...
A month. Thirty days since Bane Bloomer had woken in this adolescent shell, a pale imitation of manhood, yet possessing the vital spark of youth. Bane mused, observing his reflection in a puddle shimmering with gutter grime. The face was unremarkable, almost forgettable, a blank canvas he would soon repaint with intent. The eyes, however, were his own – cold, calculating, the pupils sharp points of obsidian in the dim light of Tawal's underbelly.
Tawal. A city festering in the shadow of the Obsidian Creed, its once proud walls now stained with the grime of neglect and the unsettling sigils of demonic worship. Gangs warred in the streets, petty fiefdoms carved out of desperation and fear, while the Creed tightened its grip from above, a suffocating blanket of dogma and dread. Perfect breeding ground for chaos, Bane had decided. And chaos, as he knew, was opportunity.
He’d spent the month observing, learning the city’s rhythms, its power structures, its weaknesses.
He’d insinuated himself into the fringes of two rival gangs - the Crimson Knives and the Ironclad Fists - playing them against each other, a delicate dance of misinformation and manufactured conflict.
It was a crude game, but necessary to establish a foothold, to understand the currents of power flowing through this wretched place.
Now, however, a loose thread needed to be severed.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, boy,” the man wheezed, his voice thick with stale ale and apprehension. Garok, they called him. A hulking brute, muscle straining against cheap leather armor, a lieutenant in the Crimson Knives.
He stood before Bane in a narrow alley behind the Drunken Rat tavern, the stench of rotting refuse clinging to the damp brick walls. Garok’s hand rested on the pommel of a crude iron sword, his eyes narrowed, suspicion curdling his features.
Bane remained impassive, leaning against the wall, a picture of nonchalant ease that belied the lightning crackling beneath his skin.
“Dangerous? For whom, Garok?” he asked, his voice smooth, almost silken, a stark contrast to the alley’s rough edges.
Garok shifted his weight, the iron sword scraping against its scabbard. “Don’t play coy. Word gets around. Whispers in the shadows. They say you’re talking to the Fists. Saying things you shouldn’t.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Bane allowed a flicker of amusement to touch his lips, a cold, predatory smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Whispers are just that, Garok. Air moving through empty spaces. Don’t let them spook you.”
“Empty spaces?” Garok spat on the ground, a glob of phlegm landing with a wet thud.
“You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see you sniffing around both kennels? You think you can play us both for fools?”
Bane sighed, a sound of feigned weariness. “Garok, you misunderstand. I’m merely…efficient. Why limit myself to one source of income when two are readily available? It’s simple pragmatism.”
“Pragmatism gets you dead in this city, boy,” Garok growled, finally drawing his sword. The rusty metal glinted dully in the weak light. “Loyalty is worth more than silver. You chose to be disloyal.”
“Loyalty,”
Bane echoed, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “A quaint concept. Useful for dogs, perhaps. Not for men who seek to rise above the rabble.”
He pushed himself off the wall, the languid movement deceptive. “You see, Garok, you’re right about one thing. I am playing a game. And in this game, pawns like you are…expendable.”
Garok lunged, a clumsy, telegraphed attack. Bane didn’t even flinch. As the iron blade arced towards him, Bane’s mind unfurled, a psychic wave rippling outwards.
Garok stumbled, his eyes widening in confusion, his muscles seizing, his movements suddenly sluggish, heavy as lead. He roared in frustration, trying to fight through the invisible pressure crushing his will, but it was like wading through treacle.
Then, the lightning came.
Not a flash from the sky, but a contained, focused burst, erupting from Bane’s outstretched hand. Arcs of raw, blue-white energy crackled around his fingers, coalescing into a jagged bolt that slammed into Garok’s chest.
The smell of ozone filled the alley, acrid and sharp. Garok’s roar turned into a choked gurgle. His eyes bulged, veins throbbing in his neck, and his body spasmed violently as the lightning coursed through him, frying nerves, burning flesh. The iron sword clattered to the ground, forgotten.
The psychic pressure intensified, Bane tightening his mental grip, amplifying Garok’s pain, twisting his terror into a weapon. He watched, detached, as the man’s face contorted, sweat beading on his brow, his lips pulling back in a silent scream. It was…interesting, this raw display of human fragility. Data to be collected, analyzed.
Finally, with a flick of his wrist, Bane released the psychic hold. The lightning dissipated, leaving behind the lingering scent of burnt meat and singed hair. Garok crumpled to the ground, a twitching, smoking heap. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the grimy sky, reflecting nothing but the dull light and the encroaching darkness.
Bane stepped over the corpse, his boots crunching on loose stones. He glanced back at Garok, a flicker of something akin to…satisfaction? No, not satisfaction. Efficiency. The problem was solved. The loose thread severed.
He wiped his hand on his worn trousers, dismissing the lingering static of the lightning. Tawal was a city of shadows and violence, and Bane Bloomer intended to thrive in its darkness. He was not a hero, not a savior. He was something else entirely. Something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous. The inheritor of chaos, and he was just beginning to claim his legacy.