The ripples of Ravi's brutal, dispassionate judgment of Kael spread through the immediate sector of The Pit like a contagion. Fear was the primary vector, but it was laced with a potent strain of morbid curiosity and, in the deepest, most suppressed corners of some hearts, a dangerous seedling of hope. Kael's agonized howls and the sight of his grotesquely twisted arm served as a visceral testament. The story mutated with each telling: the newcomer hadn't just broken Kael's arm, he'd shattered every bone with a touch; his eyes glowed with an eerie light; he was a vengeful spirit, a madman with unnatural strength, a demon wearing human skin.
Granny Melle, after her initial shock, had quickly gathered her meager belongings, her hands still trembling. She had offered Ravi a piece of her hard bread, her voice a quavering whisper of gratitude mixed with profound fear, but he had merely given her a slow, unreadable nod and continued on his way, the pain in his leg a constant, throbbing reminder of his mortal frailty. He'd found a relatively secluded, collapsed hovel, barely more than a lean-to of rotting wood and rusted corrugated iron, and had claimed it for the time being. The gnawing hunger was a persistent torment.
Later, under the cloak of the slum's perpetual twilight, a small, hesitant figure approached his makeshift shelter. It was Granny Melle. She carried a chipped bowl containing a thin, watery stew with a few unidentifiable vegetables and a hunk of the same hard bread.
"Stranger," she called out softly, her voice barely carrying over the distant sounds of slum life – a drunken argument, a crying child, the scuttling of rats.
Ravi, who had been sitting in the relative darkness, observing the patterns of rot on the wall, turned his head. His eyes, even in the gloom, seemed to pierce the shadows.
The old woman flinched but held her ground. "I… I brought you this. It ain't much, but… for what you did. Kael and his sort… they bleed us dry."
Ravi considered her for a long moment. This frail creature, offering what little she had. It was a gesture alien to the calculated cruelty he'd witnessed thus far. He gave another slow nod and accepted the bowl. The stew was bland, the bread stale, but it was sustenance. He ate with slow, deliberate movements, his ancient consciousness finding the act of chewing and swallowing an odd, almost detached experience.
"They call his boss Fenrir," Granny Melle offered, volunteering information as if sensing his unspoken need. "Leader of the Red Fangs gang. He controls this part of The Pit. He won't take kindly to his man being… dealt with. He's a cruel one, Fenrir. Worse than Kael by far."
Ravi merely listened, his expression unchanging. Fenrir. Another name. Another target.
"Why did you help me?" Granny Melle finally asked, the question that had clearly been burning in her mind. "You could have been killed. Kael, he's a dog, but Fenrir is a wolf."
Ravi finished the last of the stew, placing the bowl down. His gaze, when it met hers, was heavy, filled with an ancient weariness that she couldn't possibly comprehend. "Injustice," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It… displeases me."
It was the most he had spoken to anyone. Granny Melle shivered, not from cold, but from the sheer weight in those two words, the depth of meaning they seemed to carry. She mumbled a hasty thank you, retrieved her bowl, and scurried away, leaving Ravi to the solitude of his decaying hovel.
He spent the next few hours in a state of focused introspection, probing the limits of his new existence. The divine energy, his true essence, was still largely inaccessible, trapped behind the dam of his mortal form. Yet, small trickles were seeping through. His senses were undeniably heightened. He could hear the frantic heartbeat of a rat scurrying beneath the floorboards, smell the faint metallic tang of old blood on the dirt floor, see the intricate patterns of cobwebs in the darkest corners with perfect clarity. His pain tolerance was immense; the agony in his leg was a distant signal, easily ignored if he chose.
And then there was the pressure, the "Creator's Intent" as he was beginning to term its mortal manifestation. He could summon it at will now, a focused wave of psychic force that seemed to resonate with the basest fears of living beings. He practiced extending it, retracting it, feeling its subtle impact on the very air around him. It was a crude tool compared to the power to unmake stars, but in this realm of flesh and desperation, it was proving remarkably effective. He also discovered a nascent healing ability; the throbbing in his leg, while still present, had lessened slightly, the edges of the pain smoothed over by a faint, internal warmth. His divine nature was slowly, inexorably, beginning to mend its flawed vessel.
It was late, the slum noises quieting to a low murmur, when he sensed a new presence outside his hovel. Not Granny Melle this time. This was a different energy – cautious, wary, but with an undercurrent of something else… resolve?
"Are you in there, stranger?" a voice called out, surprisingly clear and steady, feminine.
Ravi turned his head towards the makeshift doorway. "I am."
