At the bottom end of the greater city, Gurt, the formerly overweight, screeching leader of Fangbang, stood with a tense salute next to Hunter.
"Is that...?" he asked, squinting away into the distance, one greasy hand over his eyes.
Hunter slowly exhaled. "That is the signal."
Gurt wiped his palms down the front of his robe-like tunic, which was bursting at each seam. "Okay then. The boys are ready. Not the smartest tools, but eager since you cracked their heads open and patched them up just last night."
Hunter only nodded slightly, "Right. Lead them forward, take Iron Rats' head quarters. If they surrender they'll live, otherwise no survivors. This is Alfrenzo's city now".
The Fangbangs grunted their acknowledgement. About twenty thoroughly unmitigated thugs carrying knives, clubs, and worse yet, rusty spears, surged behind Gurt, growling as they surged down the cracked stone alleys. Most had been thugs for some time, scowling figures with eyes night and emaciated. None were quite prepared for what lay inside.
The Iron Rats were holed up in an abandoned forge - a forge that was cold long before the rats got there. The gang had modified it into something resembling a fortress - wood barricades to fortify the building, towers built from uneven wooden flotsks, and clusters of crates piled high with stolen materials. There were two guards standing at the gate; they barely had enough time to ready weapons when Gurt's men collided with them.
Hunter didn't hesitate. He smoothly vaulted the barricade, standing tall with his butcher knife in hand, illuminated by the flickering torchlight. A thug swung a club at him; but ducking under the swing, he sledge-hammered his knee with a perfect kick. Then, he grabbed a second thug by the shirt, headbutted the man between the eyes, and sent him sprawling, screaming.
Suddenly the forge was a place of battle, crossed by the screams of men and steel clacking together in the air.
Inside the upper level, the Iron Rats were aghast - Scab, Frask, and Mirok stood wide-eyed.
"Who the fuck are these bastards?" Frask yelled, drawing a curved sword from his waist.
"They're Fangbangs! But, where's Gurt!?" Scab growled peering through one of the broken windows.
"Gurt's with them now," Mirok said darkly, eyes wide. "He brought 'em here."
Hunter burst through the door as if he had been waiting for the moment. Frask swung wildly, and Hunter hit the side of Frask's axe with the blunt side of his knife before slamming the guy, face-first, against the wall. Mirok then came crashing in, armed with a spear, but it was Gurt—panting, red in the face—who charged Mirok from behind Hunter, leading with his belly.
"Fat bastard's still got it!" Gurt wheezed with triumph as Mirok's head gently sank to the ground.
As for the rest of the gang, well, they weren't doing much better. All it took was 15 minutes, and the Iron Rats were either broken, scattered, or groaning on the ground.
Hunter dragged the last captain, Scab, up by the hair and threw him to Gurt's feet.
"Yours now," Hunter stated matter-of-factly.
Gurt grinned, jowls and cheeks jigging, "Scabby boy, how's it feel to have to kneel?"
Scab spat blood, "Go fuck yourself."
Hunter kicked him gently in the ribs, "You work for Alfrenzo now, or you don't work at all."
Scab sighed, offering a loose nod. Gurt pivoted back onto the few remaining Iron Rats, bloody and cowardly.
"You," Gurt addressed the now nervously eyed Iron Rats, "You answer to us now. No more stealing from merchants, and no more snatching kids out of the lowlands. From now on, we own the night!"
The Rats hesitant but shocked until Hunter raised a hand and flared a tiny bit of his mana. The pressure drove most of the rats to their knees.
The forge was quiet.
_____
Far above the city, in his stone tower, Marquess Mellon sipped his midnight tea; he watched the distant dark column of smoke going into the stars.
"What happened?" he asked in a soft but strained tone.
"Sir," a knight stepped forward, still dusted with ash, "There was an explosion near Greywhistle. A tavern and several houses were destroyed. At least a dozen are dead. We are clearing the rubble."
Mellon lowered his teacup cautiously. "And with that cause?"
There was hesitation from the knight. "Precise details are vague, but… there are rumors. There was a cloaked figure seen walking away just before the blast. Channeling mana."
The Marquess closed his eyes and began massaging the bridge of his nose.
"Find the bastard responsible," he said more quietly than usual. "I do not care if it's some conjured shadow from the pits of the Lowlands. I want their head."
"Yes, my lord."