The compound of the Red Scorpion Gang buzzed with its usual chaos. Men shouted over gambling tables, slaves shuffled about with lowered heads, and the reek of stale alcohol clung to the night like fog. To most, it was another ordinary evening under Simon Marks' iron rule.
For Gregor, it was judgment day.
The frost-bitten body of the cruel maid still lay behind him as he stepped into the open, the cold steaming off her corpse like mist off a winter lake. With every breath Gregor drew, magic rushed into him—thin streams of ambient mana flowing into his bones, muscles, and blood. His veins tingled with power. His senses sharpened until he could hear distant footsteps, heated arguments, even the thrum of magic circulating within the mages stationed around the fortress.
His lips curled into something between a grin and a snarl.
Time to leave this cage behind.
A guard rounded the corner, blinking in confusion. "Hey—how'd you get out—"
Gregor moved before the sentence finished.
A single step, the twist of his hips, and a fist slammed into the man's throat. Cartilage collapsed with a wet crunch. The guard dropped, gagging silently before Gregor ripped the short sword from his belt.
Warm blood dripped down Gregor's fingers. The weapon felt balanced enough.
More footsteps echoed.
"Prisoner loose!"
"Get him!"
Five men charged down the hallway. Gregor inhaled deeply, pulling heat from the air around him—the torches dimmed, flames shrinking as if bowing before him. Cold flooded the corridor.
The first man swung. Gregor stepped inside his guard, elbow crashing into the man's jaw. The soldier's head snapped sideways—Gregor caught him mid-fall and hurled his body into the others. They tumbled in a heap.
Gregor followed with the smooth, brutal precision of someone who had spent lifetimes fighting. A stomp to one throat. A blade thrust under a rib cage. A twist that broke a shoulder. Bones snapped, blood sprayed, screams tore through the corridor.
Within seconds, five bodies lay still.
Gregor exhaled, steam pouring from his lips.
He wasn't tired—not yet.
His body drank the heat shed by the corpses, absorbed the fading life-energy still clinging to them. Strength surged through him.
He continued.
As he entered the courtyard, dozens of gang members spotted him. Someone screamed, "The cripple escaped!"
Gregor frowned. "Cripple? Not anymore."
They swarmed him.
Gregor welcomed them.
He moved like a phantom—an elbow crack to the nose, a knee driving into a rib cage, a roundhouse kick that sent a man sprawling. A sword slashed at him—Gregor sidestepped and stabbed the attacker under the chin, driving the blade into his skull. Hot blood splashed his face.
Another charged with a spear. Gregor caught the shaft, ripped it free, and hurled it like a javelin—impaling two others to a wooden wall.
A mage finally reacted, firing a blazing fireball.
Gregor inhaled, pulling the heat right out of the spell. The fireball vanished mid-air, collapsing into sparks that flowed into Gregor's skin like a dying star.
The mage's face went white.
Gregor pointed at him.
"Thanks for the snack."
The mage turned to run—Gregor dashed forward, sword flashing, severing the man's spine with a clean diagonal cut.
More came.
Arrows loosed from above. Gregor absorbed the kinetic force of every arrow that struck him, the impacts dissolving into harmless ripples of energy. Then he flicked his hand—and released the stolen energy like a shockwave.
The balcony exploded. Bodies flew. Wood splintered.
By now, a dozen corpses stained the courtyard. Gregor's breathing remained calm. His eyes, cold and sharp, scanned for the next threat.
A squad of armed elites stepped out from the training hall—tall men wearing crimson armor, all fire-aligned mages.
"Burn him alive!" one yelled.
A blazing inferno surged toward him.
Gregor stood still.
The flames enveloped him—only to dim, gutter, and vanish, sucked directly into his body like water into dry earth. The elites stared in horror as their spells fed him instead of killing him.
Gregor cracked his neck. "Try harder."
He blurred forward.
