The five gang members stepped closer, their cheap, shiny knives catching the dim yellow light of the single streetlamp in the alley. The freezing rain poured down, soaking their dirty jackets. They smiled ugly, mean smiles, completely confident that they were about to score a massive payday.
They looked at Torian and Ren. They saw the expensive leather jackets, the shiny gold watches, and the perfect haircuts. The gang assumed they were just two spoiled, soft billionaires who had never been in a real fight in their entire lives.
They were horribly, hilariously wrong.
Torian and Ren didn't have their Beastworld magic anymore. They couldn't turn into a giant tiger or cast a sneaky fox illusion. But they were still massive, highly trained fighters who had spent hundreds of years battling giant monsters. To them, five skinny human thugs with pocket knives were basically annoying mosquitoes.
