Dawn broke slowly over the ghetto, but the light did nothing to warm the chill that had settled overnight. The streets remained unnervingly quiet, even for a district used to violence. A faint mist clung to the ground, mixing with the metallic scent of blood that hung thick in the air. The silence was broken only by the clatter of armored boots as a column of imperial soldiers marched into Red Scorpion territory.
They stopped at the entrance, confronted by the carnage left behind. Bodies lay strewn across the dirt like discarded rags—some collapsed in unnatural angles, others face-down in pools of dark, dried blood. The men were hardened soldiers, trained to witness brutality, but even they exchanged uneasy glances.
"By the gods…" one whispered.
Captain Roderick, the silver-armored officer in charge of the investigation, dismounted and surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes. He was a veteran with a scar across his chin, a man who prided himself on rarely being surprised. Yet even he felt his chest tighten.
"This wasn't a skirmish," he muttered. "This was extermination."
His adjutant, Sergeant Vale, knelt beside a corpse whose head was nearly severed. "A gang war?" he suggested. "Looks like a whole group ambushed them."
"That's the only explanation that makes sense," Roderick replied. "No single man could do this."
He said it with confidence, but the words rang hollow. Something felt off. The wounds varied—some clean and precise as if cut by a blade, others the result of crushed bone, ruptured organs, and blunt-force trauma beyond what an ordinary fighter could inflict. And then there were the scorch marks—blackened ground, charred bodies, melted metal, and yet no signs of lingering magical energy as there should be after large spell exchanges.
It was chaos, but chaos with an odd, almost intentional rhythm to it.
He ordered the soldiers to spread out. They began searching alleyways, overturning crates, checking bodies, taking note of spell residue—or rather, the absence of it.
One soldier knelt beside a burned corpse. "Sir, this one looks like he was incinerated. But…" He pushed his glove into the charred skin. It crumbled like brittle ash. "There's no mana trace."
"No mana trace?" Vale repeated. "Impossible."
Roderick didn't answer. He was already piecing together the unease threading through his men. Even the mage accompanying them, an imperial arcanist named Thalia, looked confused.
"It's as if magic was cast here…" she said, scanning the air again, "but every trace of it was… devoured."
Roderick looked sharply at her. "Devoured? Explain."
"I—" She hesitated. "Magic doesn't just vanish. Even after a spell expires, residual mana lingers for hours. But here… it's as if something consumed it. Drank it dry."
A few of the younger soldiers made subtle signs of warding against evil.
"All right," the captain said finally. "Let's find witnesses. Someone must've seen something."
They spread out into the surrounding district, knocking on doors, questioning the few brave—or foolish—souls willing to speak.
The first trembling witness, an elderly vendor who sold stale bread by the roadside, swore that a group of masked mercenaries stormed the gang's base. "At least ten of 'em!" he insisted, breath shaky. "Fast as wolves. Strong too! I saw bodies flying!"
Another claimed he saw a mage unit from the underworld, their eyes glowing red. "Had to be sorcery. Nobody human fights like that."
A third swore it was some monster wearing a man's skin.
The testimonies were inconsistent, but one thing united them all: not a single witness claimed that the slaughter was done by one man.
Roderick filled several pages in his ledger but remained dissatisfied. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "They're all terrified. They can't even describe the attackers properly."
But then, one of the soldiers dragged forward a young boy—scruffy, bruised, and reeking of smoke. He looked half-starved, half-wild. A street rat who had likely seen more violence than most adults.
"Captain," the soldier said, "this one claims he saw the whole thing."
Roderick crouched so he was eye-level with the boy. "What's your name?"
"Timo."
"What did you see, Timo?"
The boy swallowed. His eyes flickered anxiously across the bodies lying in the street. "Wasn't a group," he whispered.
Roderick stiffened. "Speak clearly."
"It… it was one man."
The surrounding soldiers fell silent.
"One man?" Vale barked. "Boy, don't lie to us."
"I ain't lying!" Timo snapped, voice cracking. "I saw it! He moved like a demon. Strong—fast—he tore through them like they were nothing! They kept shooting spells, but—but—" He hesitated, trembling. "He ate the magic."
Roderick exchanged a slow glance with Thalia.
"Describe him," the captain ordered.
Timo bit his lip, thinking. "Tall. Muscular. Black hair. But he… he wasn't dressed like a warrior. He had chains on his ankles… like a slave."
The revelation hit Roderick like a fist to the chest.
A slave. Not a mercenary. Not a rogue knight. A slave… slaughtering an entire gang alone and absorbing magic.
"What direction did he go?" Roderick asked.
The boy pointed beyond the ghetto, toward the westward path. "That way. He took a horse and wagon from the gang. I saw him leave before sunrise."
Roderick turned toward that direction. "That leads to Arbadeen…"
The sergeant paled. "Arbadeen? That's Count Collin Winchester's territory."
"Yes," Roderick said quietly. "And if a monster like this reaches a noble's lands, the entire region could be destabilized."
Mage Thalia spoke softly. "Captain… if this man truly absorbs magic, then he poses a threat far greater than a runaway slave."
Roderick closed his ledger. "Issue a report to headquarters. Mark this incident as a potential Class-Seven threat."
A ripple of fear spread among the soldiers. Class-Seven threats were rarely issued. It meant one individual had the potential to devastate entire districts.
But before more orders could be given, two soldiers approached dragging a wounded, surviving Red Scorpion member. His left arm was broken, his nose shattered, and his breaths ragged.
"You…" Roderick said, stepping forward. "You're one of Simon Marks' men."
The thug wheezed, "Simon… Simon's dead."
"We can see that," the captain said coldly. "Tell me what happened."
The man's eyes filled with horror. "He fought the boss… flames everywhere… but nothing worked. The bastard just… swallowed it. Like the fire made him stronger."
"Was it really one man?" Vale asked.
"Yes," the thug whispered hoarsely. "One. A devil. Chains on his feet… and eyes like he'd already died once."
Roderick's jaw tightened.
The testimonies aligned. One man. A slave. A monster in human form.
Meanwhile, far beyond the ghetto, Gregor was already long gone.
The wagon creaked under the weight of the gold and silver he had taken. The horse snorted as it pulled the load down the quiet forest road. Gregor sat atop the wagon, one hand lightly gripping the reins, the other resting on the sword he had kept. His body still hummed with the remnants of absorbed mana, fueling a calm, predatory euphoria.
Behind him, the sun rose over a district now filled with soldiers, questions, and fear.
Before him lay the road to Arbadeen.
And whatever awaited him there.
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