“Are we good with gunpowder?” Terran asked.

  “Aye,” Zolin said. “Olska says that we should have enough materials.”

  “Everything is on schedule then.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then why are we meeting here?” The two were in a separate side tunnel that was perpendicular to the main sewage hall. It was long and cramped, with room for only single file marches. That made it the perfect place for private conversations without requiring them to be all that close. Zolin must have chosen this spot for just that reason.

  “Olska and I were runnin’ some numbers,” Zolin said. He leaned against the brick wall. “Diveky is heavily reliant on the mainland nowadays. We get food from Pansfinre, and import goods from distant countries. When we isolate the city, there will be mass starvation. Thousands or more could die.”

  “That is a pressing matter,” Terran said. “It’s good you told me first.” Indeed, it was a good sign that his authority was accepted. Zolin didn’t want to cause an uproar, and so he turned to him. Still, this was such an obvious detail it was amazing nobody had brought it up before. Terran did not need to eat (Now that he thought of it, he couldn’t even remember his last meal) and so this obvious detail had flown over his head as well. “What do you suggest we do?”

  “Let’s delay the plan we can think of somethin’.”

  “We cannot do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have gunpowder,” Terran said. “We have men. Our deadline is firm. If we wait, nothing happens. Or some fool may go rogue. And that would ruin everything.” Terran didn’t even have to name names. Both knew that Pisk would be furious about delays. “There must be some other way. What other groups are there in the city?”

  Zolin stroked his unruly beard, but then turned away with a grunt. Terran straightened himself, bones creaking as he did so. “You’ve got a solution then?”

  “Nah,” he said. “It’s terrible.”

  “We have few options,” Terran said. “Tell me.”

  “There’s the mafia,” Zolin said. He laughed to himself. “Yeah, that’d be a perfect idea. Overthrow the subtle influences of the aristocracy to be beholden to criminal gangsters. I mean, couldn’t you imagine?”

  “Mafia,” Terran said. The word sounded unnatural. It was definitely a more recent development. He’d heard of the organization a few times, but still knew very little about it. “So this mafia. They have the resources to feed the people?”

  “They could get them,” Zolin said, kicking the brick at the side. “They’re flowin’ with drug money, so they can afford to smuggle in foodstuffs.” Aha! This mafia was a criminal organization. One with resources. If the Order controlled that, Terran’s reign over Diveky would be assured.

  “Where do they meet?”

  “Huh?”

  “The mafia,” Terran said. “Where do they meet?”

  “You can’t be serious,” Zolin said. “If we’re tellin’ ‘em what we’re doin’, they’ll take our idea and run with it. Might even kill all of us. This whole revolution would be for nothing. We’re not allying with them. Out of the question.”

  “Who said that I spoke of an alliance?”

  “Wait,” Zolin stepped back. The man backed away into darkness until only his blank face was visible. “Do you mean….”

  “Why not?” Terran snorted. “We lull them into a false sense of security. Speak of an agreement, but don’t mention our plan. They will want a piece of our profits, but there will be no betrayal until after our takeover. After we acquire their supplies. They will not refuse. I can be quite convincing.” Terran raised his hand in an overtly dramatic motion which emphasized his razor sharp claws.

  “I know you can,” Zolin said. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Terran almost cursed. Damn Zolin. These morals of his, always coming up at the worst possible times. Always keeping him back from doing what was needed. “What’s even to be concerned of?” Terran asked. “You claimed they were like the Blackwells. What’s it matter if they perish.”

  “They exploit like the Blackwells,” Zolin said. “Corruption fills the upper ranks. But the workers are honest men like us. They employ those just trying to get by. That’s why they’re so widespread.”

  “Fine,” Terran sighed. “I won’t kill any grunts. Does that satisfy you?”

  Zolin gave a stiff nod. Terran smiled, “Good. I shall march on their base tonight. It’s best to get this matter sorted quickly.”

  “And I’m comin’ with,” Zolin said. “To make sure it all runs smoothly.”

  “Fine,” Terran said. An obvious question entered his mind and Terran cursed himself for not asking it sooner. “First we have to find the base. Would any of our men be a part of the mafia?”