A figure stepped into the dim light filtering through the gaps in the wall. A young woman, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. She was clad in patched, practical clothing, her dark hair tied back severely from a face that was smudged with dirt but held sharp, intelligent eyes. There was a wiriness to her, a survivor's lean strength. She carried a short, sharpened piece of rebar like a makeshift spear, holding it with a practiced readiness. This was the observer from the marketplace, the one who had watched his confrontation with Kael.
"They're calling you 'Bone-Breaker' now," she said, her eyes scanning the squalid interior, then settling on Ravi with an intensity that belied her youth. "Some say 'Demon-Eyes'."
Ravi remained silent, observing her in turn. She wasn't overtly hostile, but clearly cautious.
"I'm Mira," she stated, taking a small step further in. "I saw what you did to Kael. And I saw Borin and Gorm runnin' like scalded dogs earlier. That was you too, wasn't it?"
"It was," Ravi confirmed, his voice flat.
Mira nodded slowly. "Fenrir's men are looking for you. The Red Fangs are stirred up like a nest of angry wasps. They're not happy someone messed with their 'property'."
"Their concern is… noted," Ravi said, a hint of something that might have been dry, cosmic irony in his tone, though Mira likely missed it.
"You're not from The Pit, are you?" Mira pressed, her gaze sharp. "You don't talk like us, don't move like us. And that… thing you do with your eyes… that's not normal."
"Normal is a matter of perspective," Ravi replied.
Mira let out a short, humorless laugh. "Around here, 'normal' is getting your head caved in for a stale crust. What you did was… different. You weren't scared. You weren't even angry. You just… did it." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Fenrir. He's the reason this whole sector is a festering wound. He takes everything – food, coin, people. Especially the young ones, the pretty ones… they don't last long once he gets his hands on them. His den is like a butcher's shop for hope."
Her voice was laced with a cold, hard bitterness, the sound of someone who had seen too much, endured too much. The description of Fenrir's depravities painted a vivid, ugly picture, each word another nail in the slum lord's coffin in Ravi's silent judgment.
"He fancies himself a king," Mira continued, her lip curling in disgust. "The Rat King, some call him behind his back. Because he lives in the deepest, filthiest part of this sector, and he preys on everyone weaker than him. His favorite 'sport' is making beggars fight over scraps he throws them, sometimes to the death, just for his amusement."
Ravi's eyes, if possible, grew a fraction colder. The casual cruelty, the dehumanization – it was the very essence of the sin he had descended to eradicate.
Mira took a breath, her gaze unwavering. "You hurt his men. Badly. He'll want your head on a pike, or worse. But… you also showed strength. Strength The Pit hasn't seen from one man in a long time. Not that kind of cold, certain strength."
She took another step closer, lowering her rebar spear slightly. "I know this slum. Every rat hole, every escape route. I know who Fenrir's key men are, where he keeps his stash, when he's most vulnerable. Information is survival here."
Her eyes locked onto his. "I can help you. In exchange… I want out. Or I want Fenrir gone. Permanently. You look like the kind of man who can make things… permanent."
There it was. An offer. An alliance of desperation and perhaps, on her part, a gamble on the terrifying unknown that Ravi represented. She was drawn to his power, not with romantic allure, but with the pragmatic hope of a survivor seeing a weapon potent enough to change her world.
Ravi considered her. She was observant, resourceful, and clearly possessed a deep-seated hatred for the current order. A useful asset. And her description of Fenrir had only solidified his resolve.
"Fenrir will be judged," Ravi stated, his voice carrying that familiar, chilling finality.
Mira's eyes widened slightly. It wasn't the answer she expected, but it was far from a refusal. "So… you'll face him?"
"His transgressions require a personal accounting," Ravi replied.
Before Mira could respond, a sudden commotion erupted outside the hovel. Heavy, thudding footsteps, angry shouts.
"He's in there! That's the shack the old woman pointed to!"
"Spread out! Don't let the bastard escape!"
Mira's head snapped towards the doorway, her face instantly hardening. "Fenrir's men," she hissed, gripping her rebar spear tightly. "They found you faster than I thought."
The flimsy door to the hovel was kicked in with a crash, revealing three burly, grim-faced thugs, armed with crude clubs and rusted blades. Their eyes, filled with malice and the promise of violence, scanned the dark interior, quickly fixing on Ravi and then Mira.
The lead thug, a heavily scarred man with a broken nose, grinned viciously. "Well, well. Look what we have here. The Bone-Breaker, and a little rat keeping him company. Fenrir sends his regards. He wants a word. A very… persuasive word."