The dimly lit corridor reeked of sweat, perfume, and something that clung to the skin like filth that wouldn’t wash off. The walls were stained with years of indulgence, and the warm, stifling air carried the muffled sounds of distant moans, cries, and drunken laughter. The floor was littered with discarded clothing, empty bottles, and the occasional gold coin that no one had bothered to pick up.

  At the center of the hallway, a group of six men lounged around a makeshift table, their bodies draped lazily over wooden chairs and old cushions. They weren’t just loitering. They were the watchdogs of a brothel.

  A heavyset man with a scar running down his jaw shuffled a deck of enchanted cards between his thick fingers, smirking as he glanced at his opponents. "I hope none of you spent all your coin on the girls tonight, ‘cause I ain’t taking IOUs when I clean you out."

  The bald man across from him snorted, tossing a gold coin onto the growing pile at the center of the table. "You keep acting like you’re some kind of card god, but last time, you lost a week’s wages in a single round."

  The scarred man’s smirk widened. "That’s ‘cause I was distracted. That redhead in Room Five? Worth every damn coin."

  The youngest among them, a wiry man with sharp, fox-like features, leaned back with an exaggerated yawn. "The ones you like are always half-broken already. No fun in that."

  The bald man chuckled darkly. "That’s ‘cause he’s got no patience. He don’t like ‘em unless they’re already on their knees, saying ‘yes, sir’ like a trained bitch."

  Laughter rippled through the group. The fox-faced man grinned, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. "Me? I prefer a little bite. The ones that still think they can fight back, y’know? The first few nights, they try to resist, maybe even spit at you, but then," he snapped his fingers, "They realize there ain’t no way out. And that’s when they start to beg instead."

  One of the older men, a grizzled veteran with gray streaks in his beard, shook his head with a smirk. "Pup thinks he’s some kind of trainer." He leaned forward, cracking his knuckles. "You lot waste your time. I just go for the best money can buy. A refined woman. One that knows how to serve without needing to be smacked around first."

  The bald man scoffed. "A refined woman? What, you think this is a noble’s court? We work for the Right Fist, not a fucking palace." He grinned, tossing a card onto the table, its magical etchings glowing faintly. "But I heard we got some fresh, high-class pieces this time. Something worth saving up for."

  That got their attention.

  The fox-faced man’s smirk widened. "Yeah? What kind of stock we talking?"

  The scarred man tapped his fingers against the table, his grin turning cruel. "Pink-haired little thing. Pretty. Feisty, too."

  A whistle escaped one of them.

  "Exotic." The older man hummed, rolling a gold coin between his fingers. "They go for high prices."

  "And fighters like her?" The bald man licked his lips. "Always the best to break. You take someone weak, they just go limp. But the strong ones, they got something real to take away. Makes it satisfying."

  More laughter filled the space as a new voice joined them, slurring just slightly. "That auction's gonna be something special. One whole day of bidding. Rich bastards from all over coming to throw their gold around. A whole damn festival."

  The fox-faced man grinned. "You planning to buy, or just watch?"

  The drunk man snorted. "Why would I pay? If I play my cards right, I’ll get first pick before the auction even starts." That got a few knowing smirks.

  "Rules say we can’t touch the merchandise before the sale."

  "Rules say a lot of things."

  The scarred man chuckled, stretching his legs out. "Doesn't matter. Whoever buys that pink-haired one better lock their doors real tight. Wouldn’t be the first time a ‘sold’ piece went missing."

  The bald man laughed. "Hah! Damn right. We got the keys, we got the power. Some rich fuck thinks he owns her? What’s he gonna do when she disappears in the night?"

  The fox-faced man rolled his next card onto the table, the arcane script glowing faintly. "What about the silver-haired one?"

  The grizzled man shrugged. "Some noble brat. Might fetch a good price if they market her right. Me? I don’t care. Just hoping she’s got the right… spirit."

  Laughter and the clinking of coins filled the room, the thick scent of alcohol hanging in the air as the men boasted about past purchases and future prey, their words growing more vulgar with each round. Then, a sound. Thud. Faint at first, unnoticed beneath the drunken revelry, until it came again, louder this time, enough to make the scarred man pause.

  "You hear that?" he muttered, but the bald man waved him off. "Probably one of the girls getting disciplined," he scoffed, while the fox-faced man snickered.

  "That, or one of ‘em finally tried to off themselves. Happens." More laughter followed until the next thud hit hard enough to send a faint vibration through the floor, a shudder in the air that silenced the room.