  “Most definitely,” Zolin said. “I can make the rounds right now.” He walked to the main hall to do just that. Before Terran could protest, the fool was already calling the lot of busy workers. Instinct swelled in him, demanding that Terran strike Zolin down and swear to secrecy. But such a move would be suicidal to a movement so young. The Dark Lord would have his day soon. He was destined to become the monarch of this movement. But as of now, Terran had to let some things play out. Hopefully, Zolin wouldn’t ruin things too much…

  ***

  As it turned out, two of their men had a side operation with the mafia. One was a getaway driver who saw little action. He drove men places and asked no questions. But the other man, a brute named Miros, was the head of a small drug ring. He served as a distributor to a few dealers on the street. Every other week, the distributors would meet with the heads of the mafia to discuss border disputes, recent arrests and other logistical matters. As it happened, one such meeting was occurring within a few days. That would be their way in.

  The plan was simple. Terran and Zolin would “trail” Miros as he went to the meeting. They’d then wait before knocking on their hideout. That way, Miros would be safe and they could still get what they want. Terran would have rather bust down the place, no wasteful trailing necessary, but the people voted for caution and so caution it would be.

  Terran kept to the rooftops, leaping from building to building, as he trailed Miros from above. It was liberating to be out on the city again, wide sky above him, cool wind chilling his body. This was how one should live. When the time came to construct his new palace, Terran would design it without stuffy halls or cramped tunnels. His throne room would be a great plane, with huge windows to allow the sky to come in. Yes, that would be wonderful.

  Miros walked about aimlessly for half an hour, before coming close to a random alleyway between two abandoned apartment complexes. He turned on a dime, so fast that Terran almost missed it. The burly man moved with surprising speed. He was on the opposite side of the street. Terran leapt across the wide road to continue following Miros.

  Terran skidded to a stop. A cracking ache pained his right ankle. The ache was minor, but it made him stumble where he wouldn’t have before. His new metal foot performed perfectly, no pain or anything. Terran grumbled. Perhaps another amputation was in order.

  Miros walked down to the alleyway, and stopped by a pair of heavy looking crates. He pushed the boxes away, with much ease for his age, to reveal a hidden doorway. A slit at the door opened. Miros talked to someone. The door opened.

  A beefy man glanced around the alleyway. Terran crouched down small. They let Miros in, then closed the door. Some unseen mechanism moved the boxes back. At first, Terran thought it was magic but then he saw a small hole in the wall connected to a movement mechanism. Yet another clever trick. Terran leapt down to the street. He marched for the door. But he only took two steps before someone called out, “What are you doing?”

  There was a bulky silhouette on the far side of the room. “Zolin,” Terran said. In his chase, he had nearly forgotten that the man was also trailing Miros. “What does it look like I’m doing? I am introducing myself.”

  “You can’t,” he said. “Not to be rude or anything, but if they see you…well, er…” He trailed off, seeming afraid to say more. But he didn’t need to. The point was made. They were going for diplomacy, at least the illusion of it. Introducing them to an actual human would be best.

  Terran kicked the false crates away, then stood beside the door such that he was just out of its view. Zolin stared the eye slot down, and knocked. “Hello? Hello?”

  He knocked for a good minute. The eye slot opened with a fwoosh. Bulgy eyes stared at Zolin. “What?”

  “Can I come in?,” Zolin asked. “I know it ain’t customary, but I got an offer for you. I’m representin’ an organization, see? And I think we have mutual interests.” There was no confidence in his voice. Zolin definitely didn’t rehearse that. Terran sighed. So much for diplomacy…

  The eyes moved away. With his helmet pressed against the door, Terran could just make out echoey whispers. The eyes reappeared in the slot. “I got no idea what yer talkin’ about.”

  “I’m pretty sure ya do,” Zolin said. He breathed in and stood tall. “This deal, it’s very lucrative. Lots of… profits.” Zolin cringed at that last word, as if it were a vicious swear he had said before a disapproving parent. A tad melodramatic, thought Terran. As if words themselves could ever be immoral.

  More hushed whispers. The eyes came back. “Tell me ‘bout it.”

  Terran shook his head. They must talk with the leaders. The mafia would have their way otherwise. Zolin gave a stiff nod, confirming he understood. “I’m afraid it ain’t the sorta deal we can discuss in the open. Could you let me in? I promise ya, your leaders will love it.”

