Bloodsteel Gangster
Episode 6 – King of Corpses
The city was choking on its own blood.
Every street corner was lined with burnt-out cars, barricades toppled and left smoking. The smell of iron and fire hung in the air like fog. The gangs whispered in panic. The cops patrolled in terror. And every whisper carried the same name.
Kuro.
He had become a moving execution. An immortal gangster carving his way through the underworld and the law alike. Every step he took left corpses behind. Every bullet he fired was another name erased from the city's map.
And still—he was calm. His glowing red eyes showed no excitement, no fury. Just the steady hunger of someone who knew infinity was waiting, and he would kill his way to it one body at a time.
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The Syndicate's Council
The Iron Fang Syndicate was in chaos. The massacre of their enforcer and soldiers humiliated them. So they called a council—leaders from across the city gathering in a smoke-filled skyscraper office.
There were the Blades, with their neon katanas. The Black Cross, drug lords who sold to angels and demons alike. The Spiked Crown, brutal slavers who ruled the docks.
All of them had one problem in common.
Kuro.
"He butchered Bloodbath District."
"He killed Iron Fang's enforcer like nothing."
"The cops sent tanks, and he still walks."
Their voices clashed, their egos burned. Finally, the head of Iron Fang slammed his fist on the table.
"We don't need more excuses. We need him dead. Tonight, we bury him."
And so the syndicate unleashed an army. Not soldiers, not thugs—killers. Veterans of countless gang wars. Cybernetically enhanced freaks. Torturers and mercenaries with nothing to lose.
The city streets would run red again.
The Trap
It began in the Redlight Strip. Kuro strolled down the boulevard, neon signs flashing half-naked dancers in holograms, music pulsing from underground clubs. The air stank of drugs and perfume.
But the Strip was too quiet.
Then the attack came.
Snipers fired from rooftops, bullets cracking the pavement at his feet. Cars screeched to a halt at both ends of the street, spilling out armed men with assault rifles. Clubs flung open, and more poured out, armed with blades glowing from power cores.
Hundreds of them, swarming like insects.
Kuro lit his cigarette, the glow of his red eyes reflecting in the smoke. He let the pistol slide out of his arm, his blade hiss free, and whispered calmly:
"Let's climb."
The Massacre
The Strip turned into a battlefield.
Gunfire erupted from every direction. Bullets shredded neon signs, glass rained from broken windows. Snipers fired from above, but Kuro's return shots were surgical—bang, bang, bang—each one exploding a skull.
Gangsters screamed, charging with glowing blades. Kuro's trench coat rippled, spikes shooting out, skewering three men at once. His blade-arm cut through another, torso spilling onto the pavement.
Grenades flew. Explosions tore clubs apart, neon lights shattering. The entire boulevard became a storm of fire.
And through it all, Kuro walked calm. Wounds split his body apart—holes blown through his chest, limbs shredded—but they sealed instantly. His body was a fountain of regeneration, steel veins knitting bone and flesh faster than they could tear him down.
One gangster leapt from a rooftop, cybernetic claws gleaming. Kuro caught him midair, shoved his pistol into the man's mouth, and fired. The headless corpse crashed into the pavement.
Another tried to crawl away, begging for mercy. Kuro pressed his boot onto the man's skull and crushed it like rotten fruit.
The screams echoed into the night.
The Cops Arrive
The city couldn't stay blind. Sirens wailed as police cruisers roared onto the Strip, their lights flashing across fire and blood. Dozens of riot cops poured out, shields raised, rifles locked.
"Drop your weapons! On the ground!" the captain shouted.
Kuro didn't move. He blew smoke from his cigarette and leveled his pistol.
Bang.
The captain's helmet burst red.
The cops opened fire. The syndicate joined in. Bullets came from every direction, shredding the Strip into rubble. But Kuro's blade was already spinning, his pistol barking nonstop. Every step he took was another corpse.
The cops tried to regroup, hiding behind their cruisers. Kuro aimed at the gas tanks. One bullet—boom. The explosion swallowed ten men in fire.
Another cruiser fell the same way.
By the time the smoke cleared, the Redlight Strip was silent. Buildings burned. Neon signs buzzed weakly in the blood-soaked street.
Kuro stood in the middle of it all, his trench coat dripping with gore, his glowing eyes cutting through the smoke.
LEVEL UP. Current Level: 500.
Balance: $499,000.
The King of Corpses
The few survivors of the Strip scattered, whispering in terror.
"He can't die…"
"He's a monster…"
"He's not human…"
But Kuro didn't hear them. He didn't care.
He sat down on the hood of a burned-out cruiser, lit another cigarette, and stared at the night sky. His body had shifted again—shoulders massive, muscles carved from steel, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. He was less man now, more weapon.
But his face was the same. Calm. Detached. Unfazed.
Five hundred levels. Nearly half a million dollars. Enough to buy a building, a business, maybe a block. But to Kuro, it was nothing.
Because the climb never ended.
And tomorrow, more gangs would come. More cops would try.
And he would kill them all.