Chapter 18: Chains and Chuckles

Morning finally came into House Ruxnard like a damn hangover—sun clawing over the spires, turning the marble all gold and sharp, cutting through the sticky leftover heat from last night. Kraner's up, boots scuffing the hall rug, that syringe still a hard little lump in his pocket from the twins' room. He's whistling—kinda shitty, off-key, like he's got nothing to worry about—when Lady Tanya snags him by the stairs, her voice sharp but dragging, like she hasn't slept.

"Kraner…" she says, eyes glinting under the chandelier, blue and tired. "Need you to… uh… head out. Get something healthy for the twins… no crap, okay?"

He stops, turns slow, that smirk curling up like it's stitched to his face. "Healthy, huh? …What, they done with my special brew already?" He pats his pocket—where that dark blood's hiding—and lets out a low chuckle, rough around the edges.

Tanya's jaw goes tight, but she doesn't snap back—just flicks her hand, fingers shaky as they shove her hair outta her face. "Just… go. Market's open… hurry up."

"Yes, ma'am…" he drawls, tossing a half-assed salute, already moving. Door swings open, and the air outside smacks him—cool, crisp, washing off the mansion's stink. Streets are waking up—vendors hollering, carts rattling on the cobblestones, bread and wet dirt smells mixing in the breeze. Kraner's quick, dodging folks, silver hair flashing in the sun like a signal flare. He's got this bounce—like that guy at the store, always tapping his foot, late as hell but grinning soft anyway.

Market's alive—stalls stacked with shiny apples, leafy greens, stuff that looks too damn perfect. He grabs a basket, chucks in some apples, a wad of kale—whatever Tanya'd nod at and call "good." His head's somewhere else, though—fingers brushing that syringe, mind chewing on Perl and Ruxnard's library bullshit. "Dumbasses…" he mutters, smirk twitching, tossing in a carrot like it's a joke. "Gonna wish they didn't…"

He's heading back—basket hooked on his arm, whistling again, off-tune as hell—when it goes down. Alley's tight, shadowed, reeking of piss and old trash. He doesn't hear shit—just feels the sting, quick and hot, right in his neck. "What the fuck…" he starts, hand jerking up, but his legs give out—knees cracking on the stones, basket tipping, apples rolling everywhere. The world spins, blurs, and he's gone—darkness swallowing him fast.

He wakes slow—head thumping like a drum, mouth dry as dirt, a dull ache spreading from his neck. Can't see a damn thing—some scratchy sack's over his face, stinking of mold and old sweat, rubbing his skin raw. His hands twitch—chained, metal cold and biting, digging into his wrists. Air's wet, heavy—like a basement, maybe, with that musty damp that sticks to your throat. Then the noise kicks in—boots scuffing, low laughs, voices slicing through the fuzz.

"Once a slave… always a slave…" one of 'em sneers, close enough Kraner catches the sour tobacco stink on his breath. "Thought you'd scare Lord Ruxnard, huh? …Big fuckin' mistake, pretty boy…"

Another guy cackles—high, sharp, like a jackass hyena. "Yeah… he's gonna laugh his ass off… seein' you all tied up like the garbage you are…"

Kraner doesn't budge—just sits, laid back and relaxed, chains clinking as he shifts a little, feeling the bite. His chest's steady like always, no racing, no sweat trickling down his spine. Under that sack, his mouth twitches, lips curling up. A smirk—slow, crooked, cutting through the dark like a knife. He chuckles low, realizing what just happened, bouncing off the damp walls like it's a punchline.

"Garbage, huh…" he mumbles, voice muffled but biting. "Funny… you think this shit's gonna rattle me? …That's cute."

"Shut your damn mouth!" Tobacco Breath barks, boots stomping closer—Kraner feels the air shove past, guy's right up in his face now. "You're done… got it? Ruxnard's gonna—"

"Ruxnard…" Kraner cuts him off, laughing louder, head banging back against the wall.

Thud!!

Loud and clear, just once, hard enough to sting. "That drunk? …Oh, shit… you're backin' a dead horse. Shoulda checked with Perl… she's got the brains."