  “No deal.” The slot slammed shut. There was silence.

  “Knock again,” Terran whispered. “Tell them that you do not violence, but that you still want to meet their leaders. It is an order, not a request. And if they refuse, the gates of hell will open and guide you straight to their leader’s den.” By the end of his little speech, Zolin’s eyes seemed ready to pop from his skull and he was shaking his head furiously. Terran added, “It is mostly talk. I will try to refrain from killing any of the grunts.” Try being the key word. Battles were chaotic. People were stupid. There was no telling what could happen.

  Zolin knew that, yet still knocked. Then he knocked some more. It was a good minute before somebody answered. “Will ya stop?” It was a different voice, lower and more feral. “We said no. That is that.”

  “I think you misunderstood,” Zolin said. He breathed in, and then smiled. “This ain’t a request, it's an order. I’m not fer violence, but if you do not obey, the gates of hell’ll open. A demon will escort me straight to your leaders, if that’s what it takes to get what I want.”

  The door closed. A man was out but a moment later. He jabbed his pistol on Zolin’s belly. “What the hell did ya just say?”

  Zolin bobbed his head to the left. The man’s gaze followed, and then his jaw dropped to the floor. Terran slashed at his knees, then caught the fool’s gun midair. He lay on the ground, clutching his leg, bleeding. The wound looked bad, but it would not be fatal.

  Terran stepped over the blithering oath. He found himself looking over a darkened hall. Fifteen men had rushed out from rooms to figure out what the commotion was about. The pale youths aimed their trembling guns for Terran.

  “Step back,” Terran said to Zolin. “This could get bloody.”

  A spray of bullets washed over Terran. Most missed, but a few pierced through. Terran fought through it, strengthening his legs with vinye so he could keep standing. He fired the grunt’s gun, aiming low to avoid fatalities. Two men fell.

  More rushed into the hall. Now there were twenty, all firing at Terran. They huddled together, and shot as a unit. Their assault was fierce, but their defense nonexistent. Terran staggered to the head of the pack. He swept two men off their feet, then slammed a guy into the wall before shooting another in the leg.

  Most proved cowards. The grunts rounded the corner, but four brave souls remained. They surrounded Terran. They ran around him, keeping the fire going, never missing a single shot. There was no opening. Not in this eternal rain of bullets. But it was fine. Terran kept guard of his face, waiting for the moment…

  Bang. Bang. Click.

  The four tried to run and create distance, but it was a fruitless endeavor. Terran sprang from one to the next, faster than they could reload. A kick. Two punches. Then they were down. The Dark Lord turned the corner into another hall.

  Duos of men fired from a distance, taking turns from seemingly safe doorways. Terran focused on his legs. They glowed red. He leapt, speeding from one door to the next as he kicked the men out of commission. Screams echoed as Terran sprinted along the hall Beautiful screams. Such glorious fear. The Dark Lord dominated over all! Oh, how he missed this.

  But it was soon over. Terran found himself in the center of a field of groaning bodies. Zolin marched in from outside, the vein on his forehead bulging out. “What are you doing? I said not to go for the grunts.”

  “You said not to kill them,” Terran said. “I’m not.” It was an important distinction to make. Terran had said he’d raise hell, and that was very much what he was doing. “Now, stay back. We’re not done.”

  Ahead, the hall again turned the corner. Terran reached his hand across, then pulled someone over. The youth had been planning a sneak attack. Now foiled, he dropped his gun and struggled like an insect under a boot. Terran lifted him well over his head. “Your leaders. Where are they?”

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  The man babbled, and shook his head. Terran snatched his gun and threw him aside. “You deal with him,” Terran said, not caring whether Zolin did so or not. “More will come. I must be ready.”

  Terran rounded the corner then stopped. There were six men, ten feet down. They stood in rows of two in front of iron doors. More bullets struck at his armor. A few good shots pierced through, making him pause, but not stop. Terran couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t.

  Terran leapt up to the ceiling. They aimed high, but then Terran ducked low just as fast. He slid towards them, the momentum allowing Terran to pierce the line. He grabbed two by their faces, then slammed them into each other. He kicked one in the chest.

