Chapter 2 002

2

The house on the quiet outskirts of Blackspire City looked perfectly ordinary from the outside — neat white walls, trimmed hedges, a child’s bicycle abandoned on the lawn.

Inside, it was a slaughterhouse.

Aunt Selene lay crumpled on the blood-soaked hardwood floor of her living room, her body twisted at unnatural angles that made her look more like a discarded puppet than a human. Both legs were shattered at the knees. The bones had been pulverized so completely that jagged white shards protruded through torn flesh and fabric like broken glass.

Her kneecaps had been reduced to powder by repeated blows from a metal baton.

Every shallow breath sent fresh lightning bolts of agony through her nervous system. Her face was deathly pale, drenched in sweat and tears, lips trembling with each ragged gasp.

Five thugs stood around her.

One — a hulking brute with a scarred lip and greasy hair pulled into a ponytail — crouched beside Selene, still holding the bloodied baton. Chunks of bone and tissue clung to the metal.

“You know what’s funny?” he sneered, voice thick with fake pity. “You could’ve lived like a queen. Had everything you ever wanted.”

Another thug leaned against the wall, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. “But no. She had to play the hero. Cut ties and run off with these cursed brats.”

The brute stood slowly, tapping the gore-covered baton against his palm. “And look where that got you. Broken. Bleeding out on your own floor. Was it worth it?”

Selene’s eyes burned with defiance. She forced the words through gritted teeth. “Go… to hell.”

The brute threw his head back and laughed. “Still got some fight left, huh? I like that. Makes breaking you more entertaining.”

The others chuckled darkly.

“Doesn’t matter how much fire you’ve got,” the smoker said, exhaling through his nose. “The girl’s already gone. We shipped her off to the underground auction over an hour ago. She’s probably being paraded around like fresh meat right now, crying for her big brother.”

Selene’s face twisted in raw anguish. A broken sob tore from her throat. “You… monsters…”

“Monsters?” The brute laughed harder, slapping his knee. “Lady, we’re just professionals. Seraphine Voss pays top credit, and we deliver results. It’s business. Nothing personal.”

He crouched again, bringing his scarred face inches from hers. His breath reeked of cheap liquor and smoke. “But here’s the fun part. We have very specific orders for you. First, we break every limb. Then… the boys might want to play with you for a while. See how long you last.”

One thug pulled out a pair of rusted pliers, snapping them open and shut with a metallic click. “After the arms, we rip out your teeth. One by one. Make you chew on them.”

Another drew a long hunting knife, the blade glinting coldly.

“Then we carve our names into your skin,” he grinned. “Real slow. Make it last hours. See how long you stay conscious.”

The brute raised a hand. “But — here’s the generous offer — if you tell us where that nephew of yours is hiding, we’ll skip the fun. Quick bullet to the head. You won’t feel a thing.”

He leaned closer. “So… where’s Nyxor Raventhorn?”

Selene’s eyes hardened. She gathered every last shred of strength and spat blood directly into his face.

The brute froze.

Slowly, he wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. His grin vanished. His eyes turned ice-cold.

“Wrong answer,” he whispered.

He raised the bloodied baton high above his head with both hands.

“Time to break those arms.”

He swung down with brutal force, aiming for her elbow —

“Stop.”

The voice cut through the room like a blade.

Everyone froze.

The thugs spun toward the doorway, hands instinctively reaching for guns and knives.

A man stood in the open entrance.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a dark tactical coat still streaked with dust and the faint scent of distant battle smoke. His face was all sharp angles and bottomless black eyes.

Nyxor Raventhorn stepped inside, radiating a cold that seemed to drain the warmth from the air.

“Step away from my aunt,” he said, voice low and calm.

For a long heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the brute started laughing.

“Well, well, well,” he lowered the baton. “We weren’t expecting the guest of honor.”

One of the thugs quickly pulled out his phone, fingers flying across the screen. “Boss is gonna love this.” He pressed it to his ear. “Yeah, it’s me. You won’t believe it — Nyxor Raventhorn just walked in the front door. The brother himself. Yeah… we’ll hold him here until you arrive.”

He hung up and grinned. “Dorian Voss is on his way. Big bonus for us tonight.”

The brute cracked his knuckles. “Perfect. Let’s soften him up before the heir gets here.”

He jerked his head at the others. “Take him. Alive if possible. Beat him half to death either way.”

Three thugs charged at once, weapons raised.

From the floor, Aunt Selene’s eyes widened in terror. “Nyxor… no! Run! Please, just run!”

