Jenkins, the leader of the Dark Scimitar team, wasn't among the organization's upper echelons—but his reputation preceded him. Strategic, ruthless, and meticulous, Jenkins had a rare talent for turning even the most cursed backwater into an asset. His men respected him not just for his cunning, but because he delivered results.
Now, as he addressed his squad on the shadowy outskirts of the village, his voice was calm, yet commanding. Each word felt like a carefully placed blade.
"If we take out Diggen and his two right hands, the rest will fall like loose bricks," he began. "But the real issue is the five retired assassins still loyal to him—or so the kid claims."
He let the words hang in the stillness, eyes scanning his men.
"In our world, loyalty's just fear dressed up nice. People switch sides when the wind changes. So we test them."
Jenkins raised one finger.
"Option one: we pick them off quietly. Make it look like personal disputes—bar fights, jealous lovers, a debt gone wrong. But there's a flaw." He nodded toward a wiry man with a fresh scar on his cheek.
Scarface spoke up, "If we take out a couple, the rest'll smell blood. They'll know it's coordinated. Diggen'll start asking questions."
"Exactly," Jenkins said, with a faint, approving smirk. He raised two fingers.
"Option two: we talk. I'll approach them personally—probe their minds, see who's pliable. Some of them might even welcome a new order. Especially when that order wears the Scimitar."
The men murmured among themselves. Some skeptical. Others intrigued.
Jenkins didn't wait for questions. "If we play our cards right, we don't just replace Diggen—we absorb his structure. No bloodbath. No mess. Just a quiet shift in power."
Then his tone darkened, a predator's grin spreading across his face. "But before the talking starts, we light a fire. Literally."
A brief silence, then a few chuckles. Jenkins continued:
"North of here is Diggen's drug farm. That's the heartbeat of his trade. It's where he grows whatever filth he feeds to the nobles through his merchant contact." He spat to the side. "Burn it. Send a message."
Laughter erupted among the men. Tension turned to excitement. For days, they'd scouted, waiting, growing restless. Now they had a target.
"We need volunteers to scout it first. Look for soft spots. I don't expect much resistance—it's not a fortress, it's a farm—but we play this smart. No loose ends."
Two men immediately stepped forward. Jenkins gave a nod. "Good. The rest of you stay alert. I'll start making contact with our five 'loyals'. Any shift in attitude—anything suspicious—you report it. Fast."
As the scouting party departed, Jenkins turned his gaze to the rotting village skyline.
"This place is a shithole," he muttered, "but it's a strategic shithole. Once it's ours, we own the roads, the woods, and every deal that passes through."
At Stanley's house, unease settled thick over the room. Wayla stood by the shelves, staring at the jar where the "medicine" was kept, her brow furrowed in growing dread.
"Stanley," she said, breaking the silence, "I don't think the kid's taking it anymore. His water jar's been untouched for two days."
Stanley didn't look up. He sat slouched at the table, eyes distant, mind consumed by paranoia.
Wayla slapped his back—not gently.
Stanley jerked upright. "The hell, woman?! I'm thinking!"
"You weren't listening," she snapped. "The kid. The medicine. He's not drinking it."
That got his attention. He turned slowly, frown deepening. "You sure? That beastman made it clear—he needs it daily. We find it at our doorstep every month for a reason."
Neither of them truly knew what the substance did. Maybe it dulled Ethan's mind. Maybe it weakened him physically. Maybe it just kept him alive. But the idea of him skipping it…
Stanley swallowed hard. "If he doesn't drink it today, I'll force it down his damn throat."
He tried to sound confident, but his voice lacked conviction for some reasons he didn't want to see the kid's face.
Wayla hesitated. Then, softly, "Maybe we should go easy on him. Just until the merchant leaves."
Stanley gave her a look like she'd grown a second head. "What? You want to coddle the freak now? Or act like a mother"
"I'm saying… that kid isn't normal." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He took that beating like it was nothing. Got up the next morning. No swelling. No fever. No crying. Nothing."
She took a deep breath.
"I'm starting to think he can kill us. If not now… then later."
Stanley didn't answer. But her words had confirmed his fears. For the first time, he saw Ethan not as a burden—but as a threat. And the thought made his gut twist.
Four hours later, Ethan sat on a mossy stone near the village outskirts, chewing dry meat from Pit. His ribs still ached, and his limbs moved stiffly—but he was breathing, thinking, planning.
Thirty paces away, Diggen's two men watched lazily from under a tree. They were already growing bored.
Ethan knew retrieving the knife wasn't an option today. Not yet. Not with those two watching like half-drunk hawks. But the chaos was coming. When the new gang made their move—when Diggen's empire burned—then he'd make a run for it.
He was ten, and already surviving like a hunted animal. But he had plans. Patience.
Fatigue crept up on him. Slowly, his eyes closed, his breathing slowed, and sleep claimed him.
The two watchers chuckled at the sight. "Kid passed out," one muttered. "Let's grab a drink. He's not going anywhere."
They walked off, unaware that something strange stirred in their absence.
Ethan's shadow began to move.
Not with the breeze. Not with his shifting body.
It moved of its own accord—stretching, distorting, creeping toward the edge of the brush. The air around it seemed to hum, ever so slightly, like a distant whisper in a forgotten language.
And in the void beyond understanding—something watched.