The port streets were a battlefield, a theater of carnage where death danced to the rhythm of blades and muffled screams. The stench of dried blood and sweat mixed with fear lingered in the air, a pungent odor that clung to the skin like a second layer. The cobblestones, once smooth and worn by the passage of carts and sailors, were now streaked with dark trails, slick puddles faintly glistening under the flickering glow of lanterns. Every corner, every shadow seemed to hold its breath, as if the city itself was waiting, tense, for the next act of this bloody tragedy.

Mero advanced through this nightmare landscape with icy determination. His steps, though heavy, were measured, calculated. Every movement was a victory over the pain tearing at his left side, where a gaping wound continued to seep, a constant reminder of his mortality. But pain—he had transcended it. It was nothing more than a distant whisper, background noise drowned out by the deep roar of his rage. A cold, relentless rage that burned within him like a black fire, consuming everything in its path.

He was no longer prey. Not tonight. Tonight, he was the hunter.

His enemies had made the fatal mistake of underestimating him, of seeing him as a lost boy, a lamb strayed into a world of wolves. They would soon realize—too late—that the House of Salt did not raise lambs, but predators. Hunters hardened by fire and blood, forged in pain and vengeance. Mero was the embodiment of that truth, a sharp, elusive shadow moving through the darkness with deadly grace.

In the narrow, winding alleys of the port, he was a ghost, a fleeting presence slipping between buildings like a malevolent mist. His face, smeared with dried blood, was a mask of cold determination, his eyes glowing with an almost inhuman light. A cruel smile tugged at his lips, a smile that promised nothing but death. This city would remember his name. Maybe not tonight, but soon, they would all tremble upon hearing of Mero of Salt.

A sound caught his attention, barely perceptible amidst the chaos—a hurried footstep, ragged breathing, the short, uneven gasps of someone running. Mero slowly turned his head, his gaze cutting through the darkness like a blade. There, a few meters away, a man leaned against a wall, his face contorted with panic. One of the Master Serpent’s men—a stray, separated from his pack, hunted by his own fear. A trembling hand gripped a knife, while the other twitched, exhausted.

Mistake.

Mero slid from the shadows, silent as death itself. His blade, slender and razor-sharp, gleamed faintly under the dying light of a lantern. The man didn’t even have time to scream. The knife sliced his throat with surgical precision, a swift, fluid motion that left no room for resistance. Blood gushed, thick and hot, splattering the cobblestones with a soft, wet sound. The man’s body crumpled slowly, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

One less.

Mero didn’t linger. He vanished once more into the shadows, the warmth of his prey’s blood still fresh on his fingers. The others would understand now. This wasn’t a hunt. It was a war. A war they could not win.

The streets were in turmoil. The port guards, alerted by the screams and the growing number of bodies, swept through the district, their eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. They were searching for a ghost, a specter that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Mero, however, was untouchable. He moved with unsettling agility, always a step ahead, always out of reach. Every alley was an opportunity, every corner a potential ambush. Blood had been spilled, but not enough. Not yet.

He spotted another underling, crouched behind stacked crates near a warehouse. The man was drenched in sweat, his eyes wide with terror as he darted nervous glances around. The stench of fear clung to him, a nauseating scent that teased Mero’s senses. He approached silently, invisible—a shadow among shadows. His hand clamped over the man’s mouth, cutting off any sound, while the cold tip of his blade brushed against his throat.

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— "Where is the Master Serpent?" Mero’s voice was cold, almost monotone, as if he were speaking to a corpse.

The man trembled violently, his eyes wide with terror. He knew he was already dead, no matter what he said. But the fear of pain, of a slow death, outweighed the fear of death itself.

— "The port..." he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. "He wants to flee..."

Flee? No. Not after what he had done. Not after all this bloodshed.

With a swift motion, Mero slit his throat. The body crumpled, a final, ragged breath escaping from its lips. Mero didn’t spare it a glance. He melted into the shadows once more, his steps leading him inexorably toward the port, toward the end of this night of blood.

The night had fallen heavily over the harbor, a thick shroud smothering sound and light. The docks flickered under the glow of swaying lanterns, their flames dancing in the sea breeze. Guards patrolled in tight formations, their gazes sharp, their weapons at the ready. They knew his face now. They had seen the bodies, heard the screams. But they still didn’t know his true target. They didn’t know that the Master Serpent was the prey, that all of this was just a stage set to bring him within reach.

The Master Serpent was there, hidden aboard a massive ship, its white sails already billowing in the wind, ready to depart. Mero clenched his teeth, the sharp throb of his wounds reminding him of his mortality. But he had no time for weakness. Not now. Not when he was so close.

He studied the docks, searching for an opening, an opportunity. A crane hoisted crates above the ship, moving in a slow, rhythmic motion that caught his attention. A reckless idea flashed through his mind, but another, older one took precedence. The naval battle of Tsipo. A smaller fleet that had triumphed by setting enemy sails ablaze.

Fire.

He needed a bow.

Mero slipped into the shadows, scanning his surroundings for a solution. A wooden sign hanging above a shop caught his eye. A weapon store, dimly lit by a flickering lantern. He moved closer, senses on high alert. The door was locked, of course. But a side window was slightly ajar. Just enough for him.

He slipped inside, the thick scent of metal and gunpowder filling his nostrils. Swords, muskets, armor... and finally, a composite bow with a quiver full of arrows. Perfect. He also grabbed a small vial of lamp oil. If his enemies thought he would fight them fairly, they were in for a cruel disappointment.

Footsteps echoed outside. No time to linger. Mero climbed back out the window, the bow secured in his grip, and disappeared into the night.

The port was still on high alert. Guards moved anxiously, their eyes sweeping the darkness. Mero climbed silently up a stack of crates against a warehouse, reaching the rooftop. From there, he had a clear view of the Serpent’s ship. The white sails were taut, ready to catch the wind and carry the Master Serpent far from this city, far from Mero’s vengeance.

Mero lay flat on his stomach, ignoring the stabbing pain in his wounds. This position was ideal for staying hidden, but tricky for shooting a bow. He nocked an arrow, coating the tip in oil. His fingers trembled slightly, but he forced them steady. Striking the tip against a stone, he ignited it. The arrow flared to life, a bright orange glow in the black night.

The world around him faded. The shouts of the guards, the pounding footsteps, even the searing pain—all vanished. There was only him, the bow, and his target.

He aimed at the great sail.

He released the string.

The arrow streaked through the air, tracing a fiery arc against the dark sky. It struck the stretched fabric, and for a moment, time stood still. Then the flames erupted, devouring the sail with insatiable hunger. Panic erupted. Guards rushed toward the ship, desperate to contain the blaze.

Mero didn’t wait to see the outcome. He pushed himself up, swaying slightly from exhaustion, and leapt from the roof. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his body, but he kept running, each step a victory against the death circling him. The fire illuminated the harbor behind him, a spectacle of chaos and destruction.

The Master Serpent had no escape now.

Mero disappeared into the night, a cruel smile stretching across his bloodstained lips. Vengeance was near. Very near.