A perfect target.
In a quiet alley beside the building, Nerpheus crouched low, his sharp aquamarine eyes focused on the entrance. A small stream of water coiled and twisted in the air around his fingertips, drawn from the leather pouch at his waist.
Above him, Gabriel hovered a few inches off the ground, his turquoise eyes gleaming with mischief. "You're sure this guy stashes the good stuff upstairs?" he whispered.
Nerpheus smirked. "Not sure. But rich merchants don’t leave all their best wares out in the open. If he's hiding something valuable, it’ll be in his private storage. That’s where you come in."
Gabriel stretched lazily, his ever-present smirk widening. "So I slip in, grab whatever shines, and slip out while you distract him? Easy."
Nerpheus didn't respond. Instead, he turned his palm downward, releasing a slow trickle of water onto the cobblestone street. The liquid slithered under the shop's front door, snaking into the interior where Marlo, the jeweler, stood meticulously arranging his display case.
From his hidden vantage point by a side window, Nerpheus concentrated, feeling the water spread across the floor inside. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he sent a pulse through the liquid.
A loud clatter rang out as a tray of rings tumbled from the counter, scattering across the floor.
Marlo cursed, bending down to retrieve the fallen jewelry.
Nerpheus grinned and sent another pulse.
This time, a heavy wooden shelf behind the counter wobbled before a small golden figurine tipped over, landing with a dull thunk. Marlo jerked upright, his expression shifting from annoyance to confusion.
"The hell…?" he muttered.
Outside, Gabriel took his cue. Without a sound, he floated up to the second floor, slipping through an open window into the dimly lit backroom. Dust swirled in the sunlight filtering through the wooden slats, and rows of shelves lined the space. Golden trinkets, silver ornaments, and intricately designed amulets glinted in the low light.
Jackpot.
Gabriel’s fingers worked fast. He stuffed a few select pieces into his satchel—nothing too bulky, just small valuables that wouldn’t be immediately missed.
Below, Marlo’s suspicion grew. He straightened, scanning the shop, then turned toward the back door leading to the stairwell.
"Time to go," Gabriel whispered.
He hovered toward the window, but just as he reached the ledge, he heard the creak of the staircase.
Damn.
Without thinking, he grabbed a small statuette and hurled it across the room. The metallic clang it made upon hitting the floor was enough to redirect Marlo’s attention. The merchant spun toward the sound, and Gabriel slipped out, landing weightlessly onto the roof.
Below, Nerpheus saw him emerge and quickly recalled the water back into his pouch.
By the time Marlo stormed up the stairs, both thieves had already vanished into the crowded streets of Xylodia.
Gabriel and Nerpheus weaved through the crowded streets of Xylodia, their steps light with the thrill of success.
The weight of their stolen goods was barely noticeable, tucked away safely in Gabriel’s satchel, but the rush of adrenaline still coursed through them. They had done it. Another job, another handful of stolen treasures, another step toward survival.
Gabriel twirled a gold ring between his fingers, tossing it into the air before catching it effortlessly. His grin was wide, a glint of mischief in his turquoise eyes.
"Easy," he said, spinning the ring again. "Maybe next time we should hit somewhere bigger."
Nerpheus chuckled beside him, his sharp aquamarine eyes scanning their surroundings. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s—"
The sentence never finished.
Gabriel barely had time to react before a heavy hand clamped onto Nerpheus’s shoulder.
At the same time, another hand yanked the satchel off Gabriel’s back.
Gabriel twisted in mid-air, his body hovering just above the cobblestones as his fingers twitched, ready to retaliate. But before either of them could make a move, they found themselves surrounded.
Six men.
All older. Stronger.
And leading them was Tarris.
Gabriel immediately recognized him—a gang leader, nineteen or twenty, someone who had carved out his own brutal slice of Xylodia’s underworld. He wasn’t the biggest, or the smartest, but he was cruel enough to make up for it.
Tarris tossed the stolen satchel into the air casually, catching it with one hand, rolling his wrist as if weighing its worth.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” His voice slithered between them, low and mocking. “Couple of filthy little rats, thinking they could take what ain't theirs?”
Gabriel’s turquoise eyes flashed. “Funny,” he muttered, arms crossed. “I was just about to say the same thing.”
Tarris’s smirk widened—just before he jerked his chin at one of his men.
A sharp crack rang out.
Gabriel was struck hard across the face, his body spinning mid-air from the force of the blow.
