The Confessors Blade

Chapter 5 — The First Strike

The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, leaving New Helix glimmering like a circuit board under fractured neon. Matteo Cross perched on a fire escape, overlooking the streets below. His coat clung to him, soaked through, and the hum of the city was alive with tension—sirens, distant screams, and the low, unsettling whispers of Wraiths that lingered in the corners.

Father Malachi’s words echoed in his mind: “Survival is not enough. You will be the battlefield.” Matteo didn’t fully understand what that meant yet, but he was beginning to sense it. The Syndicate wasn’t just hunting him—they were testing him, pushing him toward something larger, something darker.

He glanced at the street below. Syndicate scouts moved in precise patterns, drones hovering above, casting pale blue light over the wet asphalt. And somewhere among them, the Wraiths were hiding, ready to strike.

Matteo dropped silently to the street, boots hitting puddles with muted splashes. He moved like a shadow, weaving between crates and overturned vehicles, eyes scanning for any movement.

The first attack came without warning. A Wraith lunged from an alley, tendrils slicing through the air. Matteo rolled, swinging his blade, severing a tendril that melted into black mist. Another followed, more solid this time, partially formed, with eyes like smoldering coals.

He fought with practiced precision, combining parkour with lethal strikes. He vaulted over a sedan, landing behind a Syndicate operative and taking him down silently with a swift slash. Rain mixed with black mist, dripping from his blade as he pivoted, striking again.

From above, a drone fired a stun round. Matteo ducked, rolling into an alley and using the wall to propel himself upward. He landed atop a series of connected rooftops, Wraiths circling below like smoke and shadow, whispers growing louder with every passing second.

He spotted a Syndicate lieutenant coordinating the attack, enhanced with cybernetic implants. The man’s voice rang out, amplified by a throat speaker: “Trap him. He’s alone. Leave no witnesses.”

Matteo grinned faintly. Alone, yes—but that worked to his advantage. He leapt into motion, creating chaos. A series of explosions—metal containers ignited by stray bullets—scattered the Syndicate operatives, and Wraiths recoiled from the sudden fire.

He sprinted along the rooftops, blade slicing tendrils, bullets finding targets with unerring accuracy. The city itself became his battlefield: neon signs shattered under Wraith strikes, fire escapes became makeshift traps, and puddles reflected flashes of light and shadow.

A larger Wraith emerged, more substantial than the ones before. Its tendrils lashed outward, striking a streetlight, sending sparks across the rooftops. Matteo met it head-on, swinging his blade, cutting into the creature. The faint cross-shaped glow from the hilt flared, scattering part of the Wraith back into mist.

But the fight was far from over. From the shadows, Syndicate reinforcements appeared—assassins trained to hunt him, now wielding experimental weapons designed to disrupt Wraiths and human targets alike. Matteo ducked under a blast, flipping onto a narrow ledge, then springing to another rooftop. The Wraith followed, sliding and twisting over the rain-slick surface.

He realized something: the Wraiths weren’t random—they were learning, adapting to his style. Each encounter was testing him, shaping him, forcing him to anticipate and react faster.

In the midst of the chaos, Matteo spotted a narrow shaft leading to the city’s maintenance tunnels—a potential escape, or a path to strike back at the Syndicate. He ran, Wraiths and Syndicate operatives pursuing, blade flashing and bullets ricocheting off steel beams.

Sliding down into the shaft, Matteo triggered a makeshift trap—loose cables sparking, pipes rupturing—slowing the pursuers. Black mist surged behind him, tendrils curling as if tasting his fear. But he felt none. Only calculation. Only survival. Only the growing weight of the sins that now moved with him through the city.

Emerging into a dimly lit subway station, Matteo paused for a breath. The echoes of the Wraiths and the distant footsteps of Syndicate forces reverberated off the concrete walls. He could feel the relic’s pulse again, faint but insistent—a warning, a call, a tether to Father Malachi.

For the first time, Matteo allowed himself a moment of clarity: this fight wasn’t just about survival. It wasn’t about money or contracts. It was about the city, the sins that had taken shape, and the forces that sought to control them.

He clenched his blade, muscles tense, mind sharpened. Tonight was only the beginning.

Above ground, the city trembled as a massive shadow fell across the skyline—larger than any Wraith he had faced, moving with intent, silent as a storm. And far in the distance, atop the highest spire of the Syndicate tower, two glowing eyes fixed on him, watching, waiting…

"He is ours now," a voice whispered through the rain.