Bloodsteel Gangster
Episode 5 – Streets of Fire
The city burned.
Every block Kuro passed through was left painted in blood. Every alley, every street corner, every neon-lit club and brothel whispered the same name like a curse:
Kuro.
The Bloodsteel Gangster.
And for the first time in decades, the gangs and the cops agreed on one thing—he had to be stopped.
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The Syndicate's Answer
Word of the Bloodbath District massacre reached the ears of the Iron Fang Syndicate, one of the oldest crime families in the city. They didn't fear cops. They didn't fear demons. But Kuro? He was bad for business.
So they sent everything.
When Kuro stepped into Iron Fang territory, the streets were already sealed. Barricades of burning cars blocked the exits. Dozens of gangsters lined rooftops with rifles and machine guns. Armored trucks crawled along the road, bristling with turrets.
A warzone built just for him.
From the center of it all stepped their enforcer—a mountain of a man with metal tusks jutting from his jaw. His skin was grafted with steel plates, his fists the size of cinderblocks.
He grinned, cracked his knuckles, and shouted down the street. "You the freak that turned Bloodbath into a graveyard?"
Kuro stopped mid-road, his trench coat swaying. He pulled his cigarette from his lips, flicked it to the ground, and let the pistol slide out of his arm.
"Yeah," he said calmly.
The enforcer raised his fist. "Bury him!"
The street erupted.
The Firestorm
Gunfire rained from the rooftops. Bullets screamed across the road, sparks flying off broken concrete. Turrets opened up, cutting the air into ribbons.
Kuro walked forward through the storm. Bullets shredded his chest, tore holes through his limbs, ripped across his face—only for the wounds to seal instantly. Blood dripped, then vanished back into his skin like it had never existed.
He raised his pistol. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Every shot perfect. A rooftop sniper dropped, his skull bursting. Another fell screaming.
The armored trucks advanced, turrets lighting him up. Kuro's trench coat rippled like steel in motion, absorbing some rounds while his body healed the rest. He aimed at the driver of the nearest truck. Bang. The bullet punched through the windshield, blowing the man's head apart. The truck swerved, flipped, and exploded into fire.
Gangsters screamed, rushing him with bats and blades. His left arm shifted, blade sliding free. He carved through them without blinking—one slash severed three men in half, another tore a torso open like paper.
The enforcer roared, charging. His steel fists slammed into Kuro's chest, cratering the pavement beneath them.
Kuro didn't move. His body caved in from the blow—then snapped back into place instantly.
The enforcer's grin faltered. "What the fuck—"
Kuro shoved his pistol under the man's chin and pulled the trigger. Bang.
The tusked skull exploded, raining shards of bone and steel.
The street fell silent except for the crackle of flames.
LEVEL UP. Current Level: 350.
Balance: $349,000.
Kuro rolled his neck. His frame swelled again, muscles like iron cables, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. He lit another cigarette off a burning car, calm as ever, and kept walking.
The Police Response
The city government couldn't ignore him anymore.
Hours later, sirens wailed as an armored convoy rolled down the boulevard. Hover-tanks hovered above, cannons humming. Drones swarmed like hornets. A full tactical unit—hundreds of cops armed to the teeth—blocked the intersection.
At their front stood a decorated captain in polished armor. He raised his megaphone, voice booming.
"Kuro Veynar! By order of the state, you are sentenced to death. This is your last chance to surrender!"
Kuro exhaled smoke, eyes glowing brighter in the flashing red and blue. His voice was steady, calm.
"No."
The captain snarled. "Fire."
The night turned into hell.
Tank shells slammed into buildings, detonating fireballs across the street. Drones rained bullets from above. Police rifles spat endless lead.
And in the middle of it, Kuro walked. Unstoppable. Bullets tore him apart and his body healed faster. Shells detonated against his chest, blowing holes that sealed before the smoke cleared. His pistol barked death with every pull, each shot splitting helmets, bursting skulls.
Cops screamed, falling in droves. Drones exploded, raining fire onto their own men. Kuro's blade-arm cleaved through riot shields, cutting men in half like nothing.
One tank lined him up, cannon glowing. Kuro raised his pistol, fired once, and the round pierced the barrel. The tank exploded, fire washing over the street.
The captain screamed into his comms for retreat, but Kuro was already there. His blade pierced the man's armor, sliding out of his back. Kuro leaned close, calm as death.
"You should've brought more men."
He shoved him off the blade, let him crumple, and shot him in the face.
LEVEL UP. Current Level: 400.
Balance: $399,000.
The Smoking Streets
By dawn, the boulevard was silent. Burned cars littered the road. Tanks were blackened husks. Corpses covered the concrete in bloody heaps.
Kuro sat on the hood of a destroyed tank, cigarette glowing between his lips. His body had shifted again—towering, monstrous, steel veins pulsing under his skin. His trench coat hung heavy, soaked in blood, yet it looked like it belonged to him more than ever.
Above, drones circled cautiously, recording everything. The city was watching. The gangs were watching. The cops were watching.
And all of them were afraid.
Kuro exhaled smoke into the morning sky, calm as always.
"Four hundred," he muttered. His voice was low, steady. "Still nothing."
Because it wasn't. Four hundred levels were crumbs compared to infinity.
And he was just getting started.