Blood smeared his lip, but he didn’t fall.
Didn’t even waver.
Gabriel caught himself effortlessly, hovering a few inches off the ground, his expression darkening with fury.
Tarris let out a mock whistle, shaking his head. “Look at that. He doesn’t even fall.” His head tilted, eyes narrowing in twisted amusement. “What are you, some kinda freak?”
Gabriel’s hands twitched, a flicker of lightning sparking between his fingers, but he didn’t lash out yet.
Tarris barely paid him attention. His gaze had already moved.
And landed on Nerpheus.
The moment their eyes met, Tarris’s grin twisted into something crueler.
“Ohhh,” he mused, stepping closer. “Now, this one here…”
His gaze swept over the worn bandages, the tattered cloak. His nose wrinkled in exaggerated disgust.
“What the hell are you even supposed to be?”
Nerpheus didn’t say a word.
Didn’t move.
Tarris clicked his tongue, circling Nerpheus like a predator sizing up injured prey.
“Look at this one,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at his men. “Dressed like he’s rotting underneath all that.”
The others chuckled, stepping in closer.
One of them leaned in with a sneer. “You sick or somethin’, rat? You got plague scars under there?”
Another snorted. “Ugh, maybe he’s hiding something worse. Maybe he’s infected.”
Tarris mock-gasped, taking a step back.
“Oh, no!” He grinned, eyes gleaming with malice. “You’re not contagious, are you?”
The alley echoed with their laughter.
Then, without warning, Tarris spat.
The glob of saliva landed on Nerpheus’s cloak, darkening the fabric.
Gabriel went rigid.
His fingers crackled with faint electricity, his body shifting like he was about to launch forward—
Then he saw Nerpheus.
He wasn’t reacting.
Not flinching. Not wiping the spit away.
Just… staring at the ground.
Silent.
Gabriel’s stomach twisted.
Tarris let the moment stretch, smiling wider, his voice lowering into something sickeningly soft.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered. “You deaf, Plague Boy?”
His men chuckled, jeering.
Still, Nerpheus didn’t respond.
Didn’t meet his gaze.
Didn’t move.
Tarris’s smirk widened.
Then—he kicked him.
Hard.
The force of the blow slammed Nerpheus backward.
His body hit the wall—but before he could take the full impact, Gabriel caught him.
They both slammed into the cold stone behind them, the wind knocked from their lungs.
Gabriel’s arms were locked around Nerpheus’s torso, breaking the worst of the fall.
But Nerpheus still gasped sharply, chest heaving.
Gabriel gritted his teeth, eyes blazing as he pushed himself up, keeping Nerpheus steady.
Tarris laughed.
“Look at that!” he mocked. “Even the floating freak had to catch him. What, was I too rough? Maybe your bones are weak from all that rot.”
His men howled with laughter.
Gabriel felt something boiling inside of him.
He couldn't stand it.
Couldn’t stand the way Nerpheus wasn’t saying anything.
Couldn’t stand the way he just stood there, taking it.
But Gabriel understood.
If they fought now, if Nerpheus got cut, if even one of them saw what was underneath—
He was done.
Xylodia would tear him apart.
Gabriel exhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep his fury contained.
Tarris clicked his tongue, shaking his head with mock disappointment.
“What a waste,” he sighed, tossing the stolen satchel over his shoulder. “Tell you what, Plague Boy—maybe if you bow next time, I’ll be real nice and let you keep your scraps.”
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Nerpheus didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even lift his head.
Gabriel burned.
Tarris grinned one last time before turning away.
His men followed him, their laughter ringing through the alley as they disappeared into the streets.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Nerpheus was still leaning against the wall, his breath slow, controlled.
Gabriel wiped his lip with the back of his hand, spitting blood onto the ground.
He turned to Nerpheus, scowling.
“Why the hell did you just stand there?”
Nerpheus still didn’t answer.
Gabriel hated that.
Hated the way he just… took it.
But he also understood.
Slowly, Nerpheus pushed himself away from the wall. His body was stiff, his posture tense.
Gabriel hovered beside him, waiting.
And finally, Nerpheus muttered the only thing that mattered.
“We need to tell Orion.”
Gabriel clenched his fists.
Then nodded.
Without another word, they turned and disappeared into the shadows of the alley, heading for the hideout.
Gabriel and Nerpheus slipped through the alleyway, their feet barely making a sound as they approached their hideout. Hidden behind stacked crates, the entrance was little more than a gap between two rotting wooden planks leading into a cramped space beneath an abandoned building.
