A smile spread across the leader's lips. Slow, cruel, almost satisfied to see the assassin enter his lair.

"So this is the killer sent by the Order..." he said, leaning forward, his fingers tapping casually on the hilt of his sword. "You're just in time. We were about to start a little... entertainment. "

The right-hand man sneered, his eyes fixed on Jarek, shining with evil excitement.

The child moaned weakly, roused from her stupor, and her misty eyes briefly met Jarek's. A silent plea, a desperate flame.

Jarek clenched his jaw. His wounded arm protested as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, but he paid no attention.

A heavy silence fell.

Two predators around the table. An innocent victim suspended in the middle. And he, alone, ready to end his mission.

The chief finally placed his hand on his sacred sword, the metal shivering as if responding to his call. "Come closer, assassin. Come and enjoy this lovely spectacle," he said, slowly bringing the tip of his sword closer to Mira's stomach.

When his sword rested just above her navel, a drop of blood spurted out, tracing a thin scarlet line that slowly trickled down Mira's fragile belly. The girl moaned, her body shivering with pain and fear, her eyes half-reversed in agony.

The chief burst out with a short, hoarse laugh, almost satisfied with the child's reaction. He pressed the tip a little harder, just enough to make a second drop form, which followed the first in a slow reddish trail.

"Look at it..." he whispered in a rumbling voice. "Even the weakest can put on a beautiful show before they die. "

The right-hand man, amused, clicked his tongue against his palate before putting his hand in his pocket.

"Do you think he'll have the courage to step forward?" he asked sarcastically, without taking his eyes off Jarek.

Silence again.

But this time, it was no longer just heavy: it was sharp.

Jarek stood motionless, watching the scene. His gaze fell first on the blood that trailed scarlet across Mira's abdomen, then on the tip of the sacred sword, which vibrated faintly as if already feasting on pain. His fingers whitened on the hilt of his weapon, and he took a deep breath.

He knew that the slightest misstep would condemn the little girl.

But he also knew that time was against him.

His arm throbbed with pain beneath the makeshift bandage. His muscles, tense, waited for the signal, the one that would trigger a deadly dance.

The chef raised his gaze towards him, a smirk on his lips, and pressed the point a little more. The little girl uttered a muffled cry, her back arching under the intensity of the pain. A third drop trickled down, rolling over her skin until it disappeared under the rags of fabric.

"So, assassin..." the chief spit, his voice filled with challenge. "Are you going to stay here and contemplate, or do you plan to come help this poor little girl in distress?"

At that moment, Jarek took a step forward. His eyes, icy, no longer left those of his enemy.

He had only one idea in mind: save Mira.

The chef straightened up slightly, letting the tip of his weapon still graze Mira's frail skin. Her smile widened, almost carnivorous.

"You know.." he said, tilting his head to the side, his eyes shining with a calculating glow. "We're telling stories about you, Jarek. Number 3... Your reputation precedes you."

He chuckled, a deep laugh that echoed in the vast room.

" But you see, that's the problem... When you know how a predator hunts, it becomes much less formidable."

The right arm sketched an evil smile, as if he was already enjoying the upcoming show.

The leader continued, his voice tinged with a false respect:

"You are fast, precise, you always aim where you need to, no matter your target. You sneak like a snake, patient, calculating... But you are also predictable."

His eyes narrowed as he pressed his sword a little more against Mira's belly, enough to make her scream.

"And me..." He breathed in deeply, savoring each word: "I know your style. Your blows, your feints, your way of turning around your prey. You are formidable against disorganized fools, but here, you are disadvantaged."

A heavy silence fell.

Jarek did not respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the child, as if to remember why he had come here. His fist tightened on the guard of his sword, his knuckles whitening.

"Well to be honest... If you really knew me, you would have known that it's a very bad idea to get angry before confronting me."

The chef sketched a satisfied smile in front of his silence.

"Get angry?" The man lets out a long, fat laugh before resuming his serious demeanor. "You thought you could enter my lair, shoot us down like dogs and that we were not going to retaliate? I don't know what connection you have with this kid, but I am more than satisfied with your reaction."

The right arm burst out with a bad laugh, finally taking his hand from his pocket: he held a small dagger black as night, which he turned between his fingers with an insolent ease.

Not needing to know more, Jarek immediately understood from his energy that this was the artifact, Teeth of Shadow. He immediately understood that he was going to have to fight against two types carrying a total of two artifacts, as well as a sacred weapon, each having an Ushi that he ignored.

While they seemed to know him; certainly Jarek had confidence in his abilities and knew that he had at least one asset left that he had never revealed yet, but even so he was largely disadvantaged.

"We know who you are, and what you are worth," the leader continued, his voice harsher, almost contemptuous. "Tonight, your reputation will die with you. And the only question is whether she will die before, or after this little one stops shouting."

Jarek breathed in slowly, his icy gaze finally rising to crash into that of his enemy.

His jaw contracted, and a sentence, short, dry, fell from his lips:

"Try."

As soon as the word was released, the leader thrust the tip of his sword sharply against Mira's belly. Not enough to kill her, but enough to make her scream in pain. The blood spurted in a wider line, dripping down its sides and falling to the ground in fine scarlet spatter.

Jarek jumped at once. His body projected forward like a shadow stretched towards its target.

The right arm rose at the same moment, throwing a dagger curved black as night in a sharp and precise movement. Jarek tilted his shoulder, but slightly too late, the steel cut off his cape as well as his armor before brushing against his arm, going to thread itself into the wood behind him.

