Ugly Merchant

As the morning sun rose above the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and crimson, Tertius opened his eyes, the warmth of daybreak caressing his weathered face. He woke up from his comfortable sleep, the rough but clean sheets twisted around his muscular frame. He hadn't slept like this before—undisturbed, peaceful, without the constant dread of what the next day might bring. He savored the sensation of sleeping with no one waking him up, no harsh voices yelling at him, no crack of whips against flesh. The straw mattress beneath him crackled softly as he shifted, yet he enjoyed the warmth of the bed he slept in. Even though the place was dirty and a mess—walls stained with years of grime, floors uneven and splintered—it was infinitely better than that dark and cold Colosseum with its stench of blood and sweat that had been his home for too long.

Tertius stood up, his calloused feet meeting the rough wooden floor, and stretched his powerful arms toward the ceiling. Dust particles danced in the slanting rays of morning light that filtered through the cracks in the shutters. He walked outside of the building, the cool morning air making his skin prickle. The cobblestones were still damp with dew under his feet as he kept staring at the place where he had stayed with the others last night—the remaining ash of the firewood, now just a gray circle surrounded by half-burned logs. Wisps of smoke still curled upward from the embers, carrying the faint scent of pine. It had been a good night, talking with others freely, the crackling fire illuminating their faces as they shared stories, the taste of cheap yet warm food was still lingering on his tongue. He tightened his grip, his knuckles turning white, not wanting to lose such a life. The distant sounds of the slums waking up—Birds chirping, children laughing, dogs barking—created a symphony of freedom that he was still getting used to.

As he was in his trance, Franco appeared in front of him, his thin face contorted with fear, sweat beading on his forehead. The reek of fear emanated from him like a physical force.

Tertius' mood changed in an instant, a storm cloud passing over his features. The muscles in his jaw clenched tight enough to crack nuts. He knew something was wrong. He asked, "What's wrong, Franco?" His muscles stiffened beneath his threadbare tunic, coiling like springs ready to unleash violence.

"I… I…" Franco stammered, his voice thin and reedy, his eyes darting back and forth like a cornered animal.

"Speak!" Tertius yelled, his voice echoing off the buildings, making nearby birds take flight in a panicked flutter of wings. The force of his command made Franco shiver even more, shrinking back as if physically struck.

"S… Someone stole the bag," Franco finally managed, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

In the heat of the moment, Tertius moved with the speed and precision that had kept him alive in countless arena fights. His hand shot out like a striking viper, grabbing Franco by the neck. The smaller man's pulse hammered against Tertius' palm as he lifted him, Franco's feet dangling helplessly above the ground. "Weren't you the one who said that you convinced everyone and everything was under control, huh?!" Tertius' eyes were threatening to kill, dark and bottomless as a well, his breath hot against Franco's face, smelling of sleep and barely contained rage.

"Le.t m.e… b.rea.th." Franco's face began turning from red to purple, the veins in his temples throbbing visibly. He felt like dying, the edges of his vision darkening. His hands clawed desperately at Tertius' iron grip, nails scratching futilely against skin hardened by years of combat. He started hitting and pushing Tertius' hand, his blows growing weaker with each passing second.

Tertius took his hand away suddenly, as if burned. Franco crashed to the ground in a heap of limbs, gasping for air. Tertius stared at his own hand, the realization dawning on his face that he had really been about to kill Franco and that he was no longer in the Colosseum where death was commonplace. The sounds of everyday life around them seemed to grow louder in his ears, reminding him of where he was. "Give me one reason to spare your life," he growled, his voice lower now but no less menacing.

Franco fell down on his knees, gasping with every breath he took, the sound ragged and painful. His face was a mix of colors after suffocating, nearly dying—pale with fear, flushed with exertion, and bruised where Tertius' fingers had dug into his flesh. A thin line of saliva hung from his mouth as he coughed and sputtered.

After a few breaths, Franco's breathing stabilized, though each inhale still whistled slightly through his damaged throat. He sat with his back to the wall, the rough stone cool against his sweat-soaked clothes. 'This crazy gladiator nearly killed me. If the subordinate nearly killed me, what would his boss do? I think I dug my own grave by working with that monster,' he thought, his eyes watering from the pain and the realization of his precarious position.

"I know who did this. The problem is catching him," Franco said, putting his hand on his neck where an angry red mark was forming, certain to darken into a bruise by nightfall.

"Who might that be?" Tertius loomed over him, his massive frame blocking out the morning sun, casting Franco in shadow.