Inside, Orion sat cross-legged, sharpening a knife, his golden eyes sharp and calculating as the blade slid over the whetstone. The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone was the only sound in the dimly lit space.
Ra lay stretched out on the floor, tossing an apple into the air, catching it, and repeating the process lazily.
By the window, Tsuki carefully re-dyed his silver hair black, his delicate fingers moving with precision as Kannie mixed the ink beside him, her floppy ears twitching as she concentrated.
The moment Gabriel and Nerpheus entered, the atmosphere shifted.
Orion looked up, his gaze immediately locking onto Gabriel’s bloodied lip. His golden eyes darkened.
Ra sat up, catching the apple one last time before tossing it aside. Tsuki froze mid-motion, the ink brush pausing in his grip.
Orion’s grip on the dagger tightened.
“What happened?”
Gabriel landed lightly, scowling. “We got robbed.”
Ra’s green eyes narrowed. “By who?”
Nerpheus tossed his empty satchel onto the floor.
“Tarris.”
Silence.
Tsuki’s jaw tensed. The ink dripped from the brush onto the floor, forgotten.
Orion sat completely still. Too still.
Then, after a beat, he exhaled slowly. “Tarris took your score?”
His voice was calm. Too calm.
Gabriel’s fingers twitched with restrained rage. “Yeah. And we’re getting it back.”
Ra cracked his knuckles, a smirk playing on his lips. “Hell yeah, we are.”
Orion stood, rolling his shoulders, stretching his fingers before spinning the dagger between them.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Good.”
He glanced at his crew, his voice smooth, commanding. “Then let’s remind Tarris why we run these streets.”
Tarris and his men had returned to their hideout drunk on victory and cheap liquor, laughing as they counted the stolen score.
They had no idea what was coming.
Orion had planned this down to the finest detail.
- Gabriel and Nerpheus would use their wind and water magic to snuff out every lantern surrounding the hideout, plunging the area into complete darkness.
- Orion, Ra, and Tsuki would handle the fight, taking advantage of the chaos and striking with precise, brutal efficiency.
- Kannie, their fastest, would dart in and snatch anything valuable, bolting out before anyone noticed her.
They spent hours watching the hideout, observing the drunken slouch of Tarris’s men, noting where the exits were, and memorizing where their weapons were stored.
And then, at the deepest part of the night, they struck.
The moment Gabriel and Nerpheus acted, the street went dark.
A rush of wind snuffed out the flames of the lanterns lining the slum streets. At the same time, Nerpheus sent tendrils of water slithering inside through the cracks in the windows, dousing every torch inside.
The entire hideout plunged into pitch blackness.
Confusion erupted.
“The hell—?! Who turned out the lights?!”
“Get the torches back on!”
Orion moved first.
A shadow in the dark.
One of Tarris’s men stumbled forward, his hand reaching blindly for his weapon. Orion’s knife found his throat before he even realized someone was there.
The second man never got a chance to scream.
Ra smashed his fist into his gut, doubling him over. Before he could recover, Tsuki darted past, his dagger slicing cleanly across the man’s neck.
More men stumbled out of the hideout, drunk and disoriented.
Orion was on them in an instant.
A blade buried in a stomach. A leg swept from under a man, his head smashing into the cobblestones.
Ra fought with his usual brutal strength, fists slamming into ribs, breaking noses.
Tsuki was quicker, slipping through the chaos, his dagger flashing silver in the dark, cutting tendons and wrists before they even realized where he was.
Gabriel hovered above the battlefield, sending small, precise bolts of lightning into the fray—zapping hands reaching for weapons, stunning knees, disorienting anyone who tried to fight back.
Nerpheus stayed at the edges, keeping the shadows and the heavy mist rolling, turning the entire fight into a nightmare.
Kannie, swift as the wind, darted inside the hideout, slipping past fallen bodies.
She snatched coin pouches, swiped a box of jewelry, and pocketed a few expensive-looking trinkets before disappearing into the shadows.
By the time the fight was over, Tarris’s men lay scattered, bloodied, groaning in pain.
Two were dead.
The rest were left broken, bruised, and terrified.
Tarris sat slumped in his chair, the dim glow of lanterns flickering against the cracked stone walls of his hideout. His ribs ached from the earlier beating, his knuckles were raw from punching the walls in frustration, and his pride—what little he had left—was bruised beyond repair.
