The air in Blackwater didn’t just carry the scent of pollution; it tasted of stagnant ambition and rot. Sewo stood atop a rusted fire escape, the metal groaning under his weight as he tossed a fistful of blood-stained bounties into the Void. Each slip of paper was a life he had snuffed out in the last three hours—low-level thugs, pickpockets, and failed mercenaries. As they vanished into his inventory, his shoulders finally slumped, a heavy, rattling sigh escaping his lungs.

  His mind was a blank slate, scrubbed clean of morality, focused entirely on the cold mechanics of the hunt. To the world, he was a cripple—a one-armed anomaly with no future. To the leaderboard, he was a rising shadow. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled a new poster from the darkness of the Void.

  Vergo. The parchment was damp with the city’s humidity. The face staring back at him was a nightmare: sunken eyes, a jaw that seemed too wide for his skull, and a grin that suggested he knew exactly how your insides tasted. A ghost from the west-ward city of Ordean, better known as the "Chainsaw Psychopath." Twenty-five murders were officially attributed to him, but the whispers in the alleys suggested the real number was closer to fifty. Rumors of cannibalism followed him like a shroud, and he had vanished the moment his bounty hit the triple digits. It seemed even monsters knew that Blackwater was the only place left where the law was a myth and the shadows were thick enough to hide a killer.

  Sewo needed to reach T9 by dawn. His body was screaming, his muscles twitching with fatigue, but the hunger for points was louder than the ache in his bones.

  He didn't have to look for long. The sound reached him first—a mechanical, stuttering roar that sounded like a beast choking on its own bile. Then came the scream. It was high-pitched, the kind of sound a person only makes when they realize they are no longer at the top of the food chain.

  Sewo moved. He leapt from the fire escape to a sagging roof, his feet silent against the shingles. Below him, the slums were a maze of corrugated iron and broken glass. He spotted three other shadows moving parallel to him—assassins, T10 and T11 bottom-feeders, their eyes glowing with the same desperate greed. They were vultures, drawn to the scent of Vergo’s noise.

  Sewo’s eyes narrowed. He couldn't let them interfere. He drew a small, weighted throwing knife and flicked it toward a stack of precariously balanced oil drums in their path. The drums collapsed with a thunderous crash, blocking the narrow alleyway and forcing the other hunters to detour. He didn't care if they survived the fall; he only cared about the time it bought him.

  He dropped thirty feet into a pile of industrial waste, the stench of oil and stagnant water filling his nostrils. At the end of the alley, beneath a flickering neon sign that hummed with a dying current, stood Vergo.

  The man was a mountain of filth. He held a modified chainsaw, its teeth jagged and rusted, dripping with something dark and viscous. A body lay at his feet, or what was left of one. The victim had been opened from groin to throat, the organs spilled across the pavement like a butcher’s display.

  Vergo turned as Sewo approached. He didn't speak. He simply yanked the cord of his machine, and the engine shrieked.

  Sewo lunged, his sword half-drawn, but Vergo was faster than his bulk suggested. The killer swung a heavy, dented trash can lid like a gladiator’s shield. Clang. The metal slammed into Sewo’s temple with the force of a sledgehammer.

  The world tilted on its axis. White spots danced across Sewo’s vision as his brain throbbed against the walls of his skull. He hit the ground, the taste of copper flooding his mouth instantly. Vergo didn’t hesitate. He dropped the chainsaw—letting it idle on the ground like a purring cat—and smashed the metal lid into Sewo's face.

  Clang. His nose snapped, the cartilage splintering like dry kindling. Clang. His lip split, the skin shredding against his teeth.

  The rhythmic percussion of metal on bone was the only sound in the alley. Blood began to coat Sewo’s vision, a warm, viscous curtain of red. But beneath the pain, something else ignited. A primal, jagged rage.

  Sewo caught the next swing with his forearm, the bone groaning under the impact. He ignored the white-hot flash of agony and lashed out with a kick to Vergo’s knee. There was a satisfying pop, and the giant staggered back.

  Sewo scrambled up, spitting a glob of blood and a stray tooth onto the pavement. He sheathed his sword. Steel was too clean for this. This was a dogfight in the dirt.

  He charged. Vergo swung a meaty fist, but Sewo was a ghost of the slums now. He dropped low, sweeping Vergo's legs. As the giant hit the dirt, Sewo didn't go for a strike; he went for the kill. He stomped for the neck, but Vergo rolled, his massive hand catching Sewo’s ankle and jerking him off balance.