"We call him Rat," Franco said, his voice rasping with each word. "He is quick and cunning, like rats. The way he moves, you'd think he was born in the sewers—silent as a ghost, blending into shadows you didn't even know existed. He makes his moves only when there is no sound and when everyone is sleeping, slipping through cracks too small for normal men." Franco's eyes darted around, as if expecting to see the thief watching them from some hidden vantage point. "I didn't think he would ever betray us. However, I can understand why he did so—even I got blinded seeing all that gold. The way it caught the light, like holding pieces of the sun..." His eyes glazed momentarily with greed before he continued. "And now that the value of gold has increased, with nobles hoarding it like dragons in the stories, it is hard not to steal the gold."

He took a few moments to breathe again, wincing at the pain in his throat, then he added, "The problem is that if he spends some money, the Boss will kill us. The sound of his blade being unsheathed will be the last thing we hear. We have to find him quickly. I'm sure he will never leave this area for the time being. The borders are watched too closely, and a rat knows better than to leave the nest it knows."

"Sigh, we have to find him quickly, otherwise, I'll bring your head to the boss, as you are the one who is responsible for this mission," Tertius said with a merciless expression, his hand caressing the hilt of his dagger, the metal catching the light with a hungry gleam.

Franco nodded, then stood on shaky legs. He called for everyone to gather in a wide and open area, his voice carrying surprisingly far despite its damaged state.

The gang members emerged from various hiding spots and buildings—some still rubbing sleep from their eyes, others already alert and armed. They formed a loose circle in the dusty square, the morning light casting long shadows behind them. The smell of unwashed bodies and stale alcohol hung in the air.

"Listen, everyone," Franco began, his voice steadying as he spoke. "We are all trying to change our miserable lives. We are trying our utmost best—knowing that we are scum who are hard to correct. The mud of the slums is in our blood, but we're trying to wash it clean. Instead of scheming against each other, why not work together? We are no ******* different from those nobles who are corrupt. The only difference is that they are filthy rich, and we are filthy poor. Their hands are soft while ours are calloused; their clothes are silk while ours are rags. And when we tried to improve our living conditions, one of us betrayed us, stealing the gold that was entrusted to us as a test…"

"What?!" everyone shouted in unison, the sound like a thunderclap in the quiet morning air. Birds roosting on nearby rooftops took flight, startled by the sudden noise.

"Yeah, folks. Someone stole the gold, and if we can't get it back with not a single coin missing, we will lose our chance to change our lives forever this time." Franco's words hung in the air like a death sentence.

"Who is the ****** that stole the gold? I'll rip his flesh from his bones!" Falcon said, his hand tightened around his knife, the blade catching the sunlight.

"I'll drink from his skull as a cup—just tell me who did it!" Wolf started shouting, his eyes went full red as if blood about to flow out of it.

Tertius kept staring, with no words leaving his mouth, his silence more threatening than any outburst. He stood apart from the group, arms crossed over his chest, the scars from countless arena battles visible on his exposed skin, telling stories of survival against impossible odds.

"Don't you see, guys? There is someone who isn't among us. That is as good as knowing who the culprit is," Franco said, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes. The morning light caught the sweat on his brow, making it glisten.

The gang kept checking one another but couldn't figure out who was missing among them. They mumbled and pointed, accusing and denying, the tension rising with each passing moment.

"Sigh! It's the person with the lowest presence in the entire area…" Franco tried to clear the picture but was interrupted by someone.

"Where is the ******* Rat?!" A voice echoed through the crowd, bouncing off the walls of the surrounding buildings. A moment of silence followed, then understanding dawned on their faces like a wave.

The gang started cursing and nearly turned against each other, knowing that Rat was one of The Wicked gang. Some started saying that it was their plan to gain the money and share the blame. The noise grew to a cacophony, fists clenched and weapons half-drawn, the scent of violence thick in the air.

"Be quiet!"

Tertius roared, the sound so powerful it seemed to make the very ground vibrate beneath their feet. His voice cut through the noise like a sword through flesh, making the noisy place fall silent. Even the distant sounds of the slums seemed to pause momentarily. "Do you think I would spare anyone from The Wicked if they dared commit such betrayal? I'm the second person who would take the blame after Franco if the mission failed. Stop with your nonsense and open your minds and ears clearly."

Franco turned to Tertius, grateful relief visible in his eyes, thanking him for his intervention—or everything would have been ruined. The crowd settled, weapons lowered but not sheathed, the tension still simmering like water about to boil.

