Thibault stood on the rooftop, staring down at the building below. Lily's Charms and Curios, the sign read. Entirely unremarkable structure, awkwardly wedged between others that looked just as tragically forgettable.

Still, he had to hand it to them—creative little hidey-hole. Finally. Finally! He'd cornered the slippery bastards.

The same gang responsible for Iron rotting in prison. Mostly peak yellow cores, with only their leader having cracked red. But Thibault had caught wind of a juicy little morsel of intel earlier today.

Apparently, their leader—that filthy vixen—had somehow tangled herself up with the House Heads. And not just recently; she was still in the upper district, far from home. Which, wonderfully enough, left the rest of her merry band completely exposed.

As luck would have it, a few of his men had spotted two gang members earlier and tailed them straight to this very building. Seemed like they were up to something urgent—so urgent, in fact, that they didn't notice the eyes on their backs.

Amateurs. He might've called them that, but eh—he glanced sideways.

Nothing. Just moonlight and midnight breeze.

The rest of his men were gathered a little further back on the roof, keeping quiet like he'd ordered. Took some time to round them up, but when you're dealing with the infamous Whisper's crew, even minus Whisper herself, you didn't cut corners. Not even as a freshly minted red core. Thibault didn't do chances.

"Don't lurk in silence when you've got something to say, Zoran. It's creepy as hell," he muttered to the empty space beside him.

As if on cue, the air shimmered—and resolved into a shape. Not so much a magical appearance as a mental blindspot being corrected. He'd been there the whole time.

Zoran. A wiry little Rakari cub, lion-kin. Element: water. Though how the hell he pulled off this invisibility gig was still a mystery. Thibault had poked around, tried to figure it out. All he ever got in return was a shrug and a vague, "Feels natural."

The kid used to work under Greg—that nosy human detective Thibault had personally taken off the board for digging too deep. He'd considered scrapping the kid too, just in case he knew something. Even sent a few mercs dressed up as Iron Pact grunts to pick him off if he returned to his hideout.

Of course, those geniuses got snagged by the actual Iron Pact. Bumbling morons.

Still, the cub got lucky. And now, he worked directly under Thibault—and only now did he get why Greg had kept him around.

The kid's knack for becoming background noise was pure, unadulterated gold for anyone ruthless enough to own it.

Thibault cut him a sideways look. "That trick always come so… naturally?"

The lion-faced kid tilted his head, looking up at Thibault with a question painted across his feline features.

"This whole disappearing-in-plain-sight trick," Thibault continued. "Water magic's not exactly known for illusions."

Zoran's gaze turned inward, thoughtful. "Not… traditionally. Honestly, I only started pulling it off recently. Had this… doll. Showed up in a dream one night. After that? Just… knew how." He shifted, discomfort plain. "Sounds cracked saying it aloud."

A doll. Thibault didn't twitch. Varkaigrad. He'd chewed on stranger tales from this pit.

"Whatever," he dismissed, slicing the air with his hand. "Intel on the interior?"

Zoran hesitated. Actually hesitated.

Thibault's brow knotted. That was fresh. The kid usually delivered intel like a scalpel—clean, quiet, precise. No wobble. Now? Conflict rippled under his fur.

Whisper's crew was putting cracks in his composure.

"I asked you a question," Thibault repeated, the words steel scraping bone.

Zoran's face reset to his usual unreadable calm. "Apologies. I couldn't get a look inside. The building's wrapped in wards. And… something told me not to cross the threshold."

"Instincts?"

"Instincts," he confirmed with a nod.

"Probably some tripwire or scream-spell baked into the brickwork," Thibault muttered. He scratched the bronze horn spiraling from his temple, then raked fingers through his disorderly blond mane. "Well, irrelevant. Even if they've got gatecrashers inside, we've got weight. We drown them."

He turned and gestured behind him.

A scrawny drakkari stepped forward, clutching what looked like ordinary rocks. Look closer, though, and the carved runes and delicate incisions told a different story—enchanted explosives. Not heavy-duty enough to level a fortress, but easily enough to punch through the kind of cheap defensive wards usually used by people here. Maybe even overkill. But hey, if it happened to vaporize at least one of those rats along the way? All the better.

"Shall I begin the festivities, hehehe~?" the bomber chirped, grinning like a skull with bad intentions.

Thibault recoiled. "When was the last time you scraped those fangs, you walking cesspit?"

The bomber's grin snapped shut—thank the indifferent ancestors. Those mossy, yellowed stumps could stun a troll at ten paces.

Thibault retreated from the miasma. Hygiene tribunal later. Carnage now.

