The Butcher’s System: From Meat Shop to Underworld Overlord

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 he charged for because pity was easier than conversation.

“Boss, we’re running low on beef shank again.”

Marcus Lee’s voice broke the quiet. The young apprentice, barely twenty-five, emerged from the cold storage room carrying an empty tray. He was tall, eager, with the kind of youthful energy Leon had long since buried. Despite the failing business, Marcus always wore a grin, as if the shop’s survival was a battle worth fighting.

“Then cut what’s left of the hindquarter and display it,” Leon said. His tone was calm, steady, a man used to giving instructions that were followed without hesitation.

Marcus nodded, grabbing a smaller knife. “You know, boss, if we just did delivery service or online ads like other shops, business wouldn’t be this slow.”

Leon didn’t answer. He continued chopping with mechanical precision, each swing of the cleaver clean enough to split bone in a single strike. Marcus had been with him for two years, long enough to know that Leon wasn’t a man of many words. Still, the kid never stopped talking, as if filling the silence with chatter might bring the butcher’s walls down.

The bell above the shop door jingled. Two men stepped inside.

Leon glanced up briefly, instinct sharpening the moment he saw them. Their clothes were casual, but their eyes weren’t. One had a jagged scar across his cheek, the other wore a smirk that didn’t belong to an ordinary customer. Both carried themselves with the arrogance of men who believed the world owed them.

“Afternoon,” Scarface drawled, glancing around the empty shop. “Business looks… quiet.”

Leon said nothing. He set down the cleaver, wiped his hands again, and leaned his weight on the counter.

Marcus stepped forward, trying to be polite. “What can I get you, sirs?”

The smirking one tapped the counter with his fingers. “We ain’t here for meat, kid. We’re here for payment.”

Marcus frowned. “Payment?”

Scarface chuckled. “Protection money. You’re in Black Serpents’ territory. That means you pay us if you want your little shop standing.”

Leon’s eyes darkened slightly. The Serpents. A street gang that had been slithering through the district for months now, extorting every small business they could find. He had ignored them, thinking they would pass him by. Apparently, that patience had run out.

“How much?” Leon asked, his voice calm, controlled.

“Five hundred a week,” Smirk replied. “And don’t think you can cheat us. We’ll be back every Friday.”

Marcus’s face paled. Five hundred a week was more than the shop made in a month. “That’s impossible. We can’t—”

Scarface moved fast, slamming his hand down on the counter. “Not our problem, kid. Pay or bleed.”

Leon’s hand twitched, but he didn’t reach for the knife yet. He looked at them the way a man might study cuts of meat—deciding where the blade should fall first.

“We don’t have it,” Leon said flatly.

Smirk’s grin widened. “Then maybe we take something else.” His eyes slid toward Marcus. “Like your apprentice’s fingers. A butcher doesn’t need both hands to work, right?”

Marcus stiffened, but before he could respond, Leon’s voice cut through the tension.

“Leave.”

The word was low, steady, and carried with it a weight that made both men pause for a heartbeat. Then Scarface sneered.

“Wrong answer.”

He drew a switchblade. Smirk followed, pulling out a metal pipe from under his jacket.

Marcus instinctively grabbed for the nearest knife, but Scarface was faster. The blade flashed, slicing across Marcus’s side. Blood splattered across the counter as the apprentice cried out, collapsing against the chopping block.

Leon’s breath slowed. His vision narrowed. For the first time in years, he felt it—the familiar heat crawling under his skin, the cold calm of violence pressing at his veins.

Scarface shoved Marcus aside, laughing. “Looks like meat’s on the menu after all—”

He didn’t finish.

The butcher’s cleaver flashed, faster than his smirk could fade. One clean swing, and Scarface’s hand—blade still clutched in it—dropped onto the counter with a dull, wet thud.

Scarface screamed, stumbling back, blood spraying across the tiles.

Smirk roared, swinging his pipe, but Leon stepped into him, shoulder slamming forward, elbow driving into the man’s jaw. The crack echoed like breaking bone. The pipe clattered to the ground.

Leon grabbed his cleaver with both hands. His movements were not wild, not chaotic. They were precise, deliberate—like a craftsman at work. One slash across Smirk’s thigh. A second across his arm. The man screamed, crumpling to his knees.

Scarface was still clutching his stump, eyes wide with terror. “Y-you crazy bastard! You don’t know who you’re messing with!”

Leon’s gaze was cold, detached. He pressed the bloodied cleaver against Scarface’s throat. “I told you to leave.”

The man whimpered, shaking. Leon’s hand tightened. For a brief second, the air thickened—then something strange happened.

A voice echoed in his head.

System activation complete. Welcome, Host.Initializing: The Butcher’s System.

Leon froze. His grip on the cleaver steadied as glowing text, invisible to anyone else, flickered across his vision like fire branded into the air.

New Mission: Process your first prey.Reward: Knife Mastery Level 1.

Leon’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came. He blinked once, then looked down at Scarface again.

The man’s throat pulsed under the blade. His terrified eyes begged for mercy. Marcus groaned in the background, bleeding badly.

Leon’s heart should have been racing, but instead it slowed to a steady, powerful rhythm.

Process your first prey.

Without hesitation, the cleaver swung.

Blood sprayed across the counter, warm and heavy. Scarface gurgled once before collapsing.

The System’s voice purred in his mind.

Prey processed. Reward granted: Knife Mastery Level 1. Cleaver damage increased by 20%. Precision improved.

Leon exhaled slowly, the weight of the cleaver suddenly different in his hand. Sharper. Deadlier. As if the blade itself had been forged anew.

Smirk whimpered from the floor, crawling toward the door. Leon’s eyes followed him, calm and merciless.

New Mission: Eliminate the witnesses.Reward: Blood Sense (Passive).

The butcher took a step forward.

Marcus, pale and clutching his wound, whispered hoarsely, “Boss… what’s happening to you?”

Leon didn’t answer. He lifted his cleaver, his shadow falling across the broken man on the floor.

The butcher’s life of silence was over. The slaughterhouse had just opened.