"Let's search for this Rat for now. It's better to capture him alive to check if he was working alone or not, and if the money is untouched or not. If you find him with the money untouched, you are free to kill him if he doesn't cooperate with you. Watch for signs—disturbed dust, fresh footprints, places where the vermin might hide. Now, everyone, check every nook and cranny in our territory. It's unlikely he went to other territories—he would be asking for death if he did so."

All of them spread out to search for him, ruthless emotions burning in their eyes like coals. They moved with purpose, checking abandoned buildings, crawlspaces, and hidden corners, leaving no stone unturned in their hunt for the thief.

***

Golden sunlight streamed through the small window, dust motes dancing in its beam as Lysandra came to check on her brother, who was sleeping comfortably on the bed. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, and color had returned to his once-pale face. His body was quite strong, and his vitality was impressive—muscles defined even in repose, speaking of a life spent in physical exertion. The wound near his shoulder, which had been angry and red just days before, was now showing signs of healing; the skin knitting together at an impressive rate. His condition was growing better with every few hours of the day, the worst of the fever having broken during the night. Lysandra found it strange that he was healing so quickly, faster than any wound she had treated before, but at the same time, she was thankful for his well-being. The scent of healing herbs filled the small room, pungent but not unpleasant, mixed with the clean smell of freshly laundered sheets.

Breeze opened his eyes, blinking against the light, and was overcome with happiness seeing his sister taking care of him. Her silhouette was haloed by the sunlight behind her, giving her an almost angelic appearance to his still-drowsy eyes.

"Good morning, sister." A bright smile on Breeze's face made Lysandra blush, her cheeks turning a delicate pink. She still couldn't see this lying man as her brother yet, and he was too charming for her to interact with comfortably. His voice was gentle, like a breeze caressing the plains grass.

"Yes, good morning." Her answer was brief and quick, like that of an embarrassed child. She busied herself with arranging the items on the small table beside the bed—a bowl of water, clean bandages, a jar of healing salve that filled the air with the scent of lavender and thyme.

Everyone visited him from time to time, their footsteps echoing on the wooden floors, bringing news of the outside world and small comforts—a fresh loaf of bread, a cup of fresh juice, a book to pass the time. But they mostly left Lysandra alone with him to help her get used to her brother. As for Ivar, he was trying to make his wife visit Breeze less and less. His jealousy was palpable in the air whenever they were in the same room, like a static charge before a storm. Mina understood that her husband was jealous—and she understood why. Breeze was truly charming; any woman could fall for him without him even speaking. The way the light caught his eyes, shifting them from deep sea to open sky, and the way his smile transformed his entire face was utterly captivating. So she started visiting him only when Ivar was there, her hand always finding her husband's in silent reassurance.

A few days later, Breeze began standing on his own and walking without anyone's help. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he took his first tentative steps, gaining confidence with each passing day. He felt he no longer needed to lie in bed all the time, so he started walking around the building, inspecting it. His fingers traced the smoothness of the stone walls, appreciating the craftsmanship and its precision. It was a spacious and comfortable place, sunlight filtering through windows that were cleaner than most in the area, the rooms arranged with a sense of order rare in the slums. Though he didn't know how it had been before—which also confused him on how to rate it. The building was distinguished compared to the others, standing taller and sturdier. Not just that, even the whole area was a mess compared to it—crooked buildings leaning against each other for support, narrow alleyways filled with debris and filth, the constant noise of too many people living in too small a space. It was like a noble's house surrounded by slums, which was the best description, except that Jasper wasn't a noble. The contrast was stark—inside was cleanliness and order; outside was chaos and squalor.

Breeze wasn't a talkative person, but he found himself speaking a lot with Lysandra and the others. He felt comfortable around them, drawn to their easy camaraderie and genuine concern. The sound of their laughter was like music after the harshness of his previous life. Lysandra never started a conversation with him; he was the one who initiated it every time. Her expression grew more relaxed around him as the days passed, the tension in her shoulders easing, her smiles coming more readily. She was adapting to the idea that she really had a brother related by blood, the initial shock giving way to cautious acceptance.

At the dining table, the wood was perfectly smooth and sturdy, ready for years of use, and the dishes were steaming with simple but hearty fare, Breeze asked, "Hey, Jasper…"

Lysandra cut him off, saying, "It's Master or Mister Jasper for you." Her voice was sharp, the spoon she had been holding clattering against her bowl.