  In the confusion, a guard ran back through the door. There was a click. The rest tried the door. They throttled at the handle, pulling it back. Terran slowled his approach to a gentle march. He kept a gun pointed, and his claws extended. This sight made them panic. The men strangled the doorknob. They banged at the door. They scratched at the slit between doors. Their guns lay forgotten on the floor.

  Terran pried two away, then threw them back. Another two fell to the ground, begging for mercy. Ha! Mercy. A thing for the weak. Terran pulled these men up, and threw them back as well. They bounced off the floor, like the others. They lay in place, groaning as they clutched bad legs.

  A guard came behind Terran. He stuffed his shotgun into a hole in the plating between Terran’s head and neck. Terran kicked him back right as he pulled the trigger. The shot hit Terran straight through the chest.

  Bits of organ splattered everywhere. Terran fell to his knees. The man sighed with relief, seeming to think that it was over. That’s when Terran sprang back up to sweep him down. The man backed away, “H-How?”

  “Pain cannot stop me,” Terran said. He kicked this final guard back, and snatched his gun. Terran fired at the hinges on the double doors then he kicked it open just because he could.

  An empty bar greeted Terran. There was a big flashy stage on the far side of the room. There was an unlit sign at the stop. The stage covered a quarter of the room. It was blocked off by a ragged blue curtain. Whispers could be heard behind it. Deserted tables littered the other space. The food on them was fresh. The place reeked of cigarette smoke, also fresh.

  There was no wind, but one of the pristine tablecloths shook regardless. Terran moved vinye into his arms, making his legs weak. He approached with quiet footsteps, then ripped the tablecloth clean off. There was a man. The traitor who had locked the door midfight. Terran kicked the table aside. “You fool. Your flight has only affirmed my wrath.”

  He gripped the traitor by his throat and lifted him into the air. The traitor gasped for breath as Terran gently squeezed his windpipe. Not enough to harm him. But enough to give him the scare of a lifetime. Terran laughed right in the betrayer’s face.

  “Wait!” Zolin rushed into the room. Blood was on his face, and his knuckles were bruised. He no longer had a gun, and ran in with a noticeable limp.

  “Do not worry,” Terran said. “I am teasing. There will be no fatalities, as promised.”

  Zolin stopped a few feet shy of Terran. He glared at the golden watch on the traitor’s pale wrist. “He abandoned his men,” Zolin said. “Do what you want.”

  Terran smiled. He slashed at the traitor’s midsection. Guts spilled out like confetti from a pinata. Terran let go. The traitor dropped like a ragdoll. Zolin stepped back, mouth covering his pale face. He seemed on the verge of vomiting. Terran sighed, “You said do what you want. What, that wasn’t okay?”

  “Not in this world, mate.”

  Terran whipped around. That voice. It came from everywhere, yet nowhere at the same time. Zolin backed away from the stage, a deep scowl across his fist.

  A kid came out from behind the curtain. He couldn’t have been much older than seventeen. The mad youth was boney and thin. He almost looked starved. His bright suit clashed terribly with his dark hair, signaling an obvious disinterest in appearance. Worse yet, he was grinning like a dope. Terran growled. There was something familiar about that grin. Irritatingly familiar. The idiot clapped as he paced the stage. “What a show! What a show!”

  Zolin took a step back. “You?”

  “Yeah it's me,” the kid said, shrugging. “Who did you think ran all this?”

  Zolin marched towards the stage, but Terran put his arm up to block him. This kid had exposed himself with an unnatural brashness. He could be dumb, but approaching this recklessly could doom their plans. Caution would be best. Zolin shouted, “I should’ve known ya lot would be here. Wherever there’s kreva to be made, you can bet ya will find yourself a Blackwell.”

  A Blackwell? Now Terran could see it. This kid had those same silver eyes. “Name’s Karl,” he said. He jumped off the stage, then put his feet up on a nearby table. Karl called back to the stage. “Hey! Come on out everyone! There’s no danger here.”

  “Are you sure?” Someone called out. They sounded far older.

  “I’m sure,” Karl said. “This isn’t a demon. Not the police. Here before us, is the one and only Dark Lord Terran. He’s here to negotiate, that’s all.” The curtain remained still. Karl’s statement hadn’t eased anyone, which suited Terran just fine. He was not prepared to address a crowd.

