Going through the creepy streets, even though they were filled with daylight, Tertius felt disgusted moving along with a bunch of criminals. The cobblestones beneath his feet were slick with something he didn't want to identify—a mixture of rainwater, waste, and perhaps blood from the previous night's scuffles. The buildings leaned precariously over the narrow alleyways, blocking most of the sunlight and creating an eternal twilight even at midday. Tattered clothes hung from makeshift lines above, dripping unidentifiable fluids onto passersby.

  The smell assaulted his nostrils—a pungent mixture of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and the sickly-sweet odor of cheap alcohol spilled in corners where vagrants had collapsed. The view was no better: hollow-eyed children with dirt-smeared faces darted between adults like feral cats, snatching what they could before disappearing into crevices between buildings. The walls themselves seemed to weep with decades of grime and mold, the plaster crumbling in places to reveal the rotten timber beneath.

  The whole atmosphere hung heavy with desperation, the weight of it pressing down on Tertius's broad shoulders as if he carried the misery of the entire slum. His sandals made sucking sounds as he walked, the leather already staining from the filth of the streets.

  "Hey, Sir Tertius, how was life in the colosseum? We never entered it, so we couldn't recognize your outfit. All we know is the gladiators there are monstrously powerful. What was your rank there?" The questions kept falling on Tertius like a waterfall, with all their expressions showing admiration. One man's eyes were wide with awe, his blackened teeth visible behind chapped lips. Another fidgeted with a dagger, turning it over in his calloused hands repeatedly, as if the nervous energy couldn't be contained.

  Tertius's hand instinctively went to the leather cord around his neck, where a small token—proof of his status—hung against his sweat-dampened chest. The question brought back the roar of the crowd, the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, the sting of sand in fresh wounds.

  "I was one of the top five gladiators," he replied, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to reverberate in the narrow passage between buildings. "As for my life—no, our lives—they were miserable there. Our only source of entertainment there, or let's say our only way of forgetting pain, was either fighting or training. Truly a miserable life." His fingers unconsciously traced a long scar that ran from his collarbone down beneath his tunic—a souvenir from a bout that had nearly ended his life.

  "Now that you are out, and as strong as you are, you can do whatever you like. You can even be the boss around here." The man speaking—a wiry fellow with a face pockmarked from some childhood disease—gestured broadly with bony hands to encompass the filthy streets, as if offering Tertius a kingdom.

  The gladiator felt his chest expand unconsciously after hearing such words. A warm sensation spread through his body—unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He had never been complimented before; all his life was filled with insults, verbal or physical. The muscles in his jaw unclenched slightly, the tension that had been his constant companion for years easing just a fraction.

  "Boss, huh? It has a good ring to it." The word felt strange on his tongue, carrying a new way of life. He squared his massive shoulders, casting a shadow that stretched across the narrow alley. "Let's finish our task first."

  Going back to the gang's area, they regrouped with their comrades in a dilapidated building that might once have been a tavern. Patches of its original red paint still clung stubbornly to the outer walls, though most had peeled away to reveal the gray stone beneath. Inside, the floorboards creaked ominously under Tertius's weight, and the smell of mildew mingled with body odor and cheap wine.

  They shared the details of the deal with Jasper around a wobbly table stained with rings from countless mugs and darker splotches that might have been blood. At first, their expressions darkened, faces turning ashen under layers of dirt. Going against all the gangs here was death—something like unification for them was a harbinger of rivers of blood. The air in the room grew thick with tension; Tertius could almost taste the fear emanating from their pores.

  However, the moment they heard that there was a gladiator with them and it wasn't set in stone that they were going to fight—especially after seeing the amount of gold, which glinted warmly in the dim light filtering through cracked windows—they were a bit convinced that most likely no fight would happen. Maybe one or two, but it would be an easy mission to complete, probably. Their eyes lit up at the sight of gold, pupils dilating with hunger that had nothing to do with food.

  "Hey, Franco, how about we raid that monster and take all his gold? We could live like kings in this miserable place with all the gold he has," a member of the gang whispered in the ear of the eloquent man. His breath reeked of cheap spirits and decaying teeth, causing Franco to wrinkle his nose almost imperceptibly.

