The burnt-out shell of the old drug den still reeked of blood, ash, and sulphur. Whatever had happened here, it wasn’t a raid — it was a purge.

Boots crunched over shattered glass as a man stepped through the blackened doorway. His red hair, tied back in a rough tail, caught the last of the daylight bleeding in from the slats above. A scar curved across the bridge of his nose like an old memory that refused to fade.

He crouched by the charred remains of a metal door, brushing aside soot to reveal a broken chain — and a faint blood trail leading inward.

“Tch,” he muttered, rising to his full height. “Second scene this month. Same pattern.”

The man pulled out a small communicator crystal from his coat and tapped it twice. A soft hum answered.

“This is Rael Kazen, reporting in. Another site was torched. Unregistered spellwork… definitely not military. No bodies this time, but there was a struggle. Could be vigilante interference again — or something darker.”

He paused, scanning the room again. His gaze landed on a crude sigil scratched into the wall — a crescent wrapped in flame.

“…They’re getting bolder.”

He cut the comms and turned back toward the light, but not before his fingers brushed the hilt of his blade — a thick, black-handled weapon strapped across his back. Not a regulation issue. Too personal.

His jaw clenched.

Whoever did this wasn’t just covering their tracks. They were sending a message.

And Rael Kazen had every intention of answering it as he walked past a wall.

There lay a massive mountain of bodies cut, slashed and beheaded. Rael just stood there in awe.