  “Come out, dammit,” Karl yelled, slamming his wiry fist against the table. “That means you too Dayton! We can’t negotiate without some tunes.” A younger man, dressed in a sparkling suit and cape stumbled towards the microphone with two scantily dressed women behind him.

  “We don’t need the dames,” Karl said. He pointed to the dead traitor. “They can toss out the body.” The girls looked at each other, but made no protest. They came to Terran, then dragged the corpse by his feet out of sight. A bloody streak was left across the room which only all but Terran and Karl cringed at.

  A gruff man in a business suit stepped out from the curtain. He sat next to Karl but said nothing. His arms were big and meaty, with a lot of bulk. This beast could punch cinder blocks with ease. The warrior focused right on Terran with a resolved glare.

  Terran could hear more whispering behind the curtain. There were far more people, perhaps close to a hundred. All were too cowardly to come out. Karl said nothing of these pitiful others, instead allowing them to have their say. A pathetic quality for any leader.

  Dayton sang. A rock song, Terran thought. It was hard to tell because the glistening man mumbled to himself, too distracted by the blood and guts that the girls had streaked across the floor.

  “Eh, I guess this’ll have to do,” Karl said with a shrug. He clapped then sat upright. “So what was so important, Terran, that you just had to see me?” The kid had an eager grin on his face, one which did not match the stuffy suit he wore. This kid. This freaking kid. Terran, a zombie, had just beaten his entire army. Why was he smiling? Were all Blackwells just that cocky?

  “What foolishness is this,” Terran asked. “I demand to speak with the head of the mafia.”

  Terran took a few steps. Boris stood tall, and put himself in front of Karl. The kid raised his hand. “Woah. Woah. Woah. Easy, Boris. The monarch’s got a right to know. Y’see Terran, Boris here doesn’t run the mafia. He’s just the face of it. The entire thing is my operation.”

  “We should go,” Zolin said. “It’s run by Blackwells. This is a waste.”

  “Like you can just go after you cripple half my guard?” Karl laughed. He rang his hand through his matted hair. Then he frowned.“You didn’t have to do that, by the way. You could have sent a message first.”

  “We sent a message.”

  “Really?” Karl stroked his clean shaven chin. “I never learned about that. I’ll have to ask my guards about that. They’re all alive, right Terran? That I saw on the camera. Good work. Stunning work. I’ve read up on you, Lord Terran. The only reason they're alive is because you want something. Just say it.”

  Zolin crossed his arms, “We will never do business with you.”

  “No,” Terran said, holding up a hand. This youth ruled from the shadows, when the Blackwells were known to be figurative heads of state. He claimed full ownership over his guard. The mafia was not a Blackwell operation. For whatever reason, Karl pursued his own ventures. “There is room here to negotiate.”

  Though a simple test was in order first. Terran chipped off a small piece of armor, about the size of a bead. He flicked it towards Karl. It cut his cheek. “Ow,” Karl said, clutching this wound. He dabbed it with his finger, then showed a speck of blood. “What was that for?”

  Terran snorted. One with his skills would have seen that coming. “You’re not Gifted.”

  “No,” Karl said, rubbing his wound with his finger. “Only Raven is. Like any family would be blessed enough to have two. I could’ve told you that y’know. You didn’t have to mutilate me!” The oaf did not even realize it, but he had just spoiled his best defense. Most Blackwells were ordinary. Why was this family so damn important then? Why not only Raven?

  “What’s your relation with the girl anyhow?” Terran asked. “Are you close?”

  “Raven?” Karl dabbed his bloody finger on Boris’ shirt. The beast of a man grunted but remained stoic. “She’s my second-cousin once removed, er, first cousin twice removed. Or something. I dunno, look up a family try if you're interested in the specifics. But no. We once lived together, but we’re not close. Not close to any of ‘em in fact. All those on my side were out during Bloody Seas.”

  Terran smiled. “How would ya like to rule this city?”

  “Hold on,” Zolin said, facing Terran. “What are ya-”

  Terran stomped towards Karl, hand outstretched. “It’s clear to me that you are an outcast. You’re eager, ambitious, but misguided. Deeply misguided. Selling drugs. Pfft. Why corner one market, when you can corner all markets?”