The bomber pulled out a slingshot-like device, loading the rune-etched stone carefully into place. They were still far enough from the target to avoid triggering any long-range detection spells—just in case the gang had a sensor array or some mana-sensitive freak watching.

No such thing as too cautious.

"Hold," Thibault commanded, raising a hand. "Everyone else, get into position."

In response, the men behind him cracked knuckles, flexed shoulders, and without a word, leapt into motion—vaulting over rooftops and weaving across the patchwork skyline, hopping from crooked buildings toward the target.

Thibault had over twenty men under his command tonight—all of them yellow cores. Bit of an overcommit for two or three yellow-core thugs, sure. But today wasn't about fair fights. No, today was about certainty. Hell, if Miss Whisper herself was inside, even she might start sweating.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Maybe.

Not that he'd be stupid enough to go after her directly. You didn't last long in the lower district by being reckless, and Whisper? She wasn't just surviving—she'd been running this part of the city for years. To thrive here, dominate here? That took more than power. That took finesse. People like her… you don't pick a fight with unless you've written your will and kissed your core goodbye.

But her underlings?

Fair game.

Lately, they'd been poking their twitchy little noses into places they had no business sniffing around. Enough to earn them a tidy little death warrant straight from his benefactors. And while their meddling had gotten Iron captured, Thibault wasn't sweating it. Not one bit.

His benefactors had already explained—Pact was compromised. Iron was lying low, healing up, and thanks to the technique they'd provided to the crew, their growth was about to go boom. Iron had already breached red core. The others wouldn't be far behind.

Thibault's grin grew just thinking about it.

Twenty-plus red cores under his command? That wasn't a gang. That was an army. An army capable of flattening this entire district if it came to that.

For now, though, his attention stayed fixed on the advancing men as the bomber aligned his ridiculous slingshot contraption. The building sat there all calm and unassuming, but that wouldn't last. Neither would whatever poor bastards were still inside.

Sure, Whisper might come back later and blow her lid—if she came back. Thibault didn't know what she'd done exactly, but one thing was clear: the Matriarch of the Flameclaw Sect was pissed.

And when the Flameclaws got pissed, buildings burned.

Thibault's grin only widened as the last of his crew took position. He opened his mouth to give the signal—

BANG!

The front door slammed open with a crack.

Thibault blinked as a massive shade salamander came barreling out, one of the targets dangling by the collar from its jaws like a kitten carried by the scruff.

Viper.

Thibault recognized him instantly.

Training session? Last-minute evac? Whatever it was—

"Proceed," he ordered, waving the bomber on without a second thought.

The rotten-toothed freak let out a wet little chuckle, reloaded with flair, and let the bomb fly.

Shiing!

The twang was so sharp and forceful, Thibault honestly had to double-check if that was actually just a slingshot.

Too late to care now.

The enchanted stone screamed through the air and collided with the wall— Boom.

The ward shattered. So did the wall. Actually… the entire front of the building went with it.

Oops. Might've overdone it.

Thibault's grin returned full force.

"Nearest squad—intercept Viper and the beast! Do not let them ghost!" he barked into the relay crystal. His voice was ice. "Everyone else—breach and sweep. Priority capture alive. But if they get frisky…" A dark chuckle rasped in his throat. "…don't be shy about applying terminal solutions."

He savored the rising dust.

After all, where was the satisfaction in crushing ants if they didn't try to bite back?

Now came the waiting game.

Thibault itched to dive into the fray—but that would've ended the dance prematurely. Red cores had that effect. If every scuffle concluded with him crushing the opposition, his men would never hone their own claws. No sting, no strain, no ascent. Let a few take a bruising or a cut—it'd only stoke their furnace for strength.

So, he waited. Crossed one booted ankle over the other knee. Observed.

There was a certain… satisfaction in it. Not quite the raw thrill of slaughter, not quite the drag of boredom. Somewhere in the middle. A warlord's equivalent of sipping fine brandy at the opera.

Once the dust settled—both the metaphorical and the choking, physical cloud—then he'd make his grand descent.

Ah. Right on schedule.

Screams. Sharp and sudden.

The explosion had vomited enough grit to shroud half the street. Even with his enhanced vision, the haze was a thick, grey soup. Viper and his beast were slippery eels—both masters of natural camouflage—but his men were prepped. They'd concocted special countermeasures for exactly this flavor of trickery.

Camouflage, no matter how evolved, shared a fatal flaw: it was flesh and biology, not woven magic. That made it vulnerable to one beautifully crude solution.