Quiet hits, seeing the guy who was once a slave, barking with heavy balls, but it's still not quite, broken by a slow drip somewhere, plinking off stone. Tobacco Breath growls, pissed and low. "Keep yappin'… see how long that grin holds…"

Kraner doesn't twitch—just sits there, chains chewing his wrists, sack scraping his cheeks. His eyes now open, gazing at his system. That smirk stretches wider under the cover, teeth catching what little light sneaks through. "Oh… I'll yap…" he says, voice dropping, smooth and dark like a threat wrapped in silk. "But you… you're gonna hate it when I do…"

His head buzzes, a jolt like a spark popping off a wire. That System—his mom's weird gift—lights up in his skull. Points stacked from Eli's moans, Jessica's rage, all that good shit he's been saving. "Fuck it…" he rasps, voice muffled, rough as a scraped knee. He thinks it—System… dump it… strength… now.

STR: 8 >>> STR: 45

Heat floods his arms, fast and fierce, muscles bunching tight under his skin.

Hahahaha….HAHAHAHA…..HA!HA!HA!HA!

A growl, then bursts out, loud and wild, cutting through the drip of water and their jittery chatter. It's crazy—high, sharp, bouncing off the walls like a madman's echo. "Oh… you stupid fucks…" he chokes out, laughing so hard his chest shakes, sack slipping a bit. "You… you really don't get it…"

Tobacco Breath staggers—boots skid, voice pitching up. "What's—what's he laughin' at? …Shut him up!"

Kraner jerks his hands—chains groan, metal bending loud, and

Snap!

First one breaks, links scattering like busted teeth. "One…" he says, cold as a blade, laugh still simmering under it. They flinch—someone gasps, a quick "fuck me!" slipping loose.

Snap!

Second chain splits, clanging to the dirt. "Two…" he drawls, slow, like he's chewing on it, and Tobacco Breath trips back, kicking dust.

"Grab him—now!" the hyena guy yelps, voice cracking high, but Kraner's up—third chain…

Snap!

Standing tall, laughing wild, sack still on. "Three… you're done…" he says, and the last chain—snap—flies off, smacking the wall hard enough to spark.

He yanks the sack free—silver hair wild, eyes glinting blue and cold, smirk sharp as a fresh-cut wound. The cellar's grim—torchlight dancing, wet stone slick underfoot, air thick with blood stench now. Ten of 'em around him—scarred mugs, twitchy hands, one guy with a nervous eye like that late bastard at the store who'd grin through a busted lip. They're not grinning—two bolt fast, boots slipping, clawing for the door.

Kraner lunges, his right hand shoots out, slams through Tobacco Breath's chest like it's soft dough. Fingers dig in—his palm, hot, wet, wrapping that thumping heart—

thump… thump

And rips it free, blood spraying, splattering his face warm and red. The guy gags, his eyes popping, mouth flapping—then flops, like a dead weight. Kraner flicks the heart aside—still beating, hitting the dirt with a wet thud. He drags his bloody hand across his shirt, lazy, like it's nothing, and turns—slow, smirking, blood streaking his jaw.

"Who's next…" he mutters, voice low, rough, eyes raking 'em over. Nine left—eight, with Twitchy Eye halfway gone, shoving past a buddy. They're all white-faced—hands shaking, one guy's knife wobbling like he's about to drop it and run. Maybe it's their first time, seeing a throbbing heart on the floor.

Kraner picks another—big lout, broad chest, lip scarred like he's taken a few. "You…" he says, stepping in, and the guy swings—wild, sloppy. Kraner grabs his arm right away, twists hard, and

Riiiippppp!!!

Hands claw into his chest, tearing him down the middle like a rag doll. Guts spill—steaming, wet, slopping the dirt—bones cracking sharp, blood flooding fast. The guy doesn't scream—just chokes once, then splits, halves dropping heavy.