Nyxor’s voice remained steady. “Don’t worry, Aunt Selene.”

Then he moved.

The first thug swung the baton at his head with all his strength.

Nyxor simply… shifted. His hand shot out and caught the man’s wrist mid-swing with terrifying precision.

SNAP!

The wrist bent backward at a sickening angle, bones tearing through skin in a compound fracture.

The thug’s scream was shrill and inhuman.

Before the pain could fully register, Nyxor drove his knee into the man’s ribs with devastating force. Multiple ribs shattered with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed from the man’s mouth, painting the wall behind him.

Nyxor finished it with a brutal elbow strike to the base of the skull.

CRACK!

The thug collapsed face-first, spine severed. His eyes stayed open, conscious but his body lifeless below the neck. Paralyzed.

The second attacker lunged with a knife aimed at Nyxor’s stomach.

Nyxor caught the forearm mid-thrust, fingers clamping down like iron jaws.

The thug’s eyes widened in shock. He pushed with everything he had, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

Nyxor twisted.

CRRRACK!

The elbow dislocated, then the bones splintered. The arm hung useless at a grotesque angle. The knife clattered to the floor.

A devastating punch to the throat followed. The larynx collapsed with a horrible wet pop. The man dropped to his knees, clawing at his crushed windpipe, slowly suffocating in silent terror.

The third thug hesitated for half a second.

That hesitation was fatal.

Nyxor closed the distance in a blur, grabbed the man by the shirt, and lifted him clear off the ground. Then he unleashed a storm of precise, savage punches to the face.

CRUNCH! CRACK! CRUNCH!

Nose exploded. Cheekbone caved in. Teeth scattered across the floor like broken porcelain. By the seventh punch, the man’s face was a ruined, unrecognizable mess of blood and shattered bone. Nyxor dropped the limp body.

The entire fight lasted less than ten seconds.

The remaining two thugs — the brute and the one with the neck tattoo — stood frozen, all color draining from their faces.

The brute’s voice cracked. “Y-You… you have no idea what you’ve done. We already called Dorian Voss. He’s the heir to the Voss Family — one of the most powerful bloodlines in Blackspire. He answers directly to Seraphine herself.”

Nyxor tilted his head slightly, as if tasting the name.

“Dorian Voss,” he repeated quietly.

The brute mistook the silence for fear. “That’s right. You should be pissing yourself. The Voss Family has run this city’s shadows for decades. When Dorian gets here, you’re finished. You’re—”

Nyxor moved.

His fist rocketed forward faster than the eye could follow.

The sound of the brute’s skull shattering was like a gunshot.

The man’s head snapped backward violently, neck hyperextending past its limit. His eyes went blank instantly. The back of his skull exploded outward in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter that painted the wall behind him.

His body lifted off the ground for a split second before crashing down with a heavy, wet thud. Dead before he hit the floor.

The last thug stumbled backward until he slammed into the wall, legs shaking violently.

“Oh God… please… I’m begging you…”

Nyxor turned slowly toward him, eyes cold and empty.

“I don’t have time for games,” he said.

He stepped over the corpses and knelt beside Aunt Selene, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Aunt Selene,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open, tears cutting tracks through the blood on her face. She reached up with a trembling hand and touched his cheek.

“Nyxor… you came…”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

She shook her head weakly. “Listen… Elara… They took her. They sold her to an underground auction. Some black-market flesh pit. I don’t know where… I tried to stop them… I tried…”

“It’s not your fault,” Nyxor said firmly, gripping her hand. “None of this is your fault.”

Selene’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Her hand went limp. She slipped into unconsciousness.

Nyxor checked her pulse — faint, but still there. He rose slowly and turned to the last surviving thug, who was now on his knees, sobbing.

“Where is my sister?” Nyxor asked, voice deadly calm.

“I-I don’t know! I swear! They just told us to grab the girl and load her into the van! We’re just the muscle — they don’t tell us anything!”

“Where did they take her?”

“I don’t know! Please! Don’t kill me!”

Nyxor took one step forward.

The thug broke, hands raised in surrender. “Please! I’m telling the truth!”

Then the front door exploded inward with a violent crash.

A man strode in, tall, mid-thirties, wearing an expensive tailored suit that reeked of old money and arrogance. His face was sharp and entitled, the kind that had never kno

wn consequences.

Six heavily armed men fanned out behind him, surrounding the room.

Dorian Voss had arrived.

Nyxor’s lips curved into a cold, dangerous smile.

“Now here’s someone who actually knows.”