The steady rhythm of a cleaver striking wood echoed through the cramped butcher shop on the edge of Blackridge’s West End. Each thud of the blade was sharp, precise, as if the man wielding it had been born with a knife in hand. The smell of raw meat and iron lingered in the air, mixing with the faint stench of oil and dust drifting in from the street outside.Leon Graves wiped his hands on a ragged cloth, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the cuts of pork laid neatly on the counter. His apron was old, frayed at the edges, stained permanently with blood no matter how much he scrubbed it. At thirty-two, he had the quiet, weary look of a man who had lived too many lives in too short a time. His broad shoulders carried invisible weight, and his sharp grey eyes betrayed nothing of the storms that had once consumed him.To the few customers who still wandered into his failing shop, he was simply the butcher. A man who worked in silence, who asked no questions, who gave more meat than

Night wrapped itself around Blackridge’s West End like a suffocating shroud. Neon lights flickered across cracked pavements, illuminating graffiti-smeared walls and broken bottles that glittered like teeth. Somewhere in the distance, bass-heavy music throbbed from a run-down nightclub. The Serpents owned the night here—or at least they thought they did.Inside his butcher shop, Leon sat in silence, sharpening a long boning knife across a whetstone. The rhythmic scrape filled the small room, precise and measured. Each drag was slow, purposeful, and patient.Marcus watched from a stool, his side bandaged, face pale but eyes fixed on Leon. Fear and awe clashed in his gaze.“You’re really going after them,” Marcus said finally. It wasn’t a question.Leon didn’t answer at first. He lifted the blade, testing the edge with his thumb. A bead of blood welled up instantly. He sucked it away without flinching.“The System gave me a mission,” Leon said, voice flat. “And I don’t ignore orders.”Ma

Harlow Street woke in silence the morning after the slaughter. The Pit, once alive with music and neon, now reeked of dried blood and gunpowder. Windows were shattered, doors broken, walls painted red. The Serpents’ graffiti still clung to the bricks, but beneath the stench of rot, it carried a different meaning now—fear.By noon, whispers spread from corner to corner: The Butcher had come.No one knew his name. No one knew his face. But everyone knew the story. A man with knives had carved through twelve Serpents without mercy, leaving nothing but blood and silence behind.For the first time in years, the Serpents weren’t the ones who owned the night.Leon stood behind the counter of his butcher shop, apron on, knives clean and lined up with surgical precision. To anyone walking in, he was just a man selling cuts of pork and beef. But to Marcus, who sat perched on a stool, he looked like something else entirely.“You really mean to keep the Pit?” Marcus asked, his voice still hoarse

The Pit reeked of blood. The stench clung to the walls, soaked into the cracked concrete, and drifted into the street outside.Leon stood at the center, surveying the carnage from the night before. Bodies had been dragged into a corner, covered with tarps, but the metallic tang of iron still hung heavy.His men—Marcus, Darren, and Cole—looked exhausted, but alive. They’d washed the blood from their faces, though their hands still trembled from the memory of blades flashing in the dark.Marcus leaned against a pillar, lighting a cigarette to cover the smell. “Boss, we can’t just leave it like this. The Serpents will come sniffing around again. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow—but they’ll come.”Leon picked up his cleaver, turning it over in his hands. The edge gleamed even after slicing through bone. He cleaned it with a rag, slow and meticulous.“That’s the point,” Leon said. His grey eyes were steady, unblinking. “Let them come. Let them see what happens when they step onto my s

The city had grown restless.Whispers of the Butcher weren’t just rumors anymore—they were stories with names, faces, details. Hunters who never returned. Serpents who vanished in alleys. Harlow Street turning into a place no one wanted to tread after dark.And Viktor Kane had finally lost patience.The squad arrived at midnight. Not drunk Serpents this time. Not desperate bounty hunters.They were mercenaries. Six men, dressed in black combat gear, rifles slung across their shoulders. Their movements were precise, disciplined. They weren’t here for money—they were here to break the legend.Viktor called them wolves. Trained killers pulled from old contacts, the kind of men who’d fought in warzones overseas.And they had one order: bring the Butcher back breathing.Inside the Pit, Leon’s recruits sensed the shift before they heard it. The tension in the air was thicker than before, heavier than the hungry thugs or ragged hunters that had come prior.Marcus’s cigarette trembled slightl