The Blood-Gold Market burned.
What had once been the beating heart of underground trade was now a storm of collapsing stalls, burning silk, and molten gold. The air stank of scorched flesh and greed. Every scream was swallowed by the roar of fire and the clash of steel.
Leon staggered to his feet, coughing through smoke, his dagger slick with the blood of Syndicate assassins. Flames danced across the plaza, reflecting off coins scattered like shattered stars. For a heartbeat, he just watched the destruction—the empire of gold, now turned into an inferno.
Then, through the haze, he saw movement.
A group of cloaked figures surged from the fire, their weapons glinting red under the glow. They weren't Syndicate killers. Their gear was mismatched—mercenaries, scavengers, or something else entirely. The leader, a woman with a torn crimson scarf, raised a crossbow and shouted, "For the forgotten! For the free market!"
Her bolt struck a Syndicate enforcer clean in the neck.
Chaos renewed.
The Syndicate's elite—the Black Scales—responded with brutal efficiency, forming a phalanx amid the flames. Their armor gleamed obsidian, marked with the serpent sigil of control. The rebels, calling themselves the Crimson Rebellion, struck from the shadows, using the wreckage as cover.
Leon ducked under a swinging blade and rolled behind an overturned cart, heart pounding. The Crimson Rebellion. He'd heard whispers of them before—a faction born from the Syndicate's own victims, traders and killers who had lost everything to their "cleansing."
Now they were here, turning vengeance into war.
A dagger struck the cart near his face, quivering. Leon looked up to see a Syndicate assassin vault over the flames, twin blades glinting. He reacted without thought—deflecting the first strike, twisting his rusty dagger to catch the second. Their faces were inches apart, both snarling beasts in the firelight.
Leon pushed forward, slamming his shoulder into the man's chest. The impact sent them both tumbling into the dirt. Before the assassin could recover, Leon drove his blade down—once, twice—until the resistance stopped.
The flames hissed around him. He stood, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles.
Every instinct screamed to escape. But his mind whispered another command: No. You can use this. The Syndicate's bleeding. The market's crumbling. This is your chance.
He looked toward the auction platform—or what remained of it. The explosion had torn it apart, but Darius Vey, the Black Scale commander, was still alive, crawling through debris, shouting orders. Leon's jaw tightened.
Time to end this.
He sprinted forward, weaving between fire and corpses. A Syndicate guard spotted him too late; Leon's blade flashed, catching the man across the throat. He leapt over a burning crate, landing near Darius, whose golden cloak was now smeared with soot and blood.
Vey turned, eyes wide. "You—!"
Leon didn't let him finish. His dagger slashed forward, grazing Vey's arm. The man retaliated with surprising strength, drawing a curved sabre and meeting Leon's strike with a clang that echoed above the chaos.
"You think killing me will change anything?" Vey snarled, their blades locked. "You're just another dog that forgot its master!"
Leon grinned, cold and sharp. "Then consider this—me biting back."
The fight was brutal and close. Sparks flew with every strike. Leon's speed met Vey's strength, their weapons clashing amidst falling embers. Vey's sabre sliced across Leon's shoulder, drawing blood, but Leon didn't falter. He kicked the debris underfoot, sending a burst of ash into Vey's eyes, then drove his dagger straight through the man's side.
Vey's expression froze in disbelief. The sabre dropped. Leon twisted the dagger once before pulling it free.
"Market's closed," he muttered.
Vey collapsed.
But there was no victory to savor. The explosion had drawn reinforcements—the Syndicate's shock troops, marching in perfect formation through the burning streets. The Crimson Rebellion, already bloodied, began to fall back.
Leon wiped his blade on Vey's cloak and turned to run, only to find himself surrounded by crimson-scarved fighters.
The woman from before—the one who had fired the crossbow—lowered her hood. Her face was streaked with soot and fury, but her eyes were sharp.
"You're not Syndicate," she said. "You fight like one, but you bleed like us."
Leon sheathed his dagger slowly. "Depends who's asking."
"Name's Kaelara," she said, offering a bloodied hand. "Leader of the Crimson Rebellion. You just killed a Black Scale. That makes you useful—or dangerous. Sometimes both."
Leon hesitated before shaking her hand. "Leon."
Kaelara grinned, though the firelight made it look almost feral. "Welcome to the rebellion, Leon. Hope you're ready to burn the Syndicate's empire to the ground."
As they slipped through the ruins, the fires still roared behind them, consuming the last remnants of the Blood-Gold Market. For the first time in months, Leon didn't feel like a hunted man. He was walking beside people who aimed their blades at the same enemy.
But he knew better than to trust too easily. The rebellion's cause might be noble—but in this city, noble causes were just another form of currency.
As they disappeared into the tunnels beneath the burning market, Leon glanced back one last time. Flames danced against the night sky, painting the city in gold and crimson.
The Syndicate started this war, he thought. But I'll be the one to finish it.