  “Interesting,” Karl put his hands into the steeple, and that signature Blackwell grin of his grew even wider. “You’re suggesting a takeover of the city then?”

  “A new commissioner is being recruited,” Terran said. “This will not happen. The police, and most of Diveky’s current government, will be destroyed within weeks. I will not say how. But this will come to pass. Our concern is the transition. We need someone who can feed the people, to ensure that anarchy does not come to pass during this tumultuous trial.”

  “You want us to smuggle supplies from Pansfinre then?” Karl nodded, then leaned further into the seat. “Okay. Okay. I can do that. Just one question: what about the part where you leave me dead in a ditch? What are we gonna do ‘bout that?”

  Terran sighed, “Pardon?”

  “I know my history, bud,” Karl said. “You are a Dark Lord. Big dramatic, me-me-me kinda guy. Bit overly so I’d say, wouldn’t you agree?” He jabbed Boris’ side. Then he pointed to Dayton. The rockstar gave the stiffest of nods. Karl chuckled. “Yeah, I’m right. If we form an alliance, Terran, we both know how it would end. Moment I’m useless to you, well, there goes my head.”

  “Not necessarily,” Terran said. “The books got it wrong. It is true that I have often ruled alone, but that does not mean I’ve acted alone. I’ve often needed assistants.”

  “Assistants?”

  “Someone to handle logistics,” Terran said. “Glorious battles and grand speeches may make the history books, but they do not get the job done without logistics. Do not get me wrong. This is not some desk position. You shall have fame if you desire. Your gains will be as plentiful as mine. And in time, maybe, we could even call each other partners. Co-monarchs, if you will. No bond is more sacred.” As Terran spoke, he kept an eye on Zolin. The man nodded along, seeming to understand it was part of the act. But it would be best not to go too far lest Zolin deem his thoughts genuine.

  That made this next part particularly risky. “I know what you’re thinking,” Terran said. “It’s unbecoming of me to share the glory. But think of it: the hero’s descendant and her worst enemy ruling side by side. It would be a spit in her face. A tarnishing of Gratia’s legacy. When people think of the Blackwells, they will think of you and you alone, Lord Karl Blackwell.”

  The kid rubbed his hands together. “That does have a nice ring to it.”

  “All you need to do is have the supplies ready,” Terran said. “It should be easy for a man of your skill.” That final play to the ego seemed to do the trick. Karl leaned towards Terran, wide eyed, a child lost in delusion.

  “You’re right,” Karl said, snapping his fingers. “I’ll have some guys of mine start haulin’ stuff from Pansfinre right away.” The desire was plain, but this eagerness was too sudden. He didn’t have any questions. No concerns about the imminent destruction of his government. Perhaps he wished to ride out the storm, or maybe wished to circumvent their plans. Either way, plans of betrayal were undoubtedly festering. The kid could have his fun. Miros hadn’t told him a word. He’d sworn on it, and Terran could always double check that promise. Since he didn’t know the specifics of the Order’s plan, Karl wouldn’t make his move until after they had taken the city. His power-hungry fantasies would keep him distracted in the meantime.

  “If that’s all you got, I suggest you get moving,” Karl said. “No offense, but you’re kind of killing our vibe.” He gestured back to the curtain. A guest had been brave enough to poke their head through but had retreated upon seeing Terran.

  “I see,” Terran said.“We’ll let you know when you’re needed then.” He strode out towards the exit. A scowling Zolin followed close behind, carrying himself well despite his obvious disapproval.

  The guards Terran had fought before were outside, being tended to by Karl’s paramedics. They were bloody, bruised and beaten. Many had broken bones. But none were dead. All looked to Terran, wide-eyed and shivering. One mumbled to himself, rocking back and forth. Terran glared at him. He yelped. None had been killed, but Terran had given them a shake down they would remember. Terran strode out of the building. Zolin meandered behind. The door was slammed on them. There was a click. They had locked it. They actually locked it. They had clearly not learned their lesson. Locks were useless against him. Such stupidity. It was almost insulting.

