Blood and Vengeance

Before Tristan left the library, he paused on the third floor to catch his breath. Exhausted, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve, but his curiosity got the better of him. Reaching for a book from the nearest shelf, his fingers brushed against a worn leather cover. The title read: The Story of the Strongest Warrior of the Middle District—DeAndre Killington.

Killington—an unparalleled swordsman, a warrior whose legend was etched into the very fabric of history. He had been a key figure in the pursuit of unity within his fractured nation, a combatant so formidable that he had ascended to the rank of Bishop—a coveted status reserved for three-star warriors.

The hierarchy of power was structured like a chessboard. Pawn, Knight, Bishop, Rook, King, and Queen. Yet beyond them lay a title few ever dared to dream of—Emperor. To claim that rank, one had to obtain a Cluster Star, a feat so rare that only a handful in history had achieved it.

As Tristan delved deeper into the book, he uncovered a crucial detail—the location of Killington's grave. A slow smile spread across his face. His decision had already been made. Killington would be his first soldier.

Now, standing above the warrior's final resting place, Tristan's gaze burned with unyielding resolve.

"Rise from your slumber. Follow me and confide in me... for I am your king."

The words echoed through the silent graveyard.

"Now, rise."

A blinding light burst from the gravestone, illuminating the darkness. The radiant energy coiled upward, twisting and reshaping, taking form before Tristan's very eyes.

Before him stood a man—tall and broad, his presence commanding. His slicked-back white hair framed a face hardened by war, his dark skin reminiscent of a shadow lurking in the depths of night. A pristine black suit adorned his form, starkly contrasted by the white gloves on his hands. At his side rested a sword as tall as he was, its hilt ebony, its cross-shaped guard elegant yet foreboding. The blade shimmered ominously, sharp enough to carve through the very darkness itself.

With a measured movement, Killington drove his sword into the earth, then knelt before his new master.

"I live to obey."

Tristan's lips curled into a smirk.

"Rise. Do you know why I summoned you?"

The warrior stood, his piercing gaze locking onto Tristan's fierce and vengeful expression.

"Yes."

Tristan turned away, his cloak billowing with the movement.

"I assume you know where they are located as well?" His voice carried an air of absolute authority.

"Yes, sir. Killington Street was named before my death—I know exactly where it is."

Together, they moved through the city, navigating the labyrinth of streets and alleys until they arrived at a decrepit warehouse.

Tristan lingered at the entrance, concealed behind a crate, his eyes scanning the scene. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and alcohol. Inside, scattered groups indulged in vice—gambling, drinking, partaking in substances unknown to him. Their laughter and idle chatter filled the space—until a single figure stepped forward.

Silence fell.

The man's presence was suffocating. His long, unkempt black hair framed a face that exuded both menace and charisma. His voice, though laced with an eerie cheerfulness, commanded absolute attention.

"It's nice to see you all."

Tristan felt it—a strange pull, an allure so potent it nearly compelled him to obey.

The man continued, his voice carrying a sinister glee.

"We received the money from that bigwig after destroying Albert Kenway's boutique."

Tristan's vision blurred with rage. His body moved on instinct, emerging from the shadows, his hands coming together in a slow, deliberate clap.

The gang members turned in confusion.

"Who the hell let a kid in here?" one of them sneered.

A man approached, his hand reaching out to seize Tristan's shoulder.

Before he could make contact—a flash of steel.

In the blink of an eye, Killington's blade severed the man's arm.

A scream tore through the warehouse as blood gushed from the wound, painting the floor crimson.

Tristan barely spared the writhing man a glance.

"You were slow, Killington."

The swordsman lowered his head in apology.

The moment of shock passed, and rage consumed the gang members. They surged forward, a horde of bodies eager to avenge their fallen comrade.

Tristan remained still, his voice calm yet commanding.

"Show them our strength, Killington."

"Yes, my lord."

Killington strode forward, carving a line into the ground with the tip of his sword. His voice was even, unwavering.

"Cross this line, and I will cut you down."

They did not listen.

The first man charged.

Steel flashed. His body was torn apart mid-step.

A limb here. A torso there. Blood splattered against the walls, the floor, the faces of those who had been foolish enough to follow.

Killington did not stop. He butchered them—his blade a whirlwind of death, reducing bodies to nothing more than discarded remnants.

One after another, they fell.

Until at last, the survivors froze.

The once-mighty Crescent Moon Gang—reduced to trembling wrecks, standing amidst the remains of their fallen brethren.

Their leader, the once-menacing figure on stage, stood paralyzed with fear.

Tristan approached, his dark brown Oxfords sinking into the thick, pooling blood beneath him.

The remaining gang members shrank away, their terror tangible.

He climbed onto the stage, standing face-to-face with the so-called leader, who now resembled nothing more than a frightened animal.

Tristan's voice was soft, almost gentle.

"Apologize."

The man flinched. "A-Apologize for what?"

Tristan's expression darkened.

"Apologize for destroying Albert Kenway's boutique."

The man swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he obeyed.

"I... I'm sorry for destroying the boutique. But we were paid—"

Tristan's eyes gleamed.

"By whom?"

The leader hesitated.

Tristan sighed. "Killington, cut his right leg."

"Yes, my lord."

Killington raised his sword.

But before the blade could strike—

"WAIT! A nobleman! A man from the High District—Decker Vermillion!"

Silence.

Tristan turned away, stepping down from the stage, his work done. But before leaving, he cast one final warning over his shoulder.

"If any of you so much as look at that boutique again, I will hunt you down—and I will kill you."

He strode away, his mind fixated on one name.

Decker Vermillion.

"I will find you... and I will treat you just as I treated those rats."

But as he walked, his body weakened. Each step became heavier, his vision blurred, his limbs refused to obey him.

Then—darkness.

His body collapsed, his consciousness slipping away.

"Damn it... what's happening...?"

As the world faded, just before his eyes shut completely—

He saw a figure approaching.