The streets of the city were quiet in the late afternoon, the kind of silence that smells like dust and old smoke. Rayon and Cairos walked side by side, hollow eyes and golden eyes moving in tandem, scanning every alley, every doorway.
Cairos spoke, low and deliberate. "This city isn't just ripe for influence. It's a pressure cooker. The nobles, the gangs, the underbelly—they all simmer. And then there's the group I've been watching closely."
Rayon's brow arched. "A rival?"
Cairos shook his head. "Not a rival. Hunters. They eliminate Forsakens. Anyone with strings. They say it's for the greater good… for balance. But I call it murder."
Rayon's fingers brushed his Hollow Strings, tightening them around his knuckles. "Then we have a common problem. Let's keep our eyes open."
They rounded a corner, descending into a narrow alley where the sunlight barely reached the cobblestones. The smell hit first: smoke, iron, death.
A gang of nearly a hundred men—rough, scarred, cruel—had cornered a group of children, no older than twelve. Orphans.
The children screamed as the men raised clubs, knives, and broken bottles. A sick, cruel joy painted their faces.
Rayon's jaw tightened. Cairos's eyes glinted golden.
No words.
Rayon moved first, his Hollow Strings erupting like black steel around his fists and forearms. He didn't throw punches—he unleashed choreography, every strike flowing into the next, breaking bones before men even realized they had one.
One man swung a club. Rayon twisted his body, letting the string guide his arm, grabbing the club mid-swing, twisting it, and snapping the man's wrist. The man screamed, and Rayon's fist found his jaw, sending him into two others.
Cairos moved like liquid beside him. Hands, elbows, knees, and kicks—precise, fast, devastating. He didn't just fight; he danced through bodies, breaking ribs, snapping necks, leaving men gasping on the floor.
The alley became a theater of violence.
Rayon ducked under a swing, his string snapping upward like a whip, catching a man by the throat and lifting him, spinning him into another. His legs swept across the ground, taking three more attackers off balance. Every motion was perfect timing, perfect placement.
Cairos vaulted over a crate, elbowing two men in succession before twisting midair and kneeing another in the chest. His golden eyes tracked everything, predicting movements Ray had only begun to anticipate.
They didn't need to speak. They didn't need to plan.
One hundred men fell under two predators, bodies twisting, cracking, and bleeding into the dust.
The screams echoed, but the children—cowering, terrified, yet alive—watched as the darkness descended and then lifted.
Rayon stepped back, fists still trembling slightly from the high of combat. Blood coated his forearms, dripping onto the cobblestones.
Cairos crouched beside him, wiping his knuckles on his pants. "I wasn't exaggerating. This city is dangerous. And it's only going to get worse if those hunters find out who we are."
Rayon's hollow eyes scanned the alley. "Then we give them a reason to fear us first."
Cairos smiled, sharp, deliberate. "Agreed. But remember—control the city first. Don't burn it down before you own it."
Rayon smirked, letting his strings fall slack. "Patience… patience is a tool. And I've learned to wield it better than most."
The children huddled together, eyes wide, mouths trembling. Neither Rayon nor Cairos spoke to them, but the message was clear: the city now had protectors, dark as they may be.