At the same moment, Jarek realized that his body had become slower. He understood that the dagger that the right arm had just thrown was in fact the Shadow Teeth artifact and that he had just tasted its paralyzing effect.

"It's good Anton, he is slowed down." Screamed the right arm, just as he had thrown his dagger.

...

Anton Riegler, it's the name of the leader of the gang The Black Fang. He created this gang about twenty years ago when he was a young adult. Despite what one may believe, Anton has not always been a violent man, killing and torturing these targets mercilessly for his personal pleasure.

When he was younger, he first decided to create this gang to survive.

Born to a mother he never knew and an absent father whose name he didn't even inherit, Anton had learned very early what hunger, cold and loneliness meant.

Ceston was not a forgiving city. Even the richest did not live behind white stone walls, protected by guards and invisible barriers of privileges, they lived in fear, in houses just enough to not attract attention. The others, the outcasts, wandered through the filthy alleys where hunger, disease and violence were the only law. It is there that Anton grows up, a hungry kid with bright eyes, always on his guard.

Very young, he learned to fly to survive. A piece of bread, an overripe apple left on a stall, a few pieces chaparded in the pockets distracted by passersby... His thin and fast hands became his weapons, his legs his only escape. But theft had its limits. When he was caught, the blows rained down, and sometimes, he spent entire nights crawling under the stairs or in the sewers to escape his pursuers.

He was hungry, often. Cold, always. And above all, he was alone. But this loneliness became his strength: he learned to observe others, to understand who dominated and who bent, who spoke loudly and who obeyed in silence. The city, in his eyes, became an arena where only the most cunning survived.

In adolescence, Anton was no longer a frightened child but a hardened young man. Around him, he had started to attract other kids, orphans, abandoned people like him. They saw him as a kind of natural leader, someone who knew how to find food, organize thefts, distribute the meager spoils. Little by little, this small group became a gang. They called themselves The Black Fang, a simple name, inspired by a stray dog that always followed them and had a broken jaw.

At first, they were only a handful, content to rob unwary passersby and rob small shops. But the more time passed, the more they realized that the needs were growing. Stomachs to be fed multiplied, hiding places became more precarious, and above all, the rival gangs of Ceston took a dim view of these "children" who dared to walk on their flower beds. So Anton made a decision: if they wanted to survive, they should be more ruthless than the others.

It was a slow descent. First, the Black Fang began to protect certain merchants in exchange for "contributions". Then, they discovered the colossal profits of drugs, and Anton, pragmatic, closed his eyes on the consequences. Then came the weapons, the blood, the corpses abandoned in the alleys. At each step, Anton told himself that he had no choice, that he was only adapting to the cruelty of the world.

And, from a band of hungry children, the Black Fang became a feared organization, governed by fear and respect. Anton, once a kid lost in the streets of Ceston at the head of a group of young people, had now become the undisputed master of one of the biggest gangs in this city.

...

The steel clears the silence.

Anton had pulled his sword out of Mira's belly to point it at Jarek, the smile still fixed on her face. Markus, to his left, slowly pulled out his daggers, spinning them between his fingers like a predator eager to pounce

Jarek narrowed his eyes. His bandaged arm threw him with each heartbeat, but his breathing remained regular. In front of him, two opponents, different in their postures: Anton, massive and sure of himself, a leader's presence who did not doubt his authority, and Markus, nervous, feline, already moving, his eyes shining with an almost childlike malice.

Anton stepped forward, his sacred sword describing a slow bow in the air.

"You know, Markus,", he says in a calm tone, "this kind of dogs of the Order... We have seen more than one of them. Always the same arrogance, always the same end."

Markus chuckled, his daggers clinking in his hands. "Hehe... yeah. And that one... he already has a paw missing." Her eyes glided towards Jarek's injured arm.

Their laughter mingled briefly, then everything changed.

Markus was the first to attack, leaping with lightning speed. His daggers burst forth in a double flash, seeking to cut the throat and then the ribs of Jarek. This one swiveled abruptly, the steel whistling just inches from his skin. His sword struck sharply, driving Markus back with a setback that sparked.

Anton followed immediately. A heavy step, a downward strike, the sacred sword vibrating with an ominous glow. Jarek raised his blade just in time, the impact echoed through his wounded arm, snatching a grimace that he swallowed immediately. His knees flexed, but he straightened up with a snap, pushing back Anton's gun in a circular motion.

"You hold on..." Markus whispered, already coming back to the charge. "But it won't last."

Jarek narrowly dodged a dagger that shaved his face, the blade slightly cutting into his cheek. The metallic taste of blood mingled with his breathless breathing. His icy eyes did not cillate.

He suddenly counterattacked, his blade aiming at Markus's hip. The right arm stepped back with a feline leap, but the steel still brushed against his jacket, tearing off a piece of fabric. Markus grinded his teeth, more excited than upset.

Anton, on the other hand, had not moved. He observed, a grin at the corner of his lips, like a master letting his dog test the defenses of a prey. "Still as sharp, Markus...", he says in an almost absent tone.

Markus chuckled: "Don't worry, boss. I won't break it too quickly."

But Jarek did not wait for the next wave. He projected forward, blade raised, aiming at Anton directly. The leader of the Black Fang greeted the assault with a raucous laugh, his sacred sword raising a dark wave in the air as she met Jarek's. The shock echoed throughout the room, Mira moaned weakly, suspended by her ties.

The ultimate death dance had just begun.

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