Rain coursed down the sleek obsidian curves of Julius's motorcycle, tracing silvery rivulets along its polished surface. He sat astride the idling machine like a shadow stitched into the night, cloaked in a fitted black biker jacket that clung to him like armor. The downpour showed no signs of relenting, but he didn't flinch beneath its weight. He wore no helmet—never had. His jet-black hair lay plastered to his scalp, soaked through, droplets dripping steadily from his chin. But he welcomed it. Julius had always liked the rain. It masked things—noise, motion, blood.
He tugged back the cuff of his jacket with one gloved hand, revealing a glint of silver on his wrist. The hands on his watch read 9:40 PM. If memory served, Caspian had said the ball began at ten sharp. That left exactly twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of detour, twenty minutes of silence and misdirection. All he had to do was keep Alexander away from the city until then.
He exhaled sharply, lips tightening. Naturally, he'd been the one tasked with the "dirty work"—tailing the car, driving in torrential rain, and doing so without so much as a word of thanks. But it wasn't as if he could complain. Caspian was his superior, after all.
The road slick beneath him, Julius throttled gently and crept forward until Alexander's car began to slow near the edge of the city wall. Julius rolled his bike up alongside a recessed portion of the stone barrier, just out of sight of the security cameras. The spot was narrow, shrouded in shadow, perfect for a man like him.
Leaning slightly, he peered around the bend. Up ahead, Alexander had stopped, speaking with one of the guards posted at the checkpoint. Their conversation was brief—formal, restrained. Then the engine hummed back to life, and the vehicle began to roll forward into the darkness beyond the city's reach.
Julius narrowed his eyes, fingers flexing on the grip.
He was just about to make his move—an efficient, bloody little distraction—when he felt the vibration against his side. A call. His brow twitched in irritation. With a practiced motion, he reached into his jacket and retrieved a small silver phone, its screen glowing faintly through the mist.
He tapped the glowing green icon, and a thin hiss of static preceded Caspian's voice—crisp, composed, and devoid of emotion, as always.
"Julius," Caspian said. "There's been a slight change of plans. Whatever you do, do not kill Alexander. Once I blow up the tower, lead him back to the city."
A beat of rain-heavy silence followed.
Then Julius erupted.
"What the hell, Caspian?!" he growled, his voice rising, raw with disbelief. "How the hell am I supposed to lead him back?! He's not a damn dog on a leash!"
Caspian didn't respond right away. There was the faint sound of shuffling papers, maybe even distant voices, and then:
"Show him this picture," Caspian said finally, his voice as flat as a scalpel. "It should do the trick."
A soft chime sounded—ping. A new notification pulsed faintly on the corner of Julius's rain-flecked screen. He swiped it open, tilting the phone slightly so the water didn't dribble onto the glass. The moment the image loaded, he stopped moving.
His eyes locked on the screen. He didn't blink.
Then, slowly, his expression shifted.
The silence fractured as a low, mirthless chuckle unfurled from his chest. It slipped between his teeth like smoke through cracks in stone, curling with venom. His shoulders shook slightly, not with amusement, but something colder—darker.
His lips curled into a slow, malevolent smirk, one that bled satisfaction and contempt in equal measure.
"I have to give it to you, Caspian," he murmured, his voice thick with a brutal sort of respect. "You really are a horrible person."
The line went dead with a tap. He powered off the phone and slid it back into the deep inner pocket of his jacket. The rain beat down harder now, drumming against his shoulders and pooling across the contours of the leather. Water coursed over the matte-black steel of his motorcycle like blood over obsidian, gleaming in the low amber glow of the streetlamp behind him.
Before him, the wall of Nimerath stretched like a monolith, dark and immovable. The city beyond it—humming, glittering, oblivious—waited in the distance, veiled behind a curtain of mist and neon.
He stepped into the open, boots splashing against the rain-slicked stone of the checkpoint's entrance. The heavy downpour veiled him in a sheet of silver as he walked into the narrow gate area embedded in the city wall—the same spot Alexander had stood just minutes ago, calmly speaking to the guards.
Now, calm was the last word anyone would use to describe what followed.
Julius began to glow.
A dull, molten orange light flared beneath the surface of his skin, creeping like lava through the veins of his arms and throat. It radiated from his chest and shoulders, pulsing with energy as faint trails of steam hissed off his rain-soaked body. The temperature around him spiked. Raindrops evaporated as they touched his skin, and the air twisted in heat distortion.
The guards reacted instantly.
"Hey—H-hey! Stop right there!" one of them barked, his voice cracking as he raised his weapon.
Three other guards spun to face him, rifles coming up with mechanical precision.
"Put your hands up!" another ordered, the barrel of his gun aimed directly at Julius's face.
Julius tilted his head with theatrical laziness, a slow grin stretching across his lips.
"You missed me, boys?" he drawled.
His voice was low, teasing—dangerous.
From beneath his coat, he pulled free a blade.
It gleamed under the checkpoint's arc lamps, long and wickedly thin—closer to a dueling saber than a broadsword. Its edge shimmered unnaturally, faint trails of orange light tracing along the metal. The rain seemed to avoid the weapon entirely, as if repelled by the heat it emitted.
"Unfortunately," Julius sighed, his tone thick with mock regret as his gloved hand traced the polished grip of his sword with slow, deliberate affection.
"I don't have time to play today."
Each movement was unhurried, calculated—like a predator savoring the final pause before the kill.
He stepped forward, boots striking sharp echoes against the slick stone. Rain sluiced down his coat in dark rivulets, hissing like steam as it met the heat radiating from his shoulders. The storm's silver sheen clung to the half-drawn blade, casting an eerie glow.
"So, I have to make this quick." His voice was calm—tinged with boredom—but his eyes burned fiercely, alive with lethal anticipation.
