Grey Town awoke to the sound of iron boots.
At dawn, the cobblestone streets trembled as squads of armored soldiers marched through the alleys. Banners bearing the crest of Baron Veynar—two fangs crossed over a blood-red chalice—fluttered above them.
The townsfolk hid behind shutters, peering through cracks with trembling eyes. The gangs had been bad, but the Baron's soldiers were worse. They represented law twisted into tyranny. When they moved, it was not justice they carried, but fear.
"By order of Baron Veynar!" a captain roared, his voice echoing. "The criminal known as Shadowflame is to be hunted down. Any who shelter him will be executed. Bring out food, shelter, or coin if you value your lives!"
The soldiers slammed on doors, dragging men into the streets, kicking over stalls. These were not the ragged thugs Draven had crushed. They were disciplined, their movements sharp, their armor thick. Even their weakest emanated a faint aura of mana—a clear sign of Body Temperers.
For the first time, Grey Town saw what it meant to oppose nobility.
---
Watching from the Shadows
High above, perched on the broken roof of a collapsed warehouse, Draven watched the soldiers march. His crimson eyes narrowed, the glow of flames flickering faintly within.
So this is the Baron's response… His leash snaps, and the hounds come running.
The air around him whispered with both heat and darkness. He had faced killers, thieves, even self-styled leaders of the gangs. But these soldiers were different. They were trained, armored, and commanded. They were the first glimpse of what true noble power looked like.
A cruel smile touched Draven's lips.
Perfect. The world thinks I am a shadow lurking in alleys. Let me show them a storm.
---
The First Clash
The soldiers moved methodically, sweeping street by street. A squad of ten cornered an alley where whispers had spoken of a dark figure. Their captain, a scarred veteran with a jagged blade, raised his fist to halt them.
"Shields front!" he barked. "If he is here, we strike as one!"
The soldiers obeyed instantly, forming a wall of steel, spears bristling behind them. Their discipline was clear—unlike gangs, they would not break easily.
A flicker of shadow darted across the rooftops. Then, a figure descended like a falling star.
The ground erupted in flame.
Soldiers screamed as heat engulfed them, their formation shattering. Draven rose from the blaze, cloak flowing like living fire, crimson eyes gleaming beneath his hood. His hand clenched, and shadows surged outward, binding spears and dragging men off balance.
The captain roared, swinging his jagged blade, cutting through the tendrils of darkness. He charged forward, mana surging around him like a faint aura. His body was hardened, his movements swift—this was the strength of a seasoned Body Temperer.
"Monster!" the captain spat, lunging for Draven's throat.
Draven tilted his head, fire wreathing his arm. His palm met the blade, flames devouring steel as though it were wax. The captain's eyes widened in horror.
"My name," Draven said, voice low and burning, "is Ignivar."
The flames surged. The captain screamed once before his body was reduced to ash.
The remaining soldiers faltered, terror breaking discipline. Some tried to rally, others fled—but Draven moved like a phantom. Fireballs burst from his palms, searing through shields. Shadows wrapped around throats and dragged men into the darkness.
Within minutes, the squad was gone.
Only smoldering corpses remained.
---
The Baron's Strength
But the Baron's forces were not so easily cowed.
Elsewhere in the city, horns blared. More troops flooded in, squads of twenty, thirty, even fifty men locking down streets. Some bore heavier armor, their weapons glowing faintly with inscribed runes—enchanted steel forged for noble houses.
From the rooftops, Draven saw them gathering like ants. For every squad he burned, more appeared. The Baron had unleashed not just soldiers, but his private guard—the backbone of Grey Town's oppression.
He could not simply vanish into shadow. Not this time.
"This is not just survival anymore," Draven whispered. His hand clenched into a fist, fire and darkness swirling together. "This is war."
---
The Battle Escalates
The next clash came swiftly.
On the southern market road, fifty soldiers blocked Draven's path. Their leader was not a mere Body Temperer, but a Bone Refiner—a higher stage of martial cultivation. His aura was sharp, bones reinforced with mana until they shone faintly beneath his skin. He carried a massive axe, its blade engraved with blood-red runes.
"Shadowflame!" the Bone Refiner bellowed. His voice carried across the square. "By decree of Baron Veynar, your life ends here!"
Draven's cloak whipped in the wind. Around him, shadows writhed like serpents, and fire burned brighter, feeding on his fury.
"Then come and try," he answered coldly.
The soldiers roared, charging as one. Shields locked, spears thrust, arrows rained from rooftops.
Draven raised his hand. A wall of shadow surged upward, arrows vanishing into its depths. He thrust his palm forward, releasing a torrent of flame that rolled like a tidal wave, scattering the front line.
The Bone Refiner cleaved through the fire with his runed axe, the weapon howling as mana coursed through it. He leapt, descending like a hammer toward Draven's skull.
Draven did not dodge. Instead, shadows coiled around his arm, fire bursting forth to form a blazing gauntlet. He caught the axe mid-swing, the impact cracking the stones beneath his feet. The clash shook the air, sparks and flames scattering wildly.
"Impossible!" the warrior gasped. "You—what are you?"
Draven's eyes blazed. "The last flame your Baron will ever see."
With a roar, he unleashed both powers. Fire exploded upward, shadows constricting the warrior's limbs. The Bone Refiner screamed as his axe melted in his grip, his armor cracking. Then, with a final burst of crimson flame, he was consumed.
The soldiers froze in terror.
Some dropped weapons. Others ran. The square fell silent except for the crackle of fire.
Draven stood in the center, cloak burning at the edges, crimson eyes glowing.
"Tell your Baron," he said, his voice carrying across the broken market, "Grey Town has a new master."
---
A Dangerous Enemy
Far above, within his manor, Baron Roderick Veynar felt the ripple of battle. The deaths of his soldiers tugged at his awareness like threads snapping. His wine cup shattered in his hand, crimson liquid dripping like blood onto the marble floor.
"He dares…" the Baron growled. "That wretch dares slaughter my troops?"
His aura flared, shaking the hall. Servants collapsed to their knees, choking under the weight.
"Shadowflame…" he whispered, eyes burning with rage. "If you seek war, then war you shall have. I will grind your bones into the foundation of my city."
---
The Flame Spreads
That night, Grey Town whispered with new courage.
For the first time, soldiers of the Baron had fallen—not to plague, not to famine, but to a single man. The people murmured of Shadowflame, the avenger cloaked in darkness and fire.
Children dared whisper his name. Merchants raised their heads a little higher.
Fear of the Baron remained, but now it was not absolute. A spark had been lit.
And sparks, given breath, become infernos.
Draven stood on the roof of the old bell tower, the city sprawled below him, flames flickering in his crimson gaze.
Baron… this was only the beginning. One by one, your hounds will burn. Then I will come for you.
The night wind howled, carrying ash and whispers of rebellion.
Grey Town was no longer silent.
The war had begun.