The slums of Nimerath were an ugly, decaying testament to the city's dark underbelly. Towering, grimy buildings rose like jagged teeth from the broken cobblestone streets, their windows half-broken and lights flickering as if they, too, were weary of the world they lived in. It was a stark contrast to the shiny center of the city in which the rich ruled over the people. But here, it wasn't money that ruled, it was brute strength. The air hung thick with smog and the stench of cheap liquor, fried street food, and unwashed bodies. Laughter echoed from behind closed doors, sometimes cruel, sometimes desperate, always tinged with the scent of violence.
Julius, clad in his dark cloak, made his way through the twisted alleys, his boots clicking softly on the concrete. His eyes glittered like twin green flames in the dim light, scanning the streets for his next stop. He had heard whispers about The Iron Dog, a dive bar in the heart of the slums that catered to the roughest of the rough. And that was exactly what he wanted: a bit of chaos to relieve the tension from earlier.
When he entered The Iron Dog, the door creaked and the noise inside faltered for a split second before resuming. The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke, and the floor sticky with spilled beer. Faded neon lights above the counter buzzed intermittently, casting an eerie glow over the assortment of patrons—grizzled men with missing teeth, women with hard eyes, and the occasional out-of-place soul who had made the wrong turn.
Julius slid into a seat at the bar, his gaze sweeping over the room like a predator sizing up its prey.
The bartender, a heavy-set man with tattoos snaking up his neck, grunted as he polished a glass with a rag. "What'll it be?"
"Something strong. Something that'll burn," Julius said with a smirk.
The bartender didn't question it, though a flicker of curiosity passed across his face. He poured something dark and viscous into a glass and slid it across the counter. The liquid sloshed, heavy and ominous.
Julius took a sip. It burned, but not in the way he'd hoped. It tasted like firewater mixed with regret.
"Not bad. Could use a little more kick, though," he muttered, leaning back in his seat.
The man beside him, clearly a regular, turned to look Julius up and down with bloodshot eyes. His lips curled into a sneer. "You don't belong here, pretty boy."
Julius's green eyes locked with his, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
The man growled, rising to his feet with a slow, deliberate motion, cracking his knuckles. "You think you're tough? Maybe you need a lesson in manners pretty boy"
Before Julius could respond, the man swung a fist toward him, but Julius was faster. He ducked under the punch and sent a knee up into the man's gut, knocking the wind out of him. He then spun around, delivering a kick to head, knocking the man out cold. The bar erupted into chaos as other patrons, sensing an opportunity for violence, stood up, grabbing bottles and chairs to join in.
"Come at me boys! Lets have some fun!" Julius taunted while the entire bar rampaged towards him.
Violence was like a drug in the slums—addictive, destructive, and always in supply. It wasn't just danger people flirted with; it was the thrill, the spectacle, the blood-soaked promise of chaos. That's why, whenever a fight broke out, it wasn't unusual for bystanders to leap into the fray—not to stop it, but to add to the fight.
It wasn't long before the entire bar had descended into madness. Glass shattered, chairs splintered, and people screamed as they tried to take down the lone figure in black. Julius, however, moved with fluid precision, his sword drawn in a flash of molten orange light. He swung it in wide arcs, slicing through the air with terrifying speed.
A bottle came at him from behind, but he unsheathed his sword and sliced it in half before it could even touch him. A man tried to tackle him, but Julius spun around, using the momentum to throw the man across the room into a stack of tables.
Three men lunged at once—bats swinging, a knife flashing. Julius kicked up a wooden table and used it as a shield, the blows thudding harmlessly against it. In a blur, he slid beneath them, slashing their tendons with a pocket knife drawn from his coat. They collapsed screaming, and with one clean sweep, he severed all three of their left arms.
Within moments, the bar fell silent. Blood pooled on the floor as bodies lay crumpled in various states of disarray. Julius stood amidst the wreckage, his sword still glowing with the faint embers of its fiery edge. He wiped a bit of blood off his cheek and turned to the bartender, who was cowering behind the counter.
"Nice place you've got here," Julius said with a mocking smile, stepping over the bodies to the door. "I'll take the bike."