Breeze turned to her, smiling. It amused him every time she spoke to him. Whatever she did or said, he always found it lovely, even her scolding. The way her brow furrowed in disapproval, or how her lips pressed together in a firm line.

"It's okay, Lysandra. Logically speaking, I didn't buy him—he claimed his freedom with his own hands. I just tried my best to save him. So he can speak comfortably with me. Also, he's older than me." Jasper's voice was calm, the voice of someone used to being listened to despite his youth.

"Wait, what? Did you say he's older than you?" Ivar joined the conversation, changing the subject. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the candlelight casting his face in sharp relief.

"Come to think of it, we don't know the Master's age," Mina remarked, her head tilted in curiosity. The silver pendant she wore caught the light as she moved, sending reflections dancing across the walls.

"Sigh, it's not something new. Most people don't know their age, so there's no difference whether you knew mine or not. However, it's good enough that you can't guess if I'm older or younger than you, although you know now that I'm younger than you. And no need to worry about such things—you'll guess my age over the years when I stop growing." Jasper said, a mysterious smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hahaha, it's good enough for me to know that you're this capable despite being young. So when you grow older, you'll be even more capable." Breeze said, slapping the table good-naturedly, making the dishes jump and the candle flames flicker.

"For me to grow stronger, I need you guys. At least I know that no one can achieve what he wants alone. Anyway, what were you going to tell me, Breeze?" Jasper redirected the conversation smoothly.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. It's about…"

***

For a few days, the unified gang kept searching for Rat, combing through every abandoned building, every dark alley, every hidden cellar in their territory. The sound of their footsteps and angry calls echoed through the narrow streets, disturbing the usual rhythm of slum life. However, no trace could be found. It was as if he had disappeared into the very walls, becoming one with the shadows he had always navigated so skillfully. Tertius' patience started running out, his temper growing shorter with each passing day, like a fuse burning down to explosive powder. Franco's stress was at its peak, dark circles under his eyes testament to sleepless nights, his hands fidgeting constantly with the hem of his worn tunic. Franco gathered everyone and said: "We can't achieve anything anymore by searching, guys. However, I have a final solution." He kept speaking as complaints rose from the crowd, their voices a discordant chorus of frustration and anger. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and simmering tension. He continued after calling for some members, raising his voice above the din: "You guys are going to control the borders of the slums. No one will leave or enter without your permission, and we will continue unifying the slums. Afterwards, we will make a full search and hopefully find him."

Everyone's grimace was full of doubt about Franco leading after failing to preserve the gold; however, they found his suggestion the best option for now, so they continued following his orders. The fear of what their mysterious boss might do was a more powerful motivator than any trust in Franco's leadership.

"Who should we deal with first, Snake Street or Crow's Nest?" Falcon asked, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of dissent. The two notorious districts were known throughout the slums, their mere names enough to make mothers clutch their children closer.

"You know they're both horrible gangs. Even for us Sunken Slums' gangs, they're the most cruel. The tales of what they do to captives would curdle your blood. So we need to deal with both of them at the same time. It's better for us to eliminate them than unite with them." Franco's voice dropped, forcing the others to lean in to hear, the secrecy adding weight to his words.

"How so?" Falcon pressed, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife, the leather grip worn smooth from constant handling.

"Don't worry, I have a good idea for that," Franco replied, smirking. The scar on his cheek twisted with his smile, giving him a sinister appearance that matched the dark gleam in his eyes.

...

At the border of Snake Street and Crow's Nest, there were always skirmishes between them, the ground stained with old blood, walls pockmarked with the evidence of past conflicts. The air itself seemed charged with hostility. It wasn't something new, as they were trying to devour each other at every possible opportunity, like two predators circling the same prey. It was known that the hostility was at its peak between them - that's what facilitated Franco's plan to deal with them. The perfect kindling for the fire he planned to start.

First, Franco asked a group of people to catch a crow, which was a difficult mission, but Falcon volunteered to do it. The birds were clever and wary, having learned to avoid humans in the dangerous environment of the slums. He was more than capable of catching a crow in less than half a day; his movements were silent and precise, his traps were guaranteed to catch, and his instinct was as good as that of a monster.

Second, they needed to be divided into two groups to eliminate the remnants of the gangs after the outbreak that was going to happen soon. Franco drew maps in the dirt with a stick, assigning territories and planning attack routes, his strategy born of years navigating the treacherous politics of slum life.

