Rise of the Street King

Chapter 43: The Rise Again

The grave was shallow.

The ground in the slums was too hard, too crowded with bones already claimed by hunger and knives. Malikah dug with her hands until her nails bled, and Amara helped pile the dirt, silent as always. Jayden didn’t touch the soil. He only stood, arms crossed, rain dripping from his face as they lowered Tariq into the earth.

No prayers. No words. Just silence, and the sound of dirt falling.

When it was done, Malikah sat back, mud streaked on her cheeks, eyes red with exhaustion. She looked at Jayden, but said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

Jayden lit a cigarette with trembling hands, smoke curling around his face. His voice came low, rough.

“He’s gone. But the streets don’t pause. Razor won’t wait for us to mourn.”

Malikah spat into the mud. “Then we take his head. Tonight.”

Amara shook her head. “You’ll die if you move blind. Razor’s not the type to leave his neck out.”

Jayden inhaled deeply, then flicked the cigarette away. His eyes burned not with grief, but with something sharper, harder.

“Then we move smart. Tariq’s death won’t break us. It’ll be the fire that forges us.”

By nightfall, word had spread. Whispers in the alleys said Jayden Cole had killed his own brother. Some called it strength, others called it madness. But everyone agreed: only a man without fear could cut down the ones closest to him.

Fear makes legends.

And legends draw followers.

The next day, they came ragged boys, knife-wielding hustlers, small-time thieves tired of bowing to Razor’s Iron Fangs. They stood outside the safehouse, eyes hungry, asking for a chance.

One boy stepped forward, scars across his face. “We heard Razor’s got enemies everywhere. If you’re the one to put him in the ground, we want in.”

Jayden studied their faces. They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t loyalists. They were desperate, hungry, like he once was. But desperation could be sharpened into steel.

He nodded slowly. “You want to stand with me? Then bleed with me. Razor’s turf is fat with coin. Tomorrow we cut into it. Those who survive eat. Those who fall… their names will live through mine.”

The crowd murmured, then shouted their approval. The legend of Jayden Cole was spreading.

That night, Amara found him alone on the rooftop, staring down at the city.

“You’re building an army,” she said softly.

“I’m building a kingdom,” Jayden corrected. His voice was low, dangerous. “Razor thought he could hollow me out. He thought Tariq’s betrayal would break me. But I’ll use it. Every scar, every ghost I’ll use them to climb higher.”

Amara tilted her head, studying him. “And when you run out of ghosts?”

Jayden’s jaw clenched. “Then I’ll make more.”

For the first time, she looked unsettled.

The strike came fast, brutal.

Jayden led his new recruits and Malikah through the back alleys into Iron Fang territory. Their target: a gambling den where Razor’s men drank and collected tribute. The place was loud, reeking of sweat, smoke, and coin.

Jayden didn’t sneak. He walked straight in, machete in hand, eyes cold.

The room froze. Dice clattered to the floor. Razor’s soldiers stared. Then one laughed.

“Look who it is. The little king of the slums.”

Jayden answered with steel. His blade cut across the man’s throat in a spray of red. The room erupted.

Chairs shattered. Knives flashed. The den filled with screams. Malikah moved like a shadow, slicing tendons and throats with merciless precision. Jayden fought like he was possessed, every strike fueled by rage, every kill a statement. His recruits fought wildly, but hunger made them vicious.

By the time the last body hit the floor, the den was theirs. Blood painted the walls, coins scattered across the ground.

Jayden stood in the center, chest heaving, eyes burning. He raised his machete high, dripping red.

“This is ours now! Every corner, every coin, every whisper belongs to me. Tell Razor Jayden Cole is rising, and nothing will stop him.”

The recruits roared, voices echoing through the night.

Later, as the blood dried and the loot was counted, Malikah sat beside Jayden. Her hands were steady, but her eyes still carried shadows.

“You keep climbing,” she muttered. “But at what cost?”

Jayden didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed on the flickering lantern, face carved from stone.

“Cost doesn’t matter. All that matters is no one forgets my name.”

By dawn, the slums whispered louder than ever. Jayden Cole had struck the Iron Fangs, taken their den, left their soldiers in pieces.

The boy who killed his brother had risen stronger.

The streets now asked one question:

If betrayal couldn’t break him, what could?