Sticky. Paint. Bombs.

Pink. Gloriously, garishly pink. Thick and clinging like slime. Slathered over Viper and his beast like grotesque frosting. Their vanishing act dissolved instantly. Now they were just two noisy, bright targets flailing in the debris.

That should've been the end of it.

But then—

"Huh? They're running away?" Zoran's voice cut through the silence. The quiet kid had been seated right next to him the whole time—Thibault actually forgot he was there. That wasn't just unsettling. That was terrifying.

Zoran had a gift for slipping out of awareness—even other red cores'.

But there was no time to dwell on that. Something was happening.

A crackle of panic came through the relay:

"There's someone else in there—golden scal—AAAAAARGH!"

The voice didn't just cut off. It was ripped away, followed by the unmistakable, wet shlick of something sharp parting flesh.

Then a voice roared—female, but low and guttural, like a dragon choking on its own rage:

"YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS! I ASKED FOR ONE MINUTE OF REST!" Squelch. "JUST ONE!" THUD. "AND EVEN THAT—" Crunch. "—WAS TOO MUCH TO ASK?!" SMASH.

Thibault was on his feet before the last stomp landed.

His face twisted into something between fear and disbelief.

That voice—beastly, boiling with fury, wrong. It had the unmistakable resonance of a partial transformation. Beast-form. And judging from the sheer terror rippling through his men—hell, some had already fled—whoever she was, she wasn't just another yellow core.

There was another red core in the building.

Another red core. And not one of his.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath.

His gut twisted.

Had Whisper brought in outside help? A merc? Another sect?

Had they missed something?

Thibault advanced, boots pounding against the stone as screams echoed louder with every step.

These weren't just panicked yelps or desperate cries—they were death screams, gut-churning and raw. He could tell the difference.

His men were yellow cores, sure. But with the technique granted by his benefactors, they could tap into beast forms prematurely—gaining strength far beyond the norm for their tier. They were supposed to overpower, outlast, and overrun.

Instead, they were being butchered.

And not just in one spot. The screams came from different streets. Different alleys.

Multiple hunters. Coordinated.

Fuck. FUCK. He was losing them. Fast.

Thibault's eyes flared emerald. He clenched his fists, pouring mana into his core spell—half of everything he had.

His body convulsed as it shifted. Bones cracked, muscle tore and regrew. His scales darkened, barklike and gnarled. Blossoms of red, violet, and sickly blue bloomed across his limbs. His legs warped into bladed points that hissed with power, and five razor-sharp, emerald-tinged limbs sprouted from his sides, twitching with anticipation.

[Overgrowth.]

His speed quintupled.

He launched forward—shattering through walls, splintering wood and stone—until he skidded to a halt in the heart of the chaos, bladed legs screeching as they tore into the cobblestone.

It was a massacre.

Blood pooled across the street. Limbs scattered like fallen leaves. His men—his enhanced, transformed men—had been torn to pieces. Shredded. These weren't clean kills. They'd been devoured. This wasn't the work of disciplined killers. This was the wrath of something feral.

And then he saw her.

She towered over the corpses—at least eleven feet tall—golden scales gleaming like cursed treasure in the bloodied dusk. Tentacles of the same gilded hue snapped violently behind her, twitching with grotesque anticipation.

She was mid-meal.

She tore a man's torso in half, savored his screams, then swallowed his lower body in one wet gulp. Fingers next. Then the head. Crunch.

Thibault went cold.

He didn't hesitate—his instincts screamed—and he vanished in a blur of movement just as the ground behind him exploded.

A second version of her landed exactly where he'd been standing a moment before.

Thibault skidded across the street, blades shrieking against stone as he widened the distance.

He blinked. Twice.

No illusion.

There were two of her.

"Looks like the leash-holder's arrived," the second one growled. Her voice was feminine, but guttural—a beast wearing a voice like torn silk. Pure, distilled hatred saturated every syllable. "Second time today I've smelled this rot… and let me tell you…"

Her eye twitched.

"I DON'T HAVE A PLEASANT MEMORY OF IT!"

The ground trembled under her shout.

She tilted her head as she studied him. "But you… you're different. You don't reek like these bastards."

She sniffed once, then grinned. "Ah. You must be Thibault. Iron's right hand man."

Her smile widened, teeth like razors. "I was going to find you later. Had… reasons."

Her violet eyes narrowed, predator locking onto prey.

"But now you've stumbled straight into my open jaws."

She vanished.

"Who am I to refuse?" Her golden maw reformed inches from his face, breath hot and reeking of copper.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.