Dusty gusts whipped between the back alleys of Carrowhelm as carts from the former Iron Rats lumbered into a rotting Lowlands. The boy "Scab," a scarred veteran from back alley wars, oversaw this relocation grumbling through clenched teeth. He and the others complained at how they pulled crates, barrels, and furniture into the old splendor of a freshly reconstructed building Luenor had ordered to be made. They were moving from their previous stronghold to a derelict slum, nothing more than a demotion from their former glory when they had ruled the Lowlands.
"This place smells like piss" one of them muttered glaring at some teenage idiots rolling dice near by.
Though the teens barely noticed him at first, a nearby gang member shoved a kid to the ground and s a few more teenagers advanced on the gang member with icy intensity, "Don't you touch what belongs to the Fangbangs," one of the teens muttered while revealing a used dagger from his side. The word travels fast in the Lowlands, same as Gurt's orders: the kids were untouchable.
Inside the dim building that served as their new base, Luenor laid out the plan for tonight. Gurt, Hunter, Dion—as leaders of strike teams—would each subjugate one gang tonight.
But before the guys could get moving, Hunter returned. Dust was wiped from his fine cloak. "Dastall took the bait," he remarked with a smirk. "He's freaking livid. Told his guys that Alfrenzo shamed him. He's going to move."
Luenor nodded, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Good. When Dastall moves the mercs will do what they do, and the city will too. We can buy legitimacy one street at a time."
Just then, they were interrupted when Gurt came huffing up the stairs, red-faced and out of breath. "Boss... got a message for you from the kids. Ryker's... gang — Normy Ryker — he is calling a meet. The word is he is gathering the remaining gangs for a truce."
A silence fell over the room as Luenor slowly rose to his feet, brushing off invisible dust from off his shoulders. "Cancel the takeovers. We are going to war instead."
_____
A Warehouse Not Far from the Edge of Town
A thick silence engulfed the warehouse. Around a makeshift table, members of 7 different gangs sat in mismatched chairs, flickering candles between them. Normy Ryker, a muscular man with slicked-back hair and a little too much cologne stood at the head of the table.
"We can't overlook what Fangbang has done," he said in a booming voice. "They took Iron Rats. Tonight, it's one of ours. What's tomorrow? All of us."
As he spoke, the others shifted their weight around the table.
"You say they took Iron Rats," one gang leader laughed. "I think the Rats were just weak."
"You're calling me weak?" Out of the shadows Scab appeared.
In a flash tempers boiled over. Weapons were drawn, curses thrown—but before the violence could erupt, the doors crashed open.
Fangbangs rushed in with weapons glimmering in the torchlight. Dion stormed the floor, wild eyes, a dagger in each hand. He seized a man by the collar and slammed him head first through a crate.
The warehouse descended into a manic fury of fists, steel, and profanities. Chairs were upset, crates were busted. The Fangbangs poured through the entrance with spiked clubs, short swords, and sharp hooks clanging on the surprised gangs. There were screams as blood flew against the wooden beams.
Dion ducked a crossbow bolt before kicking his shooter in the knee and elbowing him in the jaw. Scab streaked through a line of thugs. His scared fists dealt as much fear as damage. Hunter, meanwhile, was moving as if he were one of the dead. His short blade flicked swiftly and seemed to strike accurately as he knocked man after man unconscious but not dead.
"Hold the doors!" Came a loud shout from the other side, but it didn't matter. The Fangbangs had barricaded every exit.
Normy Ryker was trying to rally his men, yelling "We're not cowards! Fight, dammit!"
But the winds of battle had shifted. His allies continued to drop or run away, his confidence waned. At last, in the midst of the chaos, a very familiar and bone-chilling voice pulled through the hall.
"Normy," said Luenor as he emerged out from the smoke and dust. "It is time for us to speak."
Normy charged forwards, curved blade in hand, roaring like a crazed beast.
Luenor sidestepped like it was nothing; he spun on his heel and drove his elbow hard into the man's ribs. Ryker grunted in air and staggered back, but recovered and swung again, desperate.
"You ain't even sweating!" Ryker hissed.
Luenor twirled his blade once. "You aren't worth the effort."
In a blink-fast movement, he deflected Ryker's slash and punched him in the face, clipping his brow, sending blood flying. Ryker tried to swing again but Luenor stepped in and stabbed, not with the edge of the blade, but with the hilt, snapping ribs. Ryker dropped to knees and gasped for air.
Luenor raised his hand and drew on the mana surrounding him. "Let this end," he whispered.
A blast of compressed mana shot out and blew Ryker through a nearby table and into a support pillar.
The room fell silent.
Injured, mangled, and fearful, the remaining gang leaders stared up at Luenor. He stood there, his cloak fanning out, agitated in the aftermath of his spell, Hunter and Dion at his side, weapons covered in blood.
"This city's streets," Luenor proclaimed, his voice enhanced with magic, "no longer belong to worms and parasites."
He turned slowly so that his gaze touched every person in the room.
"They belong to Alfrenzo."
He waited.
Silence.
Then, one by one, the gangs dropped their weapons. Some knelt. Some bowed.
"If anyone wants to resist," Luenor asked, "step forward."
Nobody did.
Hunter cast a cold smile. Dion exhaled and slid down the side wall, wiping blood off his cheek.
"Scab," Luenor called. "Get the wounded to the healers. Fangbangs, you are in charge of reintegration. Explain the rules to each gang."
"Yes boss," Gurt said waddling in with blood on his belly.
Luenor surveyed the room one last time. "From now on," he shouted, "Carrowhelm's underworld looks to me."
Outside, the smoke still billowed from the explosion with the fire extinguished but with its message conveyed.