen beneath his shirt, the crystal hanging from his neck began to glow.
"But…" Feng Yang's voice softened, almost playful. The pressure vanished.
Kael gasped, dragging in ragged breaths. He forced himself up, clutching his shattered ribs. Blood painted his teeth. His vision swam.
Yet his eyes burned with defiance.
"Since it's your birthday," Feng Yang mused, "I'll humor you. One last mission. And this time? I'll even sign a blood contract. Guarantee your freedom. Throw in five gold coins for your trouble."
Kael froze.
A blood contract was unbreakable. Violate its terms, and the magic would cripple you—or worse.
Feng Yang was many things, but he wasn't stupid enough to defy a pact sealed in blood.
Still… Kael didn't trust him.
But what choice did he have?