"Hey Franco, why do you want to fight those gangs instead of convincing them to join us? You're good at deceiving others. I don't think it's a good idea to fight them - probably a lot of us will die if we start a war. It's not like I care honestly. It's just the more members, the more I relax," Tertius said, his massive frame casting a long shadow over Franco's dirt map. The scent of sweat and leather from his armor mingled with the ever-present stench of the slums.

"Deceive? You hurt my pride, brother. I only state facts." Franco placed a hand over his heart in mock offense, though his eyes remained calculating.

"Yeah yeah, just tell me why." Tertius wasn't buying the act, his voice flat with impatience.

"Well, you probably don't really know the people in Sunken Slums clearly, especially those two gangs. They never trust anyone but themselves - no, they even betray their own gangs given any opportunity. Their leaders always change. If the leader of either gang lets down his guard, he'll get stabbed in the back. So we can't risk any of them joining us." Franco's clarified to the new gang leader of the slums.

"Fair enough." Tertius nodded, understanding the brutal logic of slum survival.

In less than three candle burns, the wax melting slowly in the humid air, Falcon came back with a crow in his hand, though one of its wings was injured. The bird's feathers were glossy black, catching the light in iridescent blues and purples. It struggled weakly in his grip, its beady eyes reflecting terror. Franco got excited and started the plan almost instantly, choosing a small and lightweight member to climb a building where the fights usually started, with the crow and a gold coin in his hand - one of the two coins that Jasper had given to Franco as payment for the mission. The gold caught the sunlight, winking like a conspirator.

The guy waited patiently for members of both gangs to start arguing, perched on the edge of the roof like a gargoyle. The tiles were cold under his hands, frozen by the cold wind. Below, gang members from both territories converged, the tension between them visible in their stiff postures and wary glances. Once their tone got raised and they were about to start fighting, words growing louder and more aggressive, he threw a gold coin close to the feet of the Snake Street members. The coin arced through the air, catching the sunlight with a golden flash before landing with a soft clink on the cobblestones. Then he successively threw the injured crow on the head of one of the members, making it look as if the gold coin had fallen from the crow. The bird squawked in panic, its wings flapping uselessly as it fell. That move was just to eliminate any thoughts of doubt in the leaders' minds that it was a wicked plan to instigate a fight between both gangs.

Once the crow fell on the head of one of the members, feathers flying, he started cursing, his face contorted with surprise and anger. He grabbed the crow, its panicked cries cut short as he killed it with a swift twist. He was focusing on the crow while all others from either group focused on the gold coin that had fallen, their eyes wide with greed, reflecting the golden glint.

"Look! It's a gold coin!" The Snake Street members' eyes widened, and saliva started drooling from their mouths. The precious metal was rare in the slums, where most transactions were conducted in copper or barter.

"Hey you *******! That's a gold coin our crow had. By killing it and taking our gold, you're really asking for a deadly war. Hand over the ******* gold coin, and we'll pretend you didn't kill our crow," one of the Crow's Nest members said, his hand already on his weapon, a crude knife with a blade stained dark from previous use.

"Piss off, you stupid birds' gang," a Snake Street member said, shooing them away with a dismissive gesture, his other hand closing protectively around the coin. Then he added quietly to his gang members, his voice a harsh whisper that barely carried to the roof where Franco's spy was listening: "Listen here, we have to kill them before they report it to their gang. If they know we're in possession of a gold coin, they'll start a war to steal it. Let's not forget that I killed one of their crows too."

They nodded, the movement almost imperceptible, and without warning, they took their weapons and started killing. The sudden violence erupted like a storm, blood splattering on the cobblestones, cries of pain and rage filling the air. Their advantage was that they had more members at the moment, so the Crows fought back but couldn't handle them. Some got injured, blood flowing freely from gashes and stab wounds, and others got killed, their bodies left to cool on the street. One of the Crows escaped with all his might to tell his gang - he was so fast that the Snakes couldn't catch him, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he fled, terror giving him wings.

The war instigator from the unified gang kept staring from above the building, witnessing the first spark of the war. The metallic scent of blood reached him even at his height, mingling with the dust and sweat. After confirming that Franco's plan had gone smoothly, he descended quickly and ran fast to report to Franco, careful to avoid the main streets where the violence might spill over.

...

"Hey Franco, the plan went as you said. The Snakes tried to kill all the Crow's members to halt any news about the gold coin; however, they couldn't catch the last member. He's probably now telling his gang about what happened." The scout's words tumbled out in an excited rush, his eyes wide with the thrill of success.