  They felt it now. Steady. Rhythmic. Not knocking. Testing. The fox-faced man sat up, the bald man’s grin faded, and the scarred man slowly rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders as something sharp edged into his voice.

  "Someone go check that." Silence. No one moved. The light flickered, the air thick with something unspoken. The fox-faced man swallowed. "Maybe we should call someone first—"

  THUD.

  The steel door groaned, then buckled. At first, just a dent, warping inward as if struck by a battering ram, but there was no ram. No tools. No magic. Just hands.

  Another heavy thud echoed through the chamber, and the thick bolts screeched as they twisted like soft wax, the locks warping under an impossible force. Then came the first rip. A set of fingers, raw and mangled, drenched in fresh blood, forced their way through the cracked seam. The bones were shattered, exposed, twisted in ways that defied nature. Yet they still moved. They still clenched. They still tore.

  The bald man paled, stepping back as his breath caught in his throat. "What the fu—"

  Shrkkkkkkkkkk!

  The sound wasn’t clean. It howled through the hall like something dying, a shrieking wail of metal being ripped apart, not pushed or kicked down, but torn apart by hand.

  The moment the steel parted, the hands snapped back into place, bones cracking, muscle knitting together, the torn flesh regenerating before their eyes.

  Kaiser stepped forward, and the first thing the guards saw were his eyes. They were no longer human, but a hungry, glowing ruby that burned in the light. Fresh blood splattered his face, his breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts, like an animal fresh from the hunt. Drenched hair clung to his forehead, his body tense with an unnatural stillness, coiled too tightly, waiting to explode. But the worst part was his smile, a slow and deliberate grin, teeth stained red with blood.

  Then, he moved. It wasn't a charge or a lunge. It was a sudden flash, a blur of motion, steel, and death. The scarred man barely had time to lift his hand before Kaiser’s fingers found his wrist and snapped it backward, bone breaking with a sickening crack. His scream was cut short as a knee slammed into his chest, ribs shattering on impact, the force sending him into a wall.

  As the man flew through the air, Kaiser sprinted past him, closing the distance to the wall before his victim could even reach it. By the time the man's body came crashing forward, Kaiser was already there, waiting. His fingers locked around the man's skull like an iron vice, tightening with merciless force. A savage yank followed—flesh strained, sinew resisted, but the spine yielded first, snapping free with a sickening pop and a final, gurgling cry.

  "Six."

  Blood sprayed warm against Kaiser’s fingers as he let the body drop. The remaining guards stood frozen, staring in sheer disbelief. What. The. Fuck. The bald man stumbled back, sweat pouring down his face. "W-WAIT—"

  Kaiser twisted, snatched a discarded dagger in a single motion, and sent it flying with the force of a bullet. The blade sank deep into the bald man’s throat, pinning him to the wall like an insect. His eyes bulged as his hands clawed at his neck, choking, gurgling, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as blood spilled down his chest.

  "Seven."

  The rest broke and ran.

  One guard, the fox-faced bastard, sprinted for the far door, making it halfway before Kaiser was already behind him. With a single step, he closed the distance, his fingers sinking into the man’s back. The guard shrieked, barely able to beg before Kaiser ripped his spine out. "Eight."

  The veteran on the other hand, did not hesitate. The moment Kaiser turned toward him, drenched in blood and seething with unchecked killing intent, the old man’s blade whistled through the air. Kaiser’s hand shot up to catch it mid-swing, but the veteran was stronger than he looked, and as steel met flesh, it ended up splitting Kaiser’s fingers apart and carving through his palm.

  Yet, before the blade could fully pass through, Kaiser’s muscles clenched, regenerating flesh sealing around the steel like a vice, making the sword stuck.

  The veteran snarled, trying to rip it free, but Kaiser struck first with a knee to the gut, making his ribs snap like twigs. The old man gasped, staggering, only for Kaiser to twist, dragging him forward by his own trapped weapon. Off-balance and now vulnerable, he had no chance to react before Kaiser’s other hand came down like a hammer.

  CRACK.

  His collarbone shattered. A scream tore from his throat as his body twisted violently, his arm dislocating from the sheer force of the blow. Kaiser did not let go. Instead, he gripped the broken bone and squeezed, fingers twisting raw, exposed marrow. The veteran spasmed, knees buckling, his sword still lodged in Kaiser’s palm, trembling.