His men were scattered around the room, some nursing their wounds, others downing whatever cheap ale they could find to wash away the lingering humiliation of the night’s disaster.
And yet, for all the pain of what had happened, for all the frustration and shame burning in his chest, there was only one thought gnawing at his mind.
Lucian.
The Phantom King.
The one he owed.
Tarris swallowed, rubbing his hands together, trying to ignore the cold sweat gathering at the back of his neck.
Lucian wasn’t like other men in Xylodia’s underworld.
No.
The usual thugs, criminals, and gang leaders—they were predictable. They had tempers, desires, weaknesses. You could talk your way out of trouble with most of them if you had the right leverage, the right coin, or the right fear.
But Lucian?
He was something else.
A shadow that moved like a man. A whisper of death, not just feared—but inevitable.
Tarris had seen firsthand what happened to those who disappointed Lucian.
They didn’t just die.
They disappeared.
No bodies. No trace.
Just… gone.
Some said the shadows ate them.
Others claimed Lucian played with his victims first, stretching their suffering out for as long as it entertained him.
Tarris had always thought those were just stories.
Until the first time he saw one of Lucian’s executions.
The man had been screaming. Begging.
Lucian had said nothing.
He had only watched—eyes dark, hollow, sunken like he had long since stopped being human.
Then the shadows had moved.
Not like magic. Not like something from a mage’s spellbook.
Like something alive.
Tarris had watched in horror as a man was peeled apart, slowly, limb by limb, mouth gagged so his screams wouldn’t be heard past the walls of the hideout.
By the end, he had still been alive.
Even with his body in tatters, his fingers twitching in a pool of his own blood, his eyes had stayed open.
Lucian had walked away before the life drained from them.
That had been over a year ago.
Tarris had vowed never to get on his bad side.
But now…
His hands clenched into fists, his breathing shallow.
He had failed.
Lucian didn’t care about excuses. He didn’t care that a bunch of brats had gotten the better of him. He didn’t care that Tarris had been too drunk to fight properly.
Lucian cared about one thing.
The tribute.
And Tarris did not have it.
Tarris forced himself to calm down, leaning back in his chair.
Maybe—maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.
Lucian was still a man, wasn’t he?
Tarris had seen men like him before. They put on an act, made themselves bigger than they were, kept people afraid so they’d never have to get their hands dirty too often.
Yeah. That had to be it.
Lucian had his legend, his theatrics, his shadowy tricks.
But at the end of the day, he bled just like the rest of them.
Right?
Tarris let out a breath, convincing himself of his own lie.
All he had to do was play this right.
Lucian liked control—Tarris would give him the illusion of it.
He would bow his head, apologize, make a promise to double the tribute next week.
Yeah.
Lucian was smart—he knew it was better to get something later than nothing at all.
And if it came down to it…
Tarris’s fingers twitched toward the knife strapped to his belt.
If Lucian wasn’t willing to listen—if he got too close—
Maybe Tarris could get in one good strike.
A knife to the throat.
Even shadows couldn’t stop that, right?
He grinned to himself, feeling a rush of confidence.
Yeah.
He could do this.
He would talk his way out of this.
And if that failed—
He’d make sure Lucian never walked away from this room.
And just like that—
All his confidence vanished.
Tarris stiffened, his blood running cold.
His men looked around the room, uneasy, suddenly alert.
The shadows stretched unnaturally, slithering across the walls like oil.
The air became thick with something unseen, something wrong.
Tarris felt his throat tighten, a sensation like invisible fingers trailing along his spine.
Then—
A voice.
Smooth. Calm. Deadly.
“I assume you have my tribute?”
Tarris’s mouth went dry.
His hands felt numb.
The room seemed smaller.
Because he was here.
Lucian.
Sitting across from him.
Tarris had been so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t even seen him enter.
The knife at his belt suddenly felt useless.
Lucian’s black-ringed eyes stared into him, through him, as if peeling apart his mind.
And suddenly—
Tarris knew the truth.
He had never been in control.
Not even for a second.
He had been dead the moment Lucian had set foot in this room.
He just didn’t know it yet.
The temperature in the room dropped.
The very walls of the hideout seemed to breathe, the air thick with something unseen, something wrong.
A suffocating presence crept into the space, unseen but felt in the marrow of their bones.
Tarris shot upright, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
He knew what this meant.