  Franco stared back at him, eyes cold as winter frost despite the summer heat that made sweat trickle down his temples. "If we were to listen to your suggestion, we would have been extinct years ago." His voice was low but sharp enough to cut. "While I'm more tempted to steal all the gold than anyone else, we can't make a risky move without confirming that monster's capabilities. We have to stay still for the moment." His fingers drummed restlessly on the table, creating a nervous rhythm that seemed to echo the racing heartbeats around him.

  After a long conversation and planning how to start their operation, during which candles burned down to stubs and shadows lengthened across the room, Tertius and The Wicked Gang went to their first target: the 'Deep West Street' gang. The journey took them through progressively narrower streets, where the smell of filth grew stronger and the buildings leaned so precariously toward each other that in places they nearly touched overhead, creating tunnels of shadow.

  It was the least hostile gang toward them. As soon as they met, in a circular clearing surrounded by the skeletal remains of what might once have been market stalls, the mood changed. The air seemed to drop several degrees despite the afternoon heat. It wasn't a usual thing for The Wicked to visit The Deep West Street with such a huge number. Men on both sides tensed visibly, hands drifting toward concealed weapons. The metallic scrape of daggers being loosened in sheaths provided a sinister undertone to the confrontation.

  "Stop right there. Any further step, and we will consider this a declaration of war," a huge man from The DWS said, pointing a massive sword that gleamed dully in the filtered sunlight. His voice boomed across the clearing, bouncing off the crumbling walls. A scar bisected his left eyebrow and continued down his cheek, pulling his mouth into a permanent half-sneer. Muscles rippled beneath a tunic stained with what looked like wine and worse.

  "Take it easy, Falcon." Franco raised his hands placatingly, showing empty palms. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face despite his casual tone. "We're not here to fight."

  "So, what made you bring all these people with you if you're not here to fight, huh?" Falcon's eyes narrowed to slits, scanning the crowd behind Franco. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword, and the tendons in his neck stood out like cords.

  "You see, we met with a monster who wanted to unify the whole area. He wanted us to work for him." Franco's voice remained steady, though Tertius noticed the slight tremor in his left hand, which he tried to hide by hooking his thumb into his belt.

  "A monster? What are you scheming, Franco? I know you're a crafty bastard who doesn't accept a deal that doesn't benefit you." Falcon spat on the ground between them, the glob landing with a wet splat on the dust-covered stones. "Do you think our ears are free to waste time listening to you? Either you've already gotten your profit and we're the victims of your scheme, or you haven't gotten your profit yet and we're part of the deal. However, I can't believe you unless you give me proof of your claim." His men shifted restlessly behind him, the sun occasionally catching on a blade or the metal studs of a leather bracer.

  "Ha ha ha, cautious as ever, Falcon." Franco's laugh echoed hollowly in the clearing, not reaching his eyes. "Do you think in this whole area there's someone able to get his hands on a hundred gold, or that he can easily throw a pocket of gold like throwing trash?"

  "Hmm, if a noble passed by here or a merchant, that would be an easy thing to do." Falcon scratched his stubbled chin, the sound audible in the tense silence. "However, they extremely hate and fear this place, so it's probably not. Well, I don't know, so let me see the gold first." He extended a hand, thick fingers beckoning impatiently.

  "Let me show you a scene you've never seen in your entire life." Franco showed off by grabbing the pocket of gold from his clothing with a dramatic flourish and throwing it under Falcon's feet, then added, "See for yourself. Gold isn't an issue for us anymore." The pouch landed with a heavy thud, coins inside clinking musically against each other—a sound rarely heard in these desperate streets.

  "Wha…" Falcon felt the jingle of coins inside the pocket under his feet, but what shocked him even more was how Franco, someone who lived in this area known for being poor, had the guts to throw such a large amount of gold. His eyes widened until the whites showed all around, and his mouth fell open slightly, revealing a row of surprisingly well-kept teeth.

  'Is this Monster Boss he's talking about really that wealthy? Is he really showering his underlings with gold? I can't find any other reason that would make Franco or The Wicked show such an amount of gold and then throw it. Don't they fear I'll fight for it?' Falcon's inner thoughts grew chaotic, visible in the way his gaze darted between the pouch at his feet and Franco's face.