  They tumbled into the filth, two animals fighting for a scrap of life. Sewo tucked his chin and launched a blind back-kick as he fell. His heel connected with Vergo’s face. He felt the nose shatter—not just break, but collapse inward.

  Vergo let out an agonized howl, a sound that was more growl than human. He tackled Sewo, pinning the smaller man into the mud and oil. Heavy fists rained down. Sewo’s ribs cracked—one, two, three. Each breath felt like swallowing glass.

  I’m going to die here, Sewo thought. The image of Theia—her smile, the way she looked in the soft light—flashed behind his eyes. I’m not dying in a pile of trash.

  "I'll kill you!" Sewo screamed.

  With his only arm pinned, Sewo did the only thing a cornered rat could do. He lunged forward and sank his teeth into the side of Vergo’s neck.

  He didn't just bite; he clamped his jaws and tore. He felt the jugular pulse against his tongue before it burst, spraying hot, metallic iron into his throat. Vergo’s shriek turned into a wet, bubbling gargle. The giant slammed Sewo against the brick wall, trying to shake him off, but the "Anomaly" held on until a raw chunk of Vergo’s throat came away in his teeth.

  Sewo spat the flesh aside, his face a mask of gore.

  Vergo staggered back, clutching his neck. Blood spurted between his fingers in rhythmic jets, staining his tattered shirt. "You... fucking psycho!" he wheezed.

  "Not yet," Sewo whispered, his voice a jagged rasp.

  He feinted a punch, and as Vergo flinched, Sewo tackled him one last time. He mounted the killer's chest, pinning his arms with his knees. Then, the hammers fell. Sewo rained fists down onto the ruined face. Thud. Crunch. Thud. He didn't stop when the grunts turned to silence. He stood up and began to stomp, his heavy boot coming down again and again.

  Die. Die. Die.

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  By the time he stopped, Vergo’s head was a hollowed-out shell, his brains mixed with the oil and grime of the alley. His face was stuck to the pavement like discarded, grey gum.

  [Leaderboard Updated: Rank 10,792]

  Sewo let out a long, shuddering yawn. The adrenaline was leaving him, replaced by a cold, hollow exhaustion. "Next."

  He scaled a pipeline, his fingers slipping on the blood, and reached a vantage point on a high-rise. He scanned the streets for Huwart. But what he saw made the hair on his neck stand up.

  A black van sat idling near the docks. A group of men in clean, tactical gear were dragging a man as large as a mountain toward a heavy transport. It was Huwart. He was unconscious, his head bagged, handled like a crate of munitions.

  Sewo felt a pang of frustration. That was his prey. Those were his points. Curiosity and greed outweighed his exhaustion, and he began to trail them across the salt-flats to the city’s edge.

  They arrived at a massive, skeletal oil rig that rose out of the black water like a monument to a dead god. The air here was different—it smelled of brine, high-grade kerosene, and burnt hair. Sewo crouched on a hill, hidden by the shadows of a dead crane.

  Four men sat bound in the center of the rig’s primary deck. Huwart was among them, finally waking up. Then, the doors to the main cabin slid open.

  Parker Estobens stepped out.

  He wore a robe of fine silk, tied loosely, as if he were wandering his own living room. Behind him, the rhythmic chug-chug of the oil pumps provided a heartbeat for the scene. His presence was a physical weight, a gravity that made the bound men shrink.

  "Allow these men to look at their death," Parker commanded.

  The bags were ripped from their heads. Huwart, the man who had burned a bank full of people, began to weep. "Please, sir... I’m a nobody. Why am I here?"

  Parker looked at him with a boredom that was more chilling than any torture device. "I haven't killed a man of your size in some time," Parker mused, swirling a glass of deep red wine. "You got unlucky, Huwart. You crossed into my peripheral vision."

  Parker turned his attention to the other three—officials from the mining guild. "The mine," Parker said softly. "The papers for the Alec Mine. Where are they?"

  "You'll never have it, Parker!" one of the men spat, though his voice trembled. "It’s royal heritage! Even if you kill us—"

  "I didn't ask for a lecture on history," Parker interrupted. He waved a hand. "Tonight, the mine is a secondary concern. Tonight, I am bored. And a bored man is a dangerous thing."

  He signaled his men. A massive iron pit was dragged into the center of the deck, filled with white-hot coals that hissed and spat. A cassette player was clicked on. Jazz—smooth, upbeat, and entirely out of place—filled the air.