"Well done," Franco coughed, clearing his throat. "Heed my command, you folks. Group One, go to the Crows' territory. Once they leave, hide there and wait for them to come back - they'll be fewer in number and more tired when you pounce on them. The same for the second group - go to the Snakes' territory after they leave it and hide well. Find the darkest corners, the shadowed doorways, anywhere you can strike from without being seen first. As for me, I'll keep watching the massacre. If one of them gets exterminated, I'll go to the defeated territory to ask you to go to the winning gang's territory as reinforcement."

***

Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! Gasp!

"Leader, gasp! The snakes, gasp!" The messenger burst into the Crows' hideout, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets. His clothes were torn and bloody, evidence of his narrow escape.

"Stop talking! Take your breath before you speak, you brat. You're making me suffocate just looking at you gasping like that." The leader of the Crows, a tall, gaunt man with a face like a hatchet, sat on a makeshift throne of scavenged furniture. The room stank of stale wine and unwashed bodies, the walls covered in stolen trinkets and crude drawings of crows.

Taking his time to regulate his breathing, the messenger then shouted, "Leader, those ******* Snake Street members killed my teammates and our crow, stealing a gold coin that the crow was going to bring it here!" His voice cracked with emotion, hands gesturing wildly to emphasize his point.

"What?! They stole our gold coin?!" the leader raged, leaping to his feet, his face contorted with fury. The chair he had been sitting on crashed to the floor behind him.

"Yeah, and they killed my brothers and our crow," the young member affirmed, nodding so vigorously his matted hair flew around his face.

"How dare they steal our gold!" The leader's fist crashed down on a nearby table, making cups and plates jump.

"Yeah, and our bro—" He didn't finish his words as the leader cut him off with a savage gesture.

"You Crows, we're going to war! Prepare yourselves! No one will steal our gold and stay alive to spend it." The leader's voice rose to a roar that echoed through the hideout, galvanizing his followers into action.

"Sorry mates, a gold coin outweighs your life in the boss's eyes," the brat said in a low voice, watching as the gang prepared for war. Weapons were grabbed, crude armor donned, battle cries practiced.

The Crows went straight to the Snakes' territory, their killing aura evident in their expressions. They moved like a dark cloud through the streets, shadows with weapons, the sound of their passage sending the innocent scurrying for cover. The poor kids and women hid in cellars and behind barricaded doors, not even daring to peek, fearing they would be killed if noticed. The smell of fear was thick in the air, mixing with the ever-present stench of the slums. They ran like hordes of monsters, their feet pounding on the cobblestones, creating a rhythm like war drums. The Snakes were waiting for them in an open area not too far from their hideout, a small square where executions were sometimes held. The two gangs faced each other across the open space, tension crackling between them like lightning before a storm.

"Hey you limbless lizards! How dare you steal our gold! Do you think our claws are rusty because we haven't started a war for a half year, huh?!" the leader of the Crows shouted, his voice carrying across the square. His hand rested on the hilt of a sword that had seen better days, the blade notched but still deadly.

"Believe it or not, you black chickens, if you don't leave our territory in a few seconds, you'll leave it featherless or headless. Choose wisely," the leader of the Snakes replied calmly. He was shorter than the Crow leader but broader, with muscles that spoke of hard living and harder fighting. A scar ran from his temple to his chin, pulling one corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer.

"It's easy for me to leave—just give us our gold back." The Crow leader's eyes narrowed, focusing on something glinting in the Snake leader's hand—the gold coin, being flipped casually between his fingers.

"Don't push your luck. I'm giving you face in front of your subordinates." The Snake's voice was soft but carried the promise of violence, like silk over steel.

"I don't care about faces. Just hand over the gold coin before things get serious." Behind the Crow leader, his gang members shifted restlessly, hands tightening on weapons, eyes scanning for advantages in the coming fight.

"Sigh. So it's a fight then." The Snake leader's casual demeanor dropped, replaced by a cold focus that had served him well in countless battles.

"Kill them, Crows! Today we'll drink and eat whatever we like!" The Crow leader raised his sword, the signal for attack, and his followers surged forward with a collective roar.

"Yes, kill each other fast, you stupid gangs. I have a rat to catch," Franco said with a smile on his face, watching from the shadows of an alley as the two gangs clashed in a frenzy of violence, blood spattering the cobblestones and cries of pain filling the air. His plan was working perfectly; all that he needs to do now is wait for the result.