  "Will we get our share of this gold if we join you?" Falcon's voice had lost some of its edge, replaced by naked hunger. Around him, his men leaned forward unconsciously, drawn by the promise of wealth like moths to flame.

  "Ahem, let me be clear about something." Franco cleared his throat, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple despite the cooling afternoon air. "While it's true that he gave us gold as payment, this pocket of gold was a test for us. He said if we're able to bring it back with no coins missing, he'll accept us. So the gold in your hand is just a test from him." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a subtle tell that Tertius filed away for future reference.

  "Hmm, so what will you do if I don't give it back?" Falcon nudged the pouch with the toe of his boot, the leather worn thin enough to show his big toe through a hole.

  "That will lead to the worst-case scenario in our plan, that's all." Franco's smile didn't reach his eyes, which remained cold and calculating. "I think neither of us can afford to start a war right now, right?" The last rays of the setting sun slanted through gaps between buildings, casting long shadows across the clearing and painting everyone's faces with streaks of gold and black.

  "Sigh, a bird in the hand is better than ten on the tree." Falcon stooped to pick up the pouch, weighing it contemplatively in his palm. The coins clinked together softly, a tempting song. "By the way, why are you the one striking the deal? Why is your boss quiet?" He jerked his chin toward Wolf, who stood slightly behind Franco, arms crossed over his barrel chest.

  "I'm not the one responsible for this operation. Franco is the one who got permission from that monster," The Wicked's boss, Wolf, responded. His voice was surprisingly soft for a man of his size, but it carried the undertone of steel that had kept him alive and in power.

  "Both of you said 'monster.' Is he really that powerful?" Falcon's brow furrowed, creating deep lines in his weathered forehead.

  "I'm not sure about power, but he's literally a monster in human skin." Wolf's voice dropped to nearly a whisper, forcing everyone to lean in slightly to hear. "We couldn't provoke him; his face alone is enough to strike you dead. I'm not insane enough to fight him. Even now I'm afraid to look behind me." A muscle twitched in Wolf's jaw as he spoke, his eyes darting to the shadows as if expecting the monster to materialize at any moment.

  "I can guarantee that," Franco nodded, then added, "He also sent his gladiator subordinate with us." He gestured toward Tertius with a quick jerk of his head.

  "A gladiator?" Falcon took a step back, the leather of his boot scraping against the stone. His eyes widened as they took in Tertius's massive frame, the scars visible on his forearms, the way he carried himself—like a predator temporarily at rest.

  'How insane is this? Most people don't risk buying a gladiator—they can easily kill you and escape. This monster is really not to be trifled with. I'm glad I didn't reject their offer.' Falcon's thoughts were transparent on his face, which had paled beneath its layer of grime and stubble.

  "Give me and my gang a cup of tea worth of time to discuss this," Falcon proposed, trying to regain his composure with a casual wave of his hand. But the tremor in his fingers betrayed his anxiety.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "Sure." Franco nodded, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  The gang retreated to a nearby building—once an inn, now little more than a shell with most of its roof missing. Inside, the remains of tables and chairs had been repurposed into crude seating. The smell of stale beer still clung to the walls, mixing with the newer scents of unwashed bodies and fear-sweat.

  After a cup of tea's time, Falcon approached Franco, handing over the gold pocket. His fingers lingered on the pouch for a moment before he released it, as if parting with a lover.

  "So, tell me about the work and what we'll get if we work under your monster boss." Falcon's voice was gruff, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed his interest.

  "I'll tell you the same thing he told me, so you won't try to negotiate with me. Bla bla bla." Franco's voice droned on, listing benefits and expectations, while Falcon nodded, occasionally glancing at Tertius with a mixture of fear and respect.

  …

  The Deep West Street accepted the unification, though with second thoughts after hearing all the benefits they would be given. However, they still needed to convince the other gangs—or fight them if worse came to worst.