In the heartbeat between the guards' trigger pulls and the thunderous impact of gunfire, Julius became a living blaze—swift, silent, and lethal. His body blurred as he surged forward, a shadow carved from molten flame. The blade in his hand flashed through the rain-drenched air with deadly precision: once, twice, then a third time, each strike swift and unforgiving.
The first guard barely squeezed the trigger before Julius was upon him. The bullet's path was intercepted by fate—or perhaps by Julius's unnatural speed—missing entirely. Instead, a crimson line blossomed across the guard's throat, thin and precise as a whispered curse. The man gasped, choking as his blood spilled out, painting the wet stone beneath him. His body convulsed violently, trembling against the rain's cold assault before collapsing in a heap, lifeless.
The second guard whirled around, rifle raised in desperate defense, but Julius was already there. With a sharp clang that echoed off the stone walls, Julius's sword met cold steel. The edge of the blade, glowing faintly with an eerie orange light, sliced through the rifle as effortlessly as a hot knife through cloth. The weapon snapped in two, falling useless to the ground.
Without missing a beat, Julius twisted on his heel and drove his elbow hard into the guard's sternum. The impact was brutal, knocking the wind out of the man, forcing him to stagger backward. Julius pressed his advantage swiftly and without hesitation—he plunged his sword deep into the guard's abdomen. The blade pierced cleanly through, its heated edge sizzling flesh and muscle as it cut a fiery path from front to back.
A faint hiss escaped from the wound as Julius yanked the sword free. The orange glow along the blade faded momentarily as the torn flesh sealed shut, cauterized by the burning heat. Blood bubbled and sizzled where the sword had passed, splattering against the stone like scarlet rain.
Julius paused only briefly, eyes scanning the remaining guards with cold calculation. The rain continued to fall, but around him, the air pulsed with the lingering heat of his violent dance—an ephemeral blaze in the midst of the storm.
Blood splashed against the stone.
"Two down," Julius murmured.
The last two guards shouted, one calling for backup, the other unloading a burst of bullets from an automatic weapon. Sparks flew as a few grazed Julius's coat, but he barely flinched. With a sudden, violent whirl of movement, he slid low beneath the barrage, closing the distance in a blur.
His sword struck upward, carving through the knee of one guard, sending him screaming to the ground. Julius twisted and flipped the blade in his grip, plunging it into the man's chest without a moment's pause. The scream stopped.
The last remaining guard stood paralyzed, the barrel of his rifle trembling in his grasp.
"P-please, just let me live!" he cried, his voice cracking under the weight of terror. "I-I won't tell anyone! I swear!"
Julius turned to face him slowly, eyes glinting with amusement beneath the dripping strands of his soaked hair. A cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"That's adorable," he murmured. "Tell you what—we'll make it a game. I'm thinking of a number between one and ten. Guess it right, and I'll let you walk out of here with your life. Guess wrong…"
He trailed off, letting the implication settle like a knife in the gut.
The guard, trembling, nodded desperately. "Y-yes! Okay—I'll play! Please, just give me a chance!"
Julius turned his back to him, as if already bored. He began walking slowly toward the edge of the blood-slicked path, his voice casual, almost sing-song.
"Alright. I've picked my number. Let's hear it."
The guard hesitated, then stammered, "Uhmm… s—"
A sharp crack rang out.
His words were cut short by the whine of a silenced round tearing through his throat. A heartbeat later, the explosive charge Julius had tucked onto his belt ignited, detonating with a sickening pop. What remained of the man splattered against the stone wall, painting it in viscous streaks of crimson and gore.
Julius didn't flinch. He simply adjusted the cuff of his jacket and sighed.
"Wrong answer," he muttered, stepping over a severed boot as he made his way back to his bike.
Silence fell.
Steam rose from the stone floor, carrying the sharp metallic tang of blood into the night air. The checkpoint was painted in crimson. Julius exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders relax. The orange glow that had pulsed through his body slowly began to fade, fading to a dull ember at his fingertips.
He took a step back, sword dripping with blood and rain.
Without a word, he sheathed the blade back into the hidden lining of his coat. The rain finally dared touch the metal again, sizzling softly against the still-warm scabbard. He walked across the checkpoint, not bothering to look at the bodies.
His motorcycle waited where he left it, leaning slightly, glistening with moisture beneath the weak amber light of a rusted overhead lamp. He swung one leg over the seat, reached into his coat, and pulled on black riding gloves.
He turned the key.
The engine awakened with a deep, guttural growl—a predator stirring from its slumber, hungry and poised. The motorcycle trembled beneath him, eager to tear through the rain-soaked streets.
Julius's eyes scanned the slick road ahead, the city's cold mist curling in the night air. Faint tracks marked the wet asphalt—Alexander's tire marks, smeared and glistening under the dim glow of distant streetlights. They led like a whisper through the puddles, fading slowly into the fog that swallowed the edges of the world.
He gripped the throttle firmly. With a sharp twist, the bike surged forward, its tires splashing water into the air as they clawed at the pavement. The tail light bled a fading red into the swirling mist, flickering like a dying ember struggling against the darkness.
The city around him blurred into streaks of shadow and light, rain pounding on his helmet, the cold air biting at his skin beneath his coat. The rhythm of the engine matched the pulse of his blood—steady, relentless, dangerous.
Behind him, the scene at the gate remained eerily silent. The blood that had spilled earlier steamed gently in the chill night, its dark tendrils rising like ghostly smoke. It marked the final trace of violence, an unspoken warning etched into the city's stone.
Julius did not look back.
The road ahead was a narrow thread through the storm, a path carved by fate and fire. As the mist closed in around him, he vanished into the night—an ember swallowed by shadow, driven by purpose and fury.