  “What was that?” Zolin said in a hushed tone that was not a whisper. He sighed, then stormed off. “Ruling with Blackwell, huh?”

  Terran approached Zolin, blocking his path out. “All lies. You know this.”

  Zolin met Terran’s glare. “I know a rich bastard when I see one,” he said. “You seemed in your element, conversing with him. That Blackwell certainly seemed to know you, Lord. Say what you want, but that’s a title you can’t shake.”

  “I am reformed,” Terran said. “You know this.”

  “Maybe,” Zolin said. “Or maybe you’re just usin’ us like how we’re-”

  Terran laughed. An unnaturally loud cackle, which did well to shut Zolin up before he spoiled everything while within earshot of the mafia. “What use would I have of an army of blithering workers?” He asked. “I could take this city by myself if I so desired.”

  Zolin staggered back. He looked Terran over again, as if seeing him for the first time.

  “And what of those men,” Zolin asked. “I said to go easy.”

  “You said no fatalities,” Terran said. “They will live.”

  “But will they recover?”

  “In time.”

  “Some might not have time.”

  “You do not want them recovered too soon,” Terran walked away from the hideout entrance. Once they were out of earshot, he continued: “When they recover, and they will, the men will crawl back to Karl. They would stand against us. Trust me. Men have their priorities. Karl doubtlessly pays well, and they will follow so long as he keeps the coin going. They are simple this way. Philosophy matters little to these people.”

  The vein on Zolin’s forehead bulged out again, but he calmed himself, only now seeming to realize how foolish it would be to have an outburst in front of Karl’s hideout. “Our principles matter. They matter to us. To our movement.”

  “It doesn’t matter to everyone,” Terran said. “Not everyone shares your values.”

  “Do you even share our values?”

  “I do,” Terran said. “What I do is for the common good. Believe it or not, but we have common ground: this city is corrupt. It needs to be forced into the right direction. Our takeover must be swift, or some idiot will take charge. That cannot be allowed. Besides, it's too late to go back out now. Our pact has been forged.”

  “It's not too late, as long as it's not the big day,” Zolin said. “But you best believe I’m bringing this up to the people tomorrow.” He began to make his leave.

  “The people will agree with me,” Terran shouted after him. They always do. You can find me quite persuasive.” Indeed, the Dark Lord was not just a master of combat. Nobody could convince a majority like him. He wouldn’t be where he was otherwise.

  Zolin glanced back. “Why are you liked this?”

  “I wish to help the city.”

  “But what do ya get out of it?” Zolin asked. He stepped towards Terran. “You’ve never toiled in a factory. You’ve never worked ten hours a day, alongside your boys. You never helped one when they fainted! You never had to…”

  “Do not give me that,” Terran marched straight to Zolin, backing him into a wall. Speaking this now was risky, but anger had consumed him. He simply didn’t care. Terran lifted his skeletal hand, emphasizing the bony claw tips. The entire arm creaked when he lifted. “Look at what I’ve sacrificed. You do not know pain, Zolin. My mere existence is torture. I live in pain to pursue a dream!”

  “And what is that dream?” Zolin said. “What do you gain from this?”

  “I help the city.”

  “And what else?”

  Terran did not respond. For once, he did not have an answer. He wished to rule, but confessing that to Zolin would be suicidal. Perhaps he should think of what he wished to do after. Once he was on the throne, and both Diveky and Pansfinre were his, what would he do? What would he do whilst he ruled under an endless empire? Yet he couldn’t think of anything. No pleasure, no reward, which would make it all worth it. He fought… because he always had. It was what he’d dedicated half his life to. It was what he’d been good at. But that couldn’t be it. No. Being king was its own reward. Right? That would make him happy. Or was joy beyond him now, like so many other pleasures?

  It was outrageous. Such a basic question. Terran should’ve had a response prepared. Yet he stood there, saying nothing. Zolin continued on to the public street. A place Terran could never follow. The seconds ticked on. A police car sped by on the street. It hadn’t seen him, but staying here was risky. Terran ascended to the rooftops. Cool air rushed past him, but the night was no longer liberating. He was returning to the sewers, that cramped prison. On the way back, Terran tried to contemplate Zolin’s question. But try as he might, Terran was forced to let the matter go. There were more important matters to attend to.