  As they were deep in conversation, the wooden door of the inn creaked open, admitting a shaft of afternoon sunlight that momentarily blinded those inside. A few members of The Wicked Gang came dragging someone along with them. The captive's boots left trails in the dust on the floor, and occasional drops of blood from a split lip spattered the worn floorboards.

  "Hey, Franco! We did as you said, we kept guarding the surrounding and caught a rat sneaking into this area." The largest of the captors shoved their prisoner forward roughly, causing him to stumble and nearly fall. The young man's clothes were worn and torn, however, his face seemed familiar.

  "Huh? Isn't that brat from the Northern Castle Gang?" Franco said, rubbing his chin while approaching slowly, his footsteps deliberate on the creaking floorboards. He circled the captive like a wolf sizing up its prey.

  "Hey, lad, what are you doing here?" Franco's voice was deceptively gentle, but his eyes were cold as winter frost.

  "I… I was just passing by…" The young man's voice cracked with fear, his eyes darting frantically around the room, seeking an escape that wasn't there. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, cutting a clean path through the dirt on his face.

  Smack!

  The sound of palm meeting cheek echoed in the quiet room like a thunderclap. The captive's head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly on his skin.

  "Stop lying, you bastard! Who in the world would confuse sneaking for passing by?" one of the members who captured the young man shouted as he smacked him. Spittle flew from his mouth, landing on the captive's already tear-streaked face.

  "Hmm, did Bear send you here to spy on other regions, or was it your own doing?" Franco questioned while rolling a knife on his finger. The blade caught the dim light, sending dancing reflections across the rough-hewn walls. The soft sound of metal rolling across calloused skin was unnervingly loud in the tense silence.

  The lad's eyes kept bouncing between the knife and Franco before he said,

  "Neither. I was just walking on my own when I saw you, so I followed you here. I thought you were going to start a territory war—that was my sole reason." His voice trembled like a leaf in autumn wind, his adams apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

  Franco kept staring for a few moments, his eyes boring into the young man's soul. The room grew so quiet that the drip of water from a leak in what remained of the ceiling seemed as loud as a drummer's beat. Finally, he nodded and ordered the others to release their grip on him. The captive rubbed his wrists where they'd been held, angry red marks already darkening to bruises.

  "How can you be so sure he was speaking the truth? Also, aren't you afraid he'll escape?" Tertius questioned. His deep voice rumbled in the quiet room, causing several heads to turn in his direction. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he shifted stance.

  "No need to worry, sir. First, he wouldn't dare to lie—not him, not anyone in this whole place." Franco's smile was thin and without mirth. "As you can see, we have no loyalty when it comes to getting hurt. Everyone you see here will do his best to hold onto his life once threatened. That's why we tend to be cautious and don't fall into the hands of others, or we'd spill all the beans." The honesty in Franco's voice made Tertius feel confused—it was perhaps the first truly genuine thing he'd heard from the man.

  Taking the young lad along with them, they moved toward the northern region to meet with Bear, who was known for his bulky build and nut-like brain. The journey took them through streets that grew progressively narrower and more treacherous. The stench of filth was replaced by the sharp tang of tanneries and slaughterhouses, where waste products were processed into leather and glue. Flies buzzed in thick clouds around piles of offal, and rats scurried boldly across their path, too numerous and well-fed to fear humans.

  "It's probably going to be your turn to convince that insane person once we reach his territory, Sir Tertius," Franco said, swatting at a particularly persistent fly that kept landing on his sweaty forehead.

  Tertius nodded without uttering a word. He stared at his palm, then slowly tightened his grip, holding and releasing rapidly as he walked. The veins in his forearm stood out like ropes beneath his skin, and the tendons flexed with each movement—silent testimony to the strength contained within.

  Reaching the Northern Castle gang, they entered an area where the buildings rose slightly higher than in other parts of the slum. What might once have been a small market square had been converted into a crude training ground, where shirtless men sparred with makeshift weapons under the watchful eye of their leader. The packed-earth floor was stained dark in places—old blood that had soaked into the ground over months or years of similar "training."

  All its members' expressions were unwelcoming, faces twisting into scowls as they saw the approaching group. Hands moved to weapons, and the air became charged with the potential for violence. Bear took the lead as he stepped forward, his massive frame blocking the afternoon sun and casting a long shadow across the ground. Each step caused the earth to vibrate slightly, like distant thunder.