A shadow stretched across the walls—not from the flickering candles, but from something else entirely. It twisted unnaturally, coiling like a living thing, stretching toward them, swallowing the corners of the room in pure abyssal blackness.
The Underworld King of Xylodia.
His jet-black hair framed his pale face, and beneath his cold, sunken eyes, dark rings sat heavy, as if he had never once known sleep.
And yet, he smiled.
It was not a comforting smile.
It was the kind of smile that made a man want to crawl out of his own skin.
Tarris swallowed hard, forcing himself to sit up straighter. He had been expecting Lucian
His men sat frozen, their breath shallow.
No one spoke.
“I assume you have my tribute?”
The words sent a ripple of dread through the men in the room.
Tarris’s throat went dry.
Lucian was a simple man. Every week, a tribute was required. The cost was astronomical—not just in coin, but in fear, obedience, and loyalty.
And if you didn’t pay?
You ceased to exist.
Tarris licked his lips. He had nothing.
But Lucian already knew that.
The bastard was just playing with him.
Tarris forced a grin, though it wavered at the edges. “Lucian, my friend—”
Lucian tilted his head.
The shadows at his feet shifted, curling like something alive.
“Friend?” Lucian repeated. His voice was gentle, almost disbelieving.
Tarris flinched. “I meant—Look, there were… complications.”
Lucian exhaled through his nose, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table.
His shadows crept along the floor, stretching toward Tarris’s feet, slithering up the legs of his chair.
“I like stories, Tarris,” Lucian mused, his tone conversational. “Tell me, what kind of complications would make you forget to pay me?”
Tarris hesitated.
Lie?
Beg?
He felt the weight of every eye in the room on him. His men were watching, waiting.
He tried to steady his breathing. “I was hit, alright? Some…some brats got me while I was drunk. They—”
Lucian raised a finger.
Tarris’s voice died in his throat.
“Ah,” Lucian sighed, as if the answer had finally clicked. “So you’re telling me that a few brats bested you?”
Tarris clenched his jaw.
Lucian’s smile widened.
“Tell me, did these children take your hands?” Lucian asked softly. “Did they take your voice?”
Tarris blinked. “Wh—”
Lucian’s expression turned vacant. Emotionless.
“Because if not,” Lucian continued, “then you could have crawled here, bleeding, and still placed my tribute at my feet.”
The room was silent.
Tarris’s hands shook beneath the table.
Lucian stared at him, his black-ringed eyes as lifeless as a corpse’s.
Tarris’s breathing hitched. He had seen men plead, scream, break down sobbing before Lucian.
It never changed the outcome.
Still, he had to try.
“I-I can get it,” Tarris stammered. “I just need more time.”
Lucian leaned back, drumming his fingers against the table.
Then, after a long pause, he sighed, smiling once more.
“You know, Tarris,” he murmured, “I think you might be right.”
Tarris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Then—
A shadow shot up from the floor, grabbing his wrist.
Before he could react, another wrapped around his ankle.
Then his other wrist. His other ankle.
He was trapped.
Tarris’s chair was yanked backward, crashing onto the floor.
The shadows coiled around his limbs, tightening, twisting—until he screamed.
Lucian watched.
Calm. Patient.
Then the shadows moved.
They weren’t just tendrils anymore. They were mouths.
Fanged, gaping, bottomless maws.
They bit down.
The first thing to go was his left arm—ripped clean from the socket.
His scream cut through the night like a blade.
The next was his right leg, severed at the thigh.
Then his other arm.
Tarris’s men stood frozen, some vomiting, some unable to even breathe, their eyes wide with pure horror.
Blood soaked the floor, seeping into the cracks of the stone.
Tarris convulsed, his chest heaving, his mind unable to even process the agony anymore.
Lucian watched the life drain from his eyes.
Then, as the final act of mercy—
The shadows lunged for his throat.
With one final, gurgled gasp, Tarris was gone.
His mutilated corpse lay twitching, then stilled.
Lucian sat back like nothing had happened.
He exhaled through his nose, then—just as calmly as before—turned his gaze toward the second-in-command.
The young man visibly flinched.
Lucian tapped his fingers on the table. “You have my tribute next week.”
The second-in-command nodded frantically, trembling. “Y-Yes, sir.”
Lucian stood up, dusting off his coat.
Then, just as smoothly as he had come, he turned—
And vanished into the night, the shadows swallowing him whole.
The room was left silent, save for the soft drip, drip, drip of blood pooling beneath what remained of Tarris