The silence that blanketed the Deep Market in the wake of Ravi's pronouncement was a living entity. It pressed against eardrums, thickened the already foul air, and spoke volumes louder than any scream. As Ravi, followed by a still-reeling Mira, walked away from the slaughterhouse – now a tomb for Fenrir and his Red Fangs – the denizens of The Pit who had witnessed their passage, or heard the chilling decree, remained frozen. Eyes, wide with a potent cocktail of fear and disbelief, followed their retreating forms.
The Slum God. The words, whispered at first, began to gain traction, spreading from hovel to hovel, through the mud-choked alleys and into the darkest corners of The Pit. The Rat King, a fixture of terror and oppression for years, had been exterminated. Not by a rival gang in a bloody turf war, not by some brave but ultimately doomed rebellion, but by one man. A stranger. A cripple, some had initially called him. Now, no one dared.
Ravi, oblivious or perhaps indifferent to the burgeoning legend, walked with that same measured, limping gait. The divine energy he had expended in the slaughterhouse had taken a toll, not on his true essence, but on the fragile mortal coil he inhabited. A dull ache throbbed through his limbs, a weariness that was purely physical. His internal healing was working, mending the micro-tears and strains, but it was a slow process. He needed rest, and more importantly, a more substantial source of sustenance than stale bread and watery stew if he was to continue reshaping this world.
Mira, struggling to keep pace, her mind still replaying the horrific, yet undeniably righteous, destruction she had witnessed, finally found her voice. It was hoarse, trembling slightly.
"That… that was…" she stammered, unable to find the words. "Fenrir… he's truly gone?"
Ravi glanced at her, his luminous eyes, now faded to their usual unsettling coldness, holding a depth she couldn't fathom. "His sins have been accounted for. He will trouble no one further."
"But… how?" Mira pressed, her gaze fixed on him, searching for an answer to the impossible. "That power… no man has such power."
"I am not like the men you have known," Ravi stated simply, leaving no room for further questions on that particular topic. He stopped before a slightly less dilapidated two-story hovel near the edge of the now-pacified Red Fang territory. It had clearly belonged to one of Fenrir's lieutenants. "This will suffice for now."
He pushed open the flimsy door. The interior was crude, but a step up from his previous lean-to. There was a rough-hewn table, a couple of rickety chairs, and a straw-filled pallet that might pass for a bed. More importantly, there was a small stash of dried meat, a waterskin, and a few grimy coins – the spoils of petty tyranny.
As Ravi began to methodically inspect the dwelling, Mira lingered in the doorway, her expression a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Fear was still present, a healthy respect for the terrifying power she had seen. But it was now mingled with a burgeoning awe, and something else… a desperate, almost fanatical loyalty. This man, this… being… had done what she had only dreamed of in her darkest, most hopeless nights. He had brought justice, however brutal, to a place that had known only suffering.
"What… what now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You've killed Fenrir. His gang is broken. What will you do?"
Ravi turned, his gaze sweeping over her. "The filth in this slum runs deeper than one self-proclaimed king. This is merely a beginning. The judgment must be thorough."
"Others will come," Mira said, a note of warning in her tone. "There are other gangs in The Pit. And beyond… the City Watch, the Guard… if word of this reaches them…"
"Let them come," Ravi replied, his voice flat. "All sinners will have their audience."
His pronouncements, so absolute, so certain, sent another shiver down Mira's spine. He spoke not with bravado, but with the calm conviction of inevitable truth.
She took a deep breath, her decision solidifying. She knelt, not in the cowering manner Fenrir had demanded, but with a straight back, her head bowed in a gesture of fealty.
"Slum God," she said, the new title feeling surprisingly natural on her tongue. "I am yours to command. I know The Pit. I know its secrets, its people. I can be your eyes, your ears. I can help you find those who deserve your… judgment."
Ravi looked down at her, his expression unreadable. He had not sought followers, but this one had proven resourceful and possessed a righteous hatred for the corruption that permeated this place. Her loyalty, born from witnessing his power and the justice he delivered, was a tangible thing.
"Rise, Mira," he said, his voice devoid of warmth, yet not unkind. "Your knowledge may prove useful. But understand this: my path is one of harsh judgment. There will be no room for sentiment or hesitation. Only a cold reckoning."
"I understand," Mira said, rising, her eyes shining with a fierce determination. "The Pit has shown me no sentiment. I expect none in return, only… change."