They scatter—yelling, tripping, "Fuck this!" and "He's a fuckin' freak!" bursting out fast and loud. Kraner laughs—short, wild, wiping blood off his face with a sleeve. Times like this? No games, no clever shit—just blood and fear, fighting like he's meant to, like a demon born for it.

He stands—breath heaving, blood dripping from his hands, pooling under his boots. Eight left—six, maybe, with runners bolting. The torch sputters, shadows jumping, and he rolls his shoulders—slow, loud, like he's shaking off rust.

"Come on…" he mutters, smirk twitching, eyes glinting cold. "Who's got guts… huh?"

They don't answer—just freeze or stumble off, voices fading to scared whimpers. Kraner's there—bloody, free, still itching for more. This mess? It's his—his fight—and he's grinning through it, raw and alive.

Blood's still warm—sticky, pooling under Kraner's boots, soaking the cellar floor like a slaughterhouse gone wild. Eight bodies sprawl around him—torn, gutted, faces frozen in that last gasp of "oh shit."

The air's thick—hot with iron, sour with fear, torchlight flickering wild on the wet stone walls. Kraner stands there, chest heaving, hands dripping red, that smirk twitching like it's stitched to his face. The two runners?... Gone, boots echoing faint up some stairwell, lost in the dark, but he doesn't give a damn; eight was plenty for him.

He kicks at a corpse, the big guy, the one he split like firewood, grunting low as he drags it by the arm.

"C'mon, you fat fuck…" he mutters, voice rough, dragging it through the dirt. Blood smears, warm and slick, trailing behind like a painter's brush gone sloppy. He hauls another, Twitchy Eye, caught before he made the door, tossing it next, building a circle. Eight bodies, laid out rough, a jagged ring of meat and bone, heads pointing in like some fucked-up clock.

Kraner steps back, his boots squelching, blood splattered up his legs, and squats, dipping a finger in the mess. It's still hot and steaming a little, stinking sharp, a scent he thought he had forgotten, and he starts writing, dragging it slow across the dirt. Ancient words—twisted, jagged scrawls no human would get, like scratches from a claw dipped in nightmare. His hand's steady, but his breath's ragged, huffing out quick, fogging the damp air. He mutters under it.

"Fuckin'… old tongue…" Smearing the last line shut.

With a bit of difficulty, the circle's finally done—big, messy, blood glinting wet under the torch's shake. Kraner steps in, boots crunching soft, and flops down in the middle, sitting heavy, legs crossed like he's waiting for a beer. He digs in his pocket, fingers slick, fumbling—pulling out that vial, the one with the boy's blood, dark, thick, ten times stronger than his own.

Holding it up—torchlight catching it, turning it red and deep—and smirks, twirling it slow. "Had other plans…" he mutters, voice low, rough as gravel. "But shit… when's a guy get a spread like this?"

He pops it—thumb flicking the cap off—and tips it back, drinking fast. Blood hits his tongue right away, hot, bitter, ash and iron flooding his mouth, burning down his throat like a shot of hellfire. His chest kicks hard, sudden, like something's clawing out, and he gasps, a sharp "Fuck!" slipping loose.

Gradually, power surges—human and demon genes maxing out, veins pulsing black under his skin, eyes glinting red now, not blue. Bursting inside, a roar he can't hold back.

He starts talking—words spilling out, low and guttural, sounds that twist the air, heavy with corruption. No human would stand it; even his own ears dripped with his own blood, but Kraner's grinning, spitting them fast, voice rolling like thunder gone wrong. The circle flares—blood sizzling, steaming up red.

The ground shakes, dirt cracking under his boots. Three shapes rise—slow, jagged, bursting from the mess like they're clawing outta graves. Giant skulls—red, horned, flesh hanging off 'em in rotten strips, eyes glowing dull and hateful. They're ugly—fuckin' hideous, even for Kraner, who's seen some shit—but he just leans back, smirking wider, blood still dripping from his chin.

"There we go… I pulled it off; Mother would be proud," he says, voice rough, laughing soft under it. He points—lazy, bloody finger jabbing the air. "You two… Perl… Ruxnard… you're truly fucked now…"