  "Who do we have here? What pleasant occasion brings Falcon and Wolf to visit me?" Bear's voice was surprisingly high for a man of his size, but no less threatening for it. His breath stank of meat and poor dental hygiene, and flecks of his last meal were still visible in his unkempt beard.

  "We came to suggest you join us, Bear," Falcon and Wolf declared in near unison, standing shoulder to shoulder despite their usual rivalry. Their solidarity seemed to momentarily confuse Bear, whose brow furrowed deeply.

  "Join you? What do you mean?" Bear asked in confusion, his small eyes squinting as if trying to solve a complex puzzle. The muscles in his neck bulged as he looked from one to the other.

  "Leave the conversation to me, guys," Franco said as he took a few steps forward, gravel crunching beneath his boots. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence that had fallen over the training ground.

  "Hey Bear, we're going to unify this whole region. We're planning to repair the entire Sunken Slums and start collaborating. We'll get good meals, a good amount of coins—we'll live a better life than we ever wished for." Franco spread his arms wide as if encompassing this bright future he described, his voice taking on the cadence of a street preacher.

  Spit!

  Bear's response was unmistakable—a glob of phlegm that landed just short of Franco's boots, glistening obscenely in the dirt.

  "Stop with the bullshit, Franco! I don't care about any of that—it's a fairy tale here. All dreams die in this place." Bear's voice rose to a near shout, causing nearby birds to take flight from their perches on crumbling rooftops. His face flushed red with anger, veins standing out on his thick neck like cords.

  "Sigh, I knew you wouldn't believe me. Look here!" Franco reached into his tunic and produced the pouch with a theatrical flourish. "You see all this gold? And there's a lot more of it. The boss we're working for now will lead us—and this place—into a new era." He shook the pouch gently, allowing the musical clink of coins to work its magic on the listeners.

  Bear's underlings started drooling as soon as they saw the gold, their eyes growing wide and hungry. Some unconsciously took a step forward, drawn by the siren song of wealth. Bear noticed and shouted to snap his men out of their trance, his voice cracking like a whip in the still air. They flinched and stepped back, but their eyes remained fixed on the pouch in Franco's hand.

  "Franco!! I know how crafty you are. You never do something that doesn't benefit you more than anyone else." Bear jabbed a thick, accusatory finger in Franco's direction, the digit as broad as a sausage.

  "I won't deny what you said." Franco's smile was thin but genuine. "However, what's going to happen will benefit all of us, so why not grasp the chance while we can? Do you like this kind of life? Do you like it when others label us as slum rats?" His voice took on a passionate quality, resonating with an emotion that seemed almost foreign in these desperate streets—hope.

  Bear felt threatened by Franco's speech. He sensed his underlings might rebel if he refused their proposal—the gold and the promise of a better life had blinded their judgment. His eyes darted from face to face, seeing the hunger there, the longing for something better. Sweat beaded on his upper lip despite the cooling evening air.

  "Fine, we'll accept your proposal. But I have one condition: you have to win against me in a fight." Bear's voice was gruff, his pride not allowing him to accept without some show of strength.

  "So, it's a unification fight between bosses. Well, that's better than a large-scale battle. Sir Tertius, please," Franco said, stepping back with a slight bow and sweeping gesture toward the gladiator.

  Tertius stepped forward, his movements fluid despite his size. The crowd around them fell silent, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Bear didn't understand why they'd send a random person instead of Falcon or Wolf. He assumed the fight would be easy—even though Tertius and Bear were similarly built, Bear's ignorance was fatal. He failed to notice the way Tertius moved—with the economy and grace of a predator, each step deliberate and controlled.

  Franco hadn't told Bear about Tertius' identity, knowing full well that Bear wouldn't back down even against a gladiator. But that wasn't the only reason he kept quiet. A sly smile played at the corners of his mouth as he watched Tertius prepare.