A punch crushed a ribcage. A kick caved in a skull. His sword danced in his hand, slicing through armor, flesh, and bone. He felt no hesitation—only the cold efficiency of a man who decided long ago that mercy was nothing but a weakness.
Within moments, another dozen bodies cluttered the ground.
He was at nearly forty kills.
The fortress alarm finally rang—deep metallic gongs resonating across the compound. Doors flung open. Dozens more gang members flooded out, some mages, some swordsmen, all desperate.
Gregor stood in the center of the courtyard like a lone, bloody god.
"Come," he whispered.
They obeyed.
The battle devolved into pure carnage. Gregor fought with savage brilliance—MMA strikes breaking bones, boxing hooks collapsing skulls, elbows slicing through faces. He transitioned seamlessly between martial arts and swordplay, spinning, dodging, cutting, absorbing, killing.
A lightning mage unleashed a bolt. Gregor absorbed it mid-strike, channeling the energy through his arm and releasing it point-blank into the mage's chest—turning the man into a smoking corpse.
A wind mage tried to blast him away. Gregor inhaled sharply—the spell collapsed, its energy sucked into his lungs like air.
He slit the mage's throat with one fluid swipe.
Every spell became fuel. Every attack became nourishment.
Soon, corpses littered the ground everywhere he stepped—some frozen, some charred, some cut to pieces. The remaining gang members trembled, backing away as Gregor advanced one step at a time.
He had reached fifty kills.
Then the heavy oak doors of the main hall creaked open.
A wave of suffocating heat washed over the courtyard.
Simon Marks—the infamous Flame Butcher, leader of the Red Scorpion Gang—emerged wearing a black coat embroidered with crimson scorpions. His aura burned so intensely that the air shimmered.
His eyes met Gregor's, widening slightly at the massacre.
"So," Simon growled, "the cripple grew teeth."
Gregor smiled faintly. "The dog finally crawls out."
Simon snarled. "You think you can walk into my home, kill my men, and leave alive?"
"I don't think," Gregor said calmly. "I know."
Simon raised his hands—fiery runes igniting around him, forming a blazing circle on the ground.
"Burn, bastard. BURN!"
A tidal wave of flame erupted toward Gregor—hot enough to melt stone.
Gregor simply inhaled.
The flames bent mid-air, swerved, screamed as if alive, and funneled into Gregor's open mouth and chest. His body vibrated as if filled with molten steel. When the last spark faded, the courtyard fell silent.
Simon stood frozen.
Gregor wiped his lips.
"Not bad. A bit spicy."
Rage twisted Simon's face. He unleashed spell after spell—fire bombs, flame spears, molten waves—but Gregor devoured everything, growing stronger, brighter, more terrifying with each stolen burst.
Finally, Simon's mana sputtered and died.
Gregor approached him almost lazily.
"What's wrong?" Gregor asked. "Run out?"
Simon swung a punch in desperation.
Gregor caught the fist—and began draining him directly.
Simon screamed as heat left his body, as mana was ripped from his veins, as his life-force bled into Gregor like water into sand. His flesh shriveled, his eyes sank, his strength vanished.
When Simon collapsed, he was barely recognizable—a gray, dried husk.
Gregor dropped him.
"One more corpse for the pile."
Silence swept the fortress.
Gregor wiped blood from his face, stepped over bodies, and made his way to the treasure vault. The guards had fled long ago. With a lazy push of his hand, he drained the metal door of its structural energy—the hinges crumbled, and the door fell.
Inside lay chests of gold coins, silver bars, gemstones, enchanted trinkets, and documents.
Gregor filled a large duffel bag with everything valuable. The weight didn't matter—he was overflowing with stolen power.
He walked out of the compound through the front gate, leaving behind a valley of corpses, flames dying in the cold air.
Not once did he look back.
Gregor Velhart, reborn and unchained, stepped into the night with the wealth of a gang lord and the power of a monster.
His freedom had begun.
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