"Vega, we'll comply with your terms... for now."
Jack Thornton waited just long enough for the councilors to offer their stiff bows before fleeing the hall, his bodyguards scrambling after him like startled hens.
Once the politicians had cleared out, Kevin Pendleton approached, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Young Lord—?"
Vega cut him off with a glance that could freeze water. "You have lot of questions." He rose, the legs of his chair screeching against blood-slick marble. "Walk with me."
Kevin trailed him out of the slaughterhouse conference room—Vega had no taste for gore. The Devil's Mantle technique had served its purpose: a mountain of XP harvested, and a message carved in corpses for Nacro's hyena council.
Break them before they bite.
That "chance encounter" between Jack and the scavenger gangs at Pendleton HQ? Calculated. Now, with spines properly shattered, governance would be smoother.
In the corridor's relative quiet, Vega let the silence stretch until Kevin's nerves were wire-tight. Then, softly:
"Nacro is ours. The Shelby dynasty? Extinct."
Kevin's breath hitched. He'd guessed—but hearing it confirmed sent ice down his spine. The Pendletons, nearly bankrupt last week, now held the city by its throat.
Steeling himself, he broached the real concern: "Young Lord, banning Black Sand trade entirely... The Ten Elders won't tolerate that."
Vega didn't blink. "Explain."
"The scavenger gangs were small fry," Kevin said carefully. "But the Shelbys' supply came straight from the Elders. Cutting their revenue stream is like kicking a hornet's nest—"
"Good." Vega's smile was a scalpel's gleam. "I'll burn their market to ash. They already want me dead—I executed one of their blood relative at Shelby Manor."
Kevin's stomach dropped. This is suicide.
The Council's Gambit
Three blocks away, Jack's convoy slithered into a members-only club—soundproofed, armed, and far from Pendleton ears.
Champagne flutes trembled in pudgy hands as the councilors clustered like vultures.
"You can't seriously mean to obey that brat?" Jack hissed.
The potbellied Councilor Reeves mopped his brow. "Did you see what he did to—"
"Then we hire assassin guild," Jack snapped. "Or a bounty hunter."
A collective wince. The assassin guild's rates started at 100 million per kill—Vega's head would atleast cost triple the price.
Jack leaned in, eyes glinting. "Why pay when the Ten Elders will slaughter him for free?" He tapped his cane. "Vega just declared war on their Black Sand empire. Let's... inform them."
Glasses clinked.
By dawn, a coded message would reach the Elders' couriers.
And the Pendletons would learn why no one crosses the kings of the underworld.