The night bled into the city with a heaviness that made every neon sign flicker like a dying heartbeat. From the rooftops, Ethan could see the grid of streets below, each corner lit by shadowy deals and syndicate guards in black coats. The peace he had forced onto the underworld during the Blood and Gold Market clash had lasted barely a week. Now, the Syndicate was ready to remind everyone whose name really ruled these streets.
Rumors traveled faster than bullets in this city. By sunset, the whispers had already reached him: The Syndicate is moving tonight. Full-scale retaliation.
Ethan knew this was coming. He had humiliated one of their branch leaders, disrupted their gold routes, and more importantly, shown people that the Syndicate wasn't invincible. That was a sin the Syndicate would never forgive.
He stood in the safehouse, maps spread across the table, allies crowding around. Marcus leaned on his cane, expression grim. "They're not going to play subtle anymore. Expect fire. Expect blood."
Aria checked her pistols, her face pale but determined. "They'll come for the places you've touched—markets, safehouses, maybe even civilians who supported you. It's not just revenge. It's theater. They want fear."
Ethan's hand clenched the edge of the map. "Then we won't give them the stage."
The First Blow
The Syndicate's counterstrike began not with bullets but with fire.
One of the underground gold exchange hubs Ethan had secured burned to the ground within the hour. No survivors. The flames lit up the night sky, visible from half the city. It was a message.
Before he could react, news hit again: another safehouse had been raided, allies executed in the street. The speed of their movements was surgical—almost like they knew his every stronghold.
Ethan realized the truth: there was a traitor feeding them information.
Inside the Trap
At midnight, Ethan led a small strike team to intercept a Syndicate convoy carrying stolen gold bars. It was meant to be a morale win, something to show his allies they weren't defenseless.
But when they arrived at the docks, the air was wrong—too quiet, too staged.
Marcus muttered, "This doesn't smell like money. It smells like bait."
Then the ambush detonated.
Gunfire erupted from cranes, from containers, from shadows. Syndicate snipers pinned them down, machine guns tearing through metal like paper. Explosives lit the dock in bursts of orange and white.
Aria dove beside Ethan, returning fire. "It's a kill box! They knew we'd come!"
Ethan's system interface pulsed, demanding choices—skills ready, energy low, survival probability 34%. He gritted his teeth and activated Phantom Step, vanishing into blur-speed motion as bullets shredded the space he had been standing in.
The Syndicate soldiers weren't ordinary thugs. These were their elites, men and women trained to fight superhumans. They moved in coordinated formations, cutting off escape routes with precision.
Ethan fought like a storm, blades flashing, movements weaving through their ranks. He cut down six in seconds, but the trap tightened. Every time he pushed forward, new waves closed in.
Then came the voice—low, mocking, amplified through a speaker:
"Ethan Cross. The hero of the market. The boy with the broken leash. Do you think you embarrassed us? Tonight, you die knowing your rebellion was just another performance."
The Syndicate had sent a commander.
Commander Veylor
The man who emerged from the shadows was unlike the others. Tall, armored in reinforced black plating, carrying a war axe that looked like it could split cars in two. His eyes burned red in the neon light.
"Veylor," Marcus breathed, almost losing composure. "One of the Seven Blades. You're not supposed to exist outside Syndicate headquarters."
Ethan tightened his grip on his swords. If the Syndicate had moved a Blade onto the field, they weren't just striking back—they were declaring total war.
Veylor smiled, lifting his axe with one hand. "Come then, boy. Let's see if the rumors about your system are true."
The ground shook as he swung, containers splintering under the impact. Ethan dodged narrowly, but the shockwave alone nearly knocked him into the sea.
Turning the Tide
Ethan couldn't win this head-on. His strength was still climbing, but Veylor was a monster in both speed and raw power. Every clash rattled Ethan's bones, sparks screaming from the blades.
He changed tactics—dodging, weaving, letting his system calculate angles. Instead of fighting the commander, he started cutting through the elites, thinning their numbers, disrupting their formations.
But the Syndicate had anticipated even that. Explosives went off across the dock, collapsing cranes, sending fire raining down.
Aria screamed as shrapnel tore across her arm. Marcus collapsed behind cover, gasping.
It was chaos. And in that chaos, Ethan saw the truth: this was never about winning tonight. It was about bleeding him dry.
Still, he refused to give them the satisfaction of fear.
With a roar, he triggered Overdrive Surge, a system skill that devoured his stamina in exchange for explosive speed. His body blurred faster than human eyes could track. He struck Syndicate elites in a whirlwind, blades carving arcs of red. He hit Veylor twice in the chest, denting the armor, forcing the commander to stumble back.
The battlefield shifted. For the first time, the Syndicate line wavered.
The Escape
But the cost was unbearable. His system interface screamed warnings—muscle tissue tearing, internal bleeding spiking. He couldn't keep this up.
Marcus shouted through bloodied lips, "Ethan—we've proved our point! Pull out!"
Reluctantly, Ethan grabbed Aria, signaling the survivors. Smoke grenades hissed, covering their retreat. Veylor's voice roared behind them, furious but amused:
"Run, little wolf! Every step you take just spreads our shadow wider. This city belongs to us, and soon, your blood will too!"
They escaped into the burning night, battered, broken, but alive.
Aftermath
Back in the safehouse, silence hung heavy. Aria's wound was bandaged, Marcus slumped unconscious from exhaustion. Ethan stood alone by the window, staring at the city that flickered under Syndicate control.
The truth was undeniable. Tonight, the Syndicate hadn't just struck back—they had declared war on a scale Ethan wasn't ready for. They had resources, soldiers, commanders like Veylor.
But Ethan also knew something else.
He had survived. He had seen their elites, tested their strength, and forced even a Blade to retreat. His system had nearly killed him, but it had kept him alive. And as long as he drew breath, he would sharpen himself further.
The Syndicate thought this was the beginning of the end.
But Ethan swore silently: This is just the start of my hunt.