While this new, terrifying order was beginning to solidify in one sector of The Pit, ripples were already spreading outwards.
Kael, his arm crudely splinted, had babbled his tale of the 'Demon-Eyed Cripple' to anyone who would listen in the territory of a rival gang, the Mire Snakes, led by a cunning and venomous woman known only as Vylia. Initially dismissed as the ravings of a broken thug, his story, coupled with the sudden, unnatural silence from the Red Fangs' territory, began to raise eyebrows.
Borin and Gorm, the first to experience Ravi's chilling gaze, had likewise spread their tales of terror, though they mostly kept to the shadows, terrified of drawing the stranger's attention again.
The two young women Ravi had freed from Fenrir's den had stumbled out into the Deep Market, their initial terror slowly giving way to a dawning, tearful relief. Their whispered accounts of Fenrir's gruesome end, of a dark angel who had smote their tormentor, added another layer to the growing legend.
Further afield, in the more 'civilized' part of the sprawling city of Veridia, which The Pit was merely a festering sore upon, the first official notices were being made.
Captain Valerius of the City Watch, a grizzled veteran with a perpetually weary expression and a nose for trouble, was reviewing the nightly reports in his dimly lit office. Most were the usual fare: petty theft, drunken brawls, a couple of stabbings in the lower districts. Then he came to a note from one of his informants in The Pit – a greasy little man named Pip who usually fed him information for a few coppers.
The note was scrawled hastily, almost illegibly: "Rat King dead. All Red Fangs gone. New power. Calls himself Slum God. Terrifying. Stay away. Deep Market a bloodbath."
Valerius frowned, rereading the note. The Rat King. Fenrir. He knew the name. A particularly nasty piece of work, even by The Pit's standards. The Watch rarely ventured into that cesspool unless absolutely necessary, preferring to let the vermin devour each other. But a complete wipeout of a major gang, and a new power calling himself a 'god'? That was… unusual. And potentially problematic. If this 'Slum God' decided to extend his influence beyond The Pit, or if his actions led to an all-out gang war that spilled into the lower city, Valerius would have a serious headache.
"Sergeant," Valerius called out to his aide in the outer office. "Get me everything we have on this Fenrir and his Red Fangs. And see if Pip has anything more on this… 'Slum God'. I don't like the sound of it."
Even further removed, in a lavishly appointed manor in the city's noble district, a young woman with eyes like chips of jade and hair the color of midnight was receiving a similar, if more elegantly phrased, report. Lady Seraphina Vayne, recently and unjustly stripped of her family's titles and wealth by treacherous rivals, now moved in the shadows, gathering intelligence, plotting her revenge. One of her few remaining loyal servants, a former guardsman with connections in the city's underbelly, stood before her.
"...and they say this newcomer simply walked into the Rat King's den and annihilated him and his entire retinue. Some are calling him a demon, others a divine avenger. The descriptions of his power are… fantastical, my Lady. But the result is undeniable. Fenrir is dead, and his territory is in chaos, though a chilling sort of order seems to be emerging around this 'Slum God'."
Seraphina listened intently, her fingers steepled before her lips. A new power in The Pit. One capable of such decisive, brutal action. Her mind, sharp and analytical, immediately began to assess the implications. An unknown variable. A potential tool? Or a dangerous new threat?
"This 'Slum God'," Seraphina mused, her voice a silken whisper. "Find out more about him. His appearance, his methods, his apparent goals. Such power, if real, could shift many things in Veridia. And I, my dear Marcus, am very interested in things that shift." A predatory light glinted in her jade eyes. The gears of her own intricate plans were already turning, considering how this new piece might fit onto the board.
Back in the claimed hovel, Ravi had consumed the dried meat and water. The immediate physical needs were sated. He sat on the crude pallet, not resting in the mortal sense, but allowing his divine consciousness to further integrate with its vessel, to accelerate the subtle healing. The fight had been a test, a calibration of his abilities in this constrained form. The results were… adequate for now. But he knew, with chilling certainty, that Fenrir and his Red Fangs were merely the first layer of scum. The corruption of this world ran deep, from the lowest slum to the highest echelons of power.
His judgment had only just begun. And the world, whether it knew it yet or not, was holding its breath. The ripples were spreading, and recognition, in its many forms – fear, awe, suspicion, and opportunistic interest – was dawning.