  Bear dashed forward with surprising speed for a man his size, disturbing the dust on the ground into small clouds around his feet. He aimed a punch at Tertius' neck, the air whistling as his meaty fist cut through it. Tertius stood still until Bear's arm was too close to change course. Then, with speed defying his huge build, he barely shifted his torso aside while squatting—then unleashed a jumping uppercut straight to Bear's chin.

  The sound of impact was sickening—knuckles meeting jaw with enough force to shatter bone. Several of Bear's teeth flew from his mouth in a spray of blood and spittle, glinting briefly in the late afternoon sun before disappearing into the dust.

  Tertius' movements were smooth, contrary to everyone's expectations. In just a second or two, Bear was sent flying through the air, his massive frame briefly silhouetted against the sky before crashing to the ground with a thud that shook the earth. Dust billowed around his fallen form, settling slowly in the still air.

  The Northern Castle's boss was someone who never accepted defeat. He'd usually feign surrender, then attack from behind—but this time, he wouldn't be getting up. It was a one-hit, one-kill fight. Bear lay motionless, blood pooling around his head and seeping into the thirsty earth. His eyes stared sightlessly at the darkening sky, where the first stars were beginning to appear.

  Everyone's jaws nearly dropped. They knew gladiators were strong, but no one expected this display of deadly efficiency. The silence was absolute—even the ever-present rats seemed to have paused in their scavenging to witness the fall of Bear.

  After a moment of silence, during which the only sound was the gentle evening breeze rustling through the rags hung as crude privacy screens between buildings, Franco shouted, "Bear was insane to accept a fight without knowing he was facing a gladiator!"

  The Northern Castle gang felt their limbs go numb upon hearing Tertius was a gladiator. They were terrified—yet a nervous giggle escaped their lips, realizing they hadn't foolishly challenged him themselves. Their relief was visible in the way tension drained from their shoulders, though their eyes remained wary, darting between Tertius and their fallen leader.

  "You were all going to die one day following a boss like that. Deep down, you knew he'd never accept defeat. Today, you're free from his clutches! You're free to join us, to rebuild our region, and strive for a better life!" Franco's voice rose in a passionate appeal, his arms spread wide as if to embrace them all.

  As Franco worked to sway the Northern Castle gang, Tertius kept staring at his hand, then slowly shifted his gaze to Bear's fallen body. A smile crept onto his face—not one of joy or triumph, but something darker, more primal. It was the smile of a predator that had tasted blood and found it to its liking. In the deepening twilight, with shadows lengthening across his face, the expression transformed his features into something almost inhuman.

  The Northern Castle didn't take ten breaths' worth of time to be convinced. The group rested and ate, having spent the entire day walking from one territory to another—though their plans hadn't been needed, as the operation went smoothly. They shared a meal of thin stew and hard bread around fires that dotted the square, casting flickering light across weary faces that now held a spark of hope that had been absent for years.

  "Alright, folks, we're resting here for the day. Spread out in groups across the territory. Stay alert—we can't afford to be spied on by the other gangs. Understood?" Franco declared, riding the high of victory. His voice carried across the square, where men were already staking claims to sleeping spots in the relative shelter of overhanging roofs or inside the sturdier buildings.

  "Yes!" The response was enthusiastic, perhaps the first genuine show of unity many of these men had ever experienced.

  Franco stuck close to Tertius' group, relishing the protection of a gladiator. The night air had grown cool, and he pulled his threadbare cloak tighter around his shoulders as they settled near one of the fires. The flames cast dancing shadows across their faces, transforming them into ever-shifting masks.

  "Do you think they can be trusted? I mean, the other gangs—including DWS." Tertius's voice was low, meant only for Franco's ears. His massive hands were spread toward the fire, the orange light highlighting the network of scars that crisscrossed his knuckles and palms—a map of violence written in flesh.

  "Don't worry, Sir Tertius. I've completely brainwas—ahem—convinced them. Rest easy." Franco caught himself mid-word, his smile never faltering though a flicker of something—perhaps fear—passed briefly across his eyes. He tossed another piece of wood onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks spiraling up into the night sky, where they mingled briefly with the stars before winking out.

  "Good work!" Tertius nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He leaned back against a crumbling wall, his massive frame silhouetted against the fire. In the darkness, with the orange light playing across