  "The game is simple," Parker explained, his eyes bright with a sick, childlike joy. "One chunk of coal is kept safe in a shovel. If you hold the coal, you are safe. If you do not, you dance in the pit. When the music stops, the one holding the coal earns a minute of life. The others lose a limb."

  The men were kicked into the pit. The heat was so intense Sewo could feel it from the hill. Their boots began to melt instantly. One man tried to scramble out, his skin bubbling. Parker’s guards caught him by the hair.

  "Hungry?" Parker asked.

  He signaled a guard, who used a pair of tongs to retrieve a glowing ember from the pit. They forced the man’s mouth open with a crowbar. Sewo watched in horrific fascination as they dropped the white-hot coal onto the man’s tongue.

  "Chew," Parker whispered.

  The sound of molars shattering against the coal was audible even over the jazz. The man’s eyes rolled back, steam rising from his throat as his internal organs began to sear from the inside out. He was tossed back into the pit to die in the fire.

  Huwart fought like a beast for the shovel, his massive strength allowing him to toss the other two men into the deepest part of the embers. He held the "safe" coal until his own hands were charred black, the flesh peeling away to reveal white bone.

  The scene was a symphony of agony. Sewo watched as one man’s leg finally gave out. As the music stopped, Parker gestured casually. A guard stepped forward with a heavy meat cleaver. There was no hesitation, no fanfare. Thwack. The man’s leg was severed at the knee, the stump cauterized immediately against the burning coals.

  Huwart stood trembling, holding his ruined hands. He looked at Parker with the eyes of a dog waiting for a blow. He had won the round, but he knew there was no prize.

  Parker sighed, looking at the mess. "Actually, I’ve lost interest in the game. It was too fast. The coal is getting cold." He looked at his guards. "Cut off their fingers. Then the arms. Then the toes. Toss the remaining pieces into the boilers. I want the rig to run on their fat tonight."

  The survivors were dragged toward the massive steel boilers at the edge of the deck. Sewo watched the flash of the daggers as they began the systematic dismantling of the men. They started with the pinky fingers, working their way up with a cold, surgical precision.

  Huwart was the last. He watched his own fingers fall into the dark water below, his mind finally breaking. He began to laugh—a high, broken sound that competed with the jazz music. Then, he was hoisted up and tossed into the roaring maw of the boiler. The flames turned a brilliant, sickly green as his body was consumed.

  Sewo’s blood was like ice in his veins. He had never seen violence like this—not the desperate, survivalist violence of the slums, but the casual, artistic cruelty of a god. He began to back away. I’ll die if that fucker catches me now. I’m an insect to him.

  Every instinct he had cultivated in Blackwater was screaming at him to run. But his legs felt like lead. He watched Parker take a sip of his wine, looking completely refreshed by the slaughter.

  Sewo realized then that the leaderboard meant nothing. Points meant nothing. He was rank 10,000, and he was staring at the end of the world. He had spent his life fighting rats, unaware that there were dragons in the sky.

  "I have to get out of here," Sewo whispered to the dirt, his voice trembling so hard he could barely form the words.

  "You're absolutely right," a voice whispered from directly behind his ear.

  The voice was soft, melodic, and held the weight of a mountain. It was inches from his skin.

  "You are quite weak, little rat. And rats shouldn't play in a lion's den."

  Sewo’s heart stopped. He didn't even have time to turn before a hand like a hydraulic press gripped the back of his skull. The world exploded into white pain as his head was slammed into the trunk of a dead tree.

  I’m dead. I’m finally dead.

  When the darkness finally began to lift, it wasn't the sound of angels Sewo heard. It was the soft, rhythmic scratch of a rocking chair on metal plating. The smell of expensive tobacco mixed with the cloying, sweet scent of burnt flesh and oil. And then, the smooth, haunting sound of Jazz music drifting through the night air.

  Sewo opened his eyes. He was on the deck of the oil rig, his face pressed against the cold steel. His one arm was pinned beneath him, and his head felt as though it had been split open with an axe.

  Parker Estobens was looking down at him, a half-eaten grape in his hand and a look of mild curiosity on his face.

  "Wakey-wakey, little anomaly," Parker smiled, the jazz music swelling in the background. "I believe you owe me a service. After all, you’ve been watching my show for free for quite some time now."

  Sewo tried to move, but his body refused to obey. He could only stare at Parker's polished leather boots, which were spotless despite the carnage that had just taken place.

  "You look hungry, little rat," Parker mused, dropping the grape skin onto Sewo's neck. "But don't worry. I have a much more important job for you than eating."