Outside, chained to a rusted pole, sat a sleek black motorbike, its chrome shining under the dim lights. Julius tossed the bartender's keyring in the air, caught it, and approached the bike. The engine roared to life beneath his fingers as he revved the throttle and took off into the night, the city sprawling out before him.
Within moments, police sirens pierced the air, blaring from behind him. A squad of officers on motorcycles cut across his path, their lights flashing as they attempted to block him in. Julius's lips curled into a grin.
"Oh, I love a good chase," he said, twisting the throttle and accelerating. The bike shot forward like a missile, weaving through narrow alleyways and tearing past rusted vehicles. The officers behind him struggled to keep up, but Julius was too fast—he was a blur, a ghost on two wheels.
He darted around corners, narrowly avoiding collisions with pedestrians and market stalls. One cop tried to take a shortcut, but Julius cut him off with a sharp left, sending the officer careening into a stack of crates. Another officer tried to pull alongside him, but Julius leaned into the curve and sent a blast of acid from his palm, melting the officer's bike into a smoking heap of scrap metal.
The police were relentless, but Julius was faster, more agile, and far more dangerous. He could feel their frustration building, their attempts to box him in growing more desperate with each passing second.
Then, just as he hit a straightaway, his phone rang.
"Julius," Lucille's voice came through with its usual edge of authority. "Stop playing around and get to the Blackwood Tower. Ezra wants eyes on Caspian."
"Alright, alright," Julius replied with exaggerated sweetness, slowing down just enough to taunt them. "No need to be so impatient."
"Kill the police, and I mean all of them. Don't leave any traces."
Julius's grin widened. "You always know how to ruin the fun."
He swerved sharply, screeching to a halt on a tilted stretch of cracked asphalt beneath an overpass. The motorbike's tires hissed against the ground as he spun it around to face his pursuers. The remaining six officers, flanked by flashing red lights and roaring engines, spread out to encircle him in a tightening formation.
Julius exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cool night air. His hands began to glow—a deep, noxious green that shimmered like venom under moonlight. Acidic vapor curled off his fingertips.
"Last warning," one of the officers barked through a megaphone. "You're under arrest for mass homicide, theft, and resisting arrest. Get off the bike and lie face-down!"
Julius grinned and raised both hands lazily into the air. "Oh, I surrender," he said sweetly, then clapped.
The shockwave wasn't visible, but its effect was immediate. A corrosive burst erupted outward in a ten-foot radius, the ground hissing and bubbling as acid splattered across it like molten rain. One of the officers screamed as the mist ate through his helmet, melting plastic and flesh in seconds. He fell from his bike, writhing, his face a smoldering ruin.
The others opened fire—gunshots cracking through the night. Bullets tore through the mist and ricocheted off Julius's jacket, which shimmered faintly with a magical ward. He vaulted off the bike, flipping in the air as acid streamed from his fingertips like green lightning.
He landed directly on the nearest officer's bike, driving his elbow down onto the man's shoulder. Bone crunched, and Julius used the momentum to throw him off, stealing the bike in one fluid motion. He revved the engine and tore a wide circle across the open road.
One officer attempted to cut him off, drawing a stun baton. Julius lashed out with a whip of acid that coiled midair and latched onto the man's wrist. The officer screamed as the acid crawled up his arm, dissolving cloth, skin, and finally bone, until he collapsed, howling and clutching a melting stump.
The remaining officers regrouped, forming a three-bike line as they sped toward him, engines roaring with vengeance. Julius skidded sideways, using the stolen bike as a shield. Gunfire rang out, bullets striking sparks off the frame. Julius reached into his coat and tossed a vial glowing with sickly green fluid behind him.
The vial shattered beneath the lead officer's front tire, releasing a sudden burst of acidic fog that engulfed all three bikes. Metal shrieked as the corrosive gas chewed through the machines. Tires burst. Gas tanks split and ignited in quick flashes. Officers screamed, coughing, their visors melting into their faces as they abandoned their bikes, only to be swallowed by the lingering mist.
Two of them tried to crawl away, boots disintegrating beneath them. Julius approached calmly, his boots untouched by the acid, and knelt beside one of them—a young man gasping, half his face already gone.
"Just doing your job, right?" Julius said with mock sympathy. "But you were in the way."
He placed a single glowing finger against the officer's chest. Steam erupted instantly as acid drilled through flak armor, bone, and heart. The man convulsed and went still.
The final officer, clearly the sergeant, stood his ground with trembling hands, holding a short sword of polished steel—a last resort. Julius tilted his head, intrigued.
"Bringing a sword to an acid fight?" he asked.
The sergeant charged, slashing with desperate precision. Julius parried the first blow with the back of his hand, the acid coating his skin melting the steel on contact. The blade dissolved mid-strike, leaving the sergeant vulnerable.
Julius grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the ground with inhuman strength. Acid flowed from his palm, trickling down the man's armor.
"Tell your gods I said hello," Julius whispered.
He hurled the sergeant into the smoldering wreckage of the other bikes. The man didn't scream—his voice had already melted away.
When the last echoes of fire and death faded, the street was utterly silent. The glow of the acid painted the pavement in a sickly green hue, steam rising from the bubbling puddles where men had stood moments ago.
Julius took a deep breath, wiping his hands casually on his jacket as if he'd just finished a light chore. His eyes flicked left and right, scanning the quiet intersection.
That was when he saw her: a hunched old woman pushing a squeaky cart loaded with metal scraps, bundled in layers of tattered shawls. She hadn't fled. She simply stood there, watching him with tired, unblinking eyes.
Julius strode toward her, stepping over the carcass of a melted engine, and smiled disarmingly. "Excuse me, miss. Could you point me toward the Blackwood Auction House?"
The woman raised a bushy gray brow, unimpressed. "That's not how you usually ask for directions."
"I don't usually get such quality service," Julius replied cheerfully, pulling a wad of bloodstained money from his pocket and thumbing through it. "Help me out and I'll make it worth your while."
She squinted at him, then slowly pointed a gnarled finger toward the northern skyline. "Three blocks up, turn right twice. Big black tower. Can't miss it."
"Thank you, my lady." He slipped a thick stack of notes into her cart, between a rusted pan and a cracked mirror. "For your retirement."
Then he swung back onto the undamaged police bike he'd taken from the sergeant and gunned the engine once more. The streets cleared ahead of him like a curtain drawing open for the final act.
Eventually, Julius arrived at the looming black-and-glass façade of the Blackwood Auction House. Its tower knifed into the night sky, its dark windows gleaming like a sentinel watching over Nimerath. The stolen bike wheezed to a halt beneath him, its engine sputtering out with a final defiant cough. He dismounted slowly, stripping off his acid-slick gloves, and flicked them onto the curb where they steamed quietly.
A chill wind swept through the street, snapping at the edges of his coat. He stared up at the tower's upper floors, where soft golden light flickered behind thick glass. Somewhere up there, Caspian was playing his role. Or maybe just biding his time. With him, it was never easy to tell.
Lucille had passed along Ezra's orders without question. Julius hadn't asked why—it wasn't his place. When Ezra wanted something watched, you watched it. But he knew enough to sense unease buried beneath the command. Caspian wasn't new to them. He'd always been there, woven into the machine like shadow through smoke. No one talked about how it began. No one needed to. Especially after what happened after that day. Julius had seen just enough to know not to ask.
Still, there was something different now. Something Ezra hadn't said. A shift in tone. Maybe Caspian had strayed from the path. Or maybe he was simply being tested. Ezra did that—tested his people like iron in flame, again and again, until they either bent or shattered.
Julius exhaled through his nose and adjusted the collar of his coat. Whatever was happening here, it was more than surveillance. And Caspian… well, Caspian had always been a complicated piece on the board. Some believed he was a tool. Others, a threat. Julius wasn't sure either way.
He climbed the marble steps slowly, each footfall echoing in the deserted street, until he stood just before the towering doors of Blackwood. He gazed upon the city like an artist admiring his work. At the lights, the blood he'd spilled, the fires still smoldering in his wake.
Then he looked back at the tower.
"This is what you chose," he muttered under his breath, voice low and unreadable. "Let's see if you remember who you are."
The wind quieted for just a moment—then howled again, dragging at his coat, hissing between the stones like a warning.
Julius stepped forward, pausing at the threshold. His lips moved, shaping words the wind almost seemed to snatch away before they could truly be heard. Whatever he said was lost to the night air, swallowed by the storm building above Nimerath.