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  “Stronger than I thought,” Kaiser muttered, voice thick with bloodlust. Then he slammed his forehead forward.

  CRACK.

  The veteran’s nose caved in.

  Blood exploded from his nostrils, splattering across the floor. His head snapped back, his balance giving way, but Kaiser yanked him forward again and drove a knee straight into his jaw. The force was strong, so strong that it was able to lift the veteran off his feet.

  The veteran was still alive—barely. His body hung limp, consciousness flickering, but Kaiser did not let him fall. Instead, he tore the sword from his own hand, making the old man's eyes widened in shock.

  Kaiser flipped the blade in his grip, shifting his hold lower. With a swift, brutal motion, he brought the pommel crashing down. The heavy steel struck the veteran’s skull like a sledgehammer. Bone cracked, his head caving inward with a sickening crunch. His body hit the ground in a final, twitching spasm—then went still.

  Kaiser exhaled, flexing his freshly healed fingers around the bloodied sword. Then he grinned.

  "Nine."

  The last man was already on his knees, shaking, his hands raised in surrender, piss soaking his trousers.

  "PLEASE—"

  Kaiser rammed the sword through his open mouth. The blade tore through the back of his skull, pinning him to the wall.

  "Ten."

  Silence hung heavy, thick with the stench of blood. Kaiser stood amidst the carnage, his breath ragged, his muscles coiled and trembling, his hands dripping red. He inhaled the scent of slaughter and smiled.

  "I'm done with this one," a woman’s voice rang out, thick with self-satisfaction. "Bring me a new one. This one lasted longer than I thought he would, but I’ve had my fill."

  Kaiser didn't move. His body remained perfectly still, frozen in place as those words registered in his mind, sinking deep, intertwining with something black and festering inside of him. His expression did not change, but the air around him shifted, the oppressive weight of something unseen pressing down on the space, thick and suffocating.

  Slowly, his gaze traveled toward the door. It was old but reinforced, bolted shut, the scratches and dents along its surface not from the outside, but from whatever poor soul had been locked inside, clawing in vain for an escape. Kaiser flexed his fingers, the blood on his hands already drying and cracking over his knuckles. His body was sore, riddled with fresh blood, but none of it mattered. He raised a hand, pressed his palm flat against the cold steel, and let out a slow exhale.

  Then he clenched his fingers, making the door groan.

  At first, it was only a faint noise, metal bending ever so slightly under his touch. Then it grew louder, the hinges shrieking, the lock snapping like a brittle bone, until finally, with a push of his palm, the entire thing buckled inward.

  The sound of the door slamming open was deafening, echoing through the brothel like a thunderclap, dust and rusted flakes of iron scattering in all directions as the impact rattled the walls.

  Inside, the woman barely reacted.

  She only sighed, shoulders rising and falling in mild irritation, her fingers tightening around the handle of the whip she held lazily in one hand. "Finally," she muttered, not even turning to look. "You bastards are slow today. I was getting impatient."

  She clicked her tongue and ran a chubby, ring-adorned hand down the bare back of the boy chained against the wall, nails scraping against bruised, raw skin, causing the boy to flinch but not make a sound. His body was thin, underfed, his ribs pressing against pale flesh, his wrists shackled above his head with rusted iron restraints.

  "Such a shame," she continued, her voice thick with fake pity, fingers moving to the iron collar locked around his neck. "He was an interesting one. A boy who can clone himself? A rare find indeed. A few extra bodies for a little extra fun. But I grew bored of him."

  The woman turned her head toward the doorway. She didn’t realize it yet, as she was consumed by lust, but the thing standing in the entrance was not a man. It was something else.

  The blood that coated his body had dried, leaving his skin cracked and uneven, the broken flesh along his knuckles knitting itself together only to split again from how tightly his fists were clenched.

  The woman’s breath hitched as Kaiser took another slow, deliberate step forward, the soft sound of his boots pressing against the bloodstained floor echoing far louder than it should have. The moment stretched into something unbearable, the air in the room thick with tension, so suffocating that even the chained boy’s ragged breathing seemed to slow, as if instinctively realizing that something far worse than his current tormentor had just entered the room.

  And yet, Kaiser said nothing.

  His eyes remained empty. His expression unreadable. His hands twitched at his sides, still covered in blood. The woman swallowed thickly, fingers curling tighter around her whip, her beady eyes darting between Kaiser and the door behind him, calculating, searching for a way out. There was none.

  Still, she forced out a breath, straightened her posture, and let her lips curl into something mocking.

  "Ah," she exhaled, attempting to sound amused. "You must be one of the new ones. A fresh slave, is that it?" She took a step forward, head tilting as she dragged her gaze up and down his blood-covered form. "You’re a filthy one, aren’t you? Did they forget to clean you up before bringing you to me? Tsk, how careless of them."

  Kaiser continued staring at her.

  The woman’s smirk faltered ever so slightly, but she was quick to cover it, letting out a sharp crack of her whip against the ground. The sound echoed through the chamber, causing the boy still chained to the wall to involuntarily flinch, his wrists rattling against the iron shackles.

  "You’re lucky, you know," she continued, stepping closer, dragging the tip of her whip along the floor as she walked. "I usually prefer them younger, but you… there’s something about you. Something…" Her eyes flickered with amusement, as if she had just discovered something entertaining. "Dangerous."

  Kaiser took another step forward.

  The woman immediately raised her whip, the smile on her lips widening into something wicked. "That’s close enough, pet," she cooed. "I don’t know how you slipped in here, but it doesn’t matter. You belong to us now. To me."

  She lifted the whip and swung. The crack split through the air, the leather cutting across the space between them with enough force to break skin, if only it had hit him.

  But it didn’t. Because in the instant she had lashed out, Kaiser’s hand shot up, his fingers clamping around the whip mid-air like it was nothing more than a loose thread.

  And then, ever so slowly, he turned his head. The firelight caught his face at just the right angle, casting an eerie glow that deepened the hollows beneath his empty, soulless eyes. The woman froze. Her fingers instinctively twitched to pull the whip back, but it wouldn’t budge. Kaiser’s grip was unrelenting, and then, he yanked it.

  The sudden force ripped her forward, her feet barely able to keep up as she stumbled toward him, her body lurching against the sheer strength that had just been exerted with such casual ease. She barely had time to react before Kaiser’s other hand shot forward, grabbing her by the throat.

  Her entire body was lifted off the ground in an instant.

  She let out a strangled gasp, her fingers immediately clawing at the iron grip around her neck, her legs kicking uselessly in the air as she struggled.

  "You talk too much," Kaiser finally muttered, his voice low, empty, almost bored.

  The woman’s face twisted, a choked noise escaping her lips as her nails dug into his skin, desperately trying to pry his fingers off. Her legs jerked, her body writhing in his grasp, her lips splitting apart in some desperate attempt to beg—

  But Kaiser wasn’t interested in hearing it. With a single, deliberate squeeze, the wet pop of something shattering filled the air. The woman let out a gargled wheeze, her eyes bulging, her entire body convulsing as the pressure around her throat crushed her windpipe.

  But Kaiser wasn’t done, not even close.

  His grip didn’t loosen. His fingers didn’t shake. He simply tilted his head, his expression completely neutral as he stared into her bulging, bloodshot eyes, watching, waiting—

  And then he twisted, making a sickening, wet snap echo through the chamber.

  As soon as the sound was made, the woman’s body seized, and then, just as suddenly, it went limp. She crumpled to the floor in a heap, her lifeless body nothing more than a discarded sack of flesh. Her head lolled to the side, her jaw slack, the unnatural angle of her neck making it painfully obvious that she would never speak again.

  For a long, suffocating moment, there was nothing but silence. But then a soft, breathless laugh was heard in the room. It was quiet at first. Almost uncertain.

  Kaiser’s gaze flickered to the boy who had been chained to the wall this entire time, his body still trembling from exhaustion and starvation, his wrists raw from the rusted shackles that had bound him there for who knows how long.

  But his eyes were no longer dead, no longer empty. They were alive, burning with something even he hadn't expected. And to his own surprise, he was smiling. It was faint, barely more than a twitch of his lips, weak and fragile, yet unmistakable. A fleeting ember of warmth flickered across his bruised and swollen face, refusing to be snuffed out.

  Kaiser stared at him for a long moment, his empty, unreadable gaze searching the boy’s expression. And then, slowly, he turned away from the corpse at his feet. He stepped forward, closing the distance between him and the boy in a matter of seconds, his hands still bloody, his body still stained with blood.

  The boy did not flinch, only watched as Kaiser gripped the rusted chains above his wrists, and with a single pull, he made the metal shriek, twist, and finally snap. His frail body collapsed forward, too weak to even stand, but before he could hit the ground, Kaiser effortlessly caught him, his touch disturbingly gentle for someone whose hands were still slick with the blood of the dead. The warmth of his own skin against the boy’s cold, malnourished frame made a muscle in his jaw tighten, though his face remained unreadable, his mind already shifting away from the past minute’s carnage.

  The room was silent now. Silent in the way only the dead could be. The air smelled of iron, sweat, and filth. The bodies that laid scattered across the floor, including the twisted, lifeless husk of the disgusting woman, were already cooling. The filth of this place had been purged.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Kaiser wasn’t done.

  Not even close.

  As he carried the boy toward the door, his boots moved across the blood-slicked floor with deliberate slowness, the boy in his arms let out a quiet exhale, his body curling in on itself, pressing closer to the warmth of his savior.

  Kaiser stepped into the hallway, a narrow passage drowned in darkness, thick with the stench of rot, sweat, and the suffocating air of bodies trapped for far too long. A prison disguised as a brothel. In his arms, the boy stirred, his voice a faint whisper. “You’re… taking me with you?”

  Kaiser did not answer. He only walked, his pace unbroken, his footsteps a quiet, steady rhythm against the cold stone floor. The staircase loomed ahead, a narrow, creaking thing, winding upward toward the surface, toward freedom. As Kaiser climbed, the dim candlelight trembled along the walls, stretching his shadow into something monstrous, something twisting and writhing with every step, as if the very darkness recoiled from him, shifting, waiting.

  Then finally, there were doors. They were heavy, thick, reinforced with steel, but none of that stopped Kaiser from pushing them open.

  As soon as Kaiser stepped through them, the thick scent of cheap liquor, sweat, and filth hit him like a wave. The hall was wide, lit by hanging lanterns that flickered weakly, their glow casting jagged, shifting shadows across the figures gathered before him.

  There were twenty of them, maybe more, lounging against walls, sitting on barrels, or gathered around makeshift tables, where stained cards and scattered coins lay forgotten. Their clothes were a mess of different styles: patched leather, tattered cloaks, fur-lined coats stolen off dead men. It was obvious this was a gang of cutthroats, mercenaries, and human filth.

  They weren’t guards. They were killers, buyers, traders. And now, they were corpses waiting to happen.

  The moment Kaiser emerged, carrying the barely-conscious boy in his arms, their eyes snapped to him. The room shifted and silence took hold, creeping into every corner like a slow-moving plague.

  A large man, bald, with a neck like a bull’s and a scar twisting across his lip, leaned forward from where he sat on an overturned crate. He squinted at Kaiser, his beady eyes taking in the sight of him, of the bloodstained clothes, the fresh wounds already sealing and the eerily calm look in his red eyes.

  "The fuck is this?" he muttered.

  Another, leaner man, his fingers adorned with too many rings, clicked his tongue, tapping a knife against the edge of his boot. "That ain't one of ours." His voice was slow, amused, like a man already deciding how he was going to carve up a new prize. His gaze flicked to the boy in Kaiser’s arms. "That one, though? He is."

  Kaiser just kept walking.

  A third man, tall, wiry, with a jagged nose that looked like it had been broken one too many times, took a slow step forward. He had a serpent-like grin, thin lips curling back over yellowed teeth. "Oi, oi, oi," he chuckled, raising a hand. "Where do you think you’re goin’ with our property, friend?"

  Kaiser did not stop moving, making the men glance at each other, their amusement shifting into unease. "Hey, dumbass, you deaf?" the bull-necked man snapped, rising to his feet. "Put the kid down, nice and slow, and maybe we'll just beat the shit outta you instead of gutting you like a fucking pig."

  The knife-tapper sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Always the stubborn ones. You kill one or two, and they think they can just walk all over us." He rolled his wrist, flicking his knife upright. "Tch. Shame. Could’ve sold that one again, too. Good money for a boy like him."

  Kaiser came to a stop and gently set the boy down, his touch careful, almost reverent. The room was deathly silent as the scarred man let out a slow breath, his hand drifting toward his sword. But Kaiser didn’t look at him, didn’t move, he just stood there, still and quiet, until he finally spoke, his voice a cold whisper that sliced through the air.

  "Eleven."

  The scarred man blinked. "What?"

  Kaiser's fingers curled around his bloodstained sword, his grip tightening as he repeated, "Eleven," his voice no longer quite human. He tilted his head, crimson eyes glinting in the dim light, empty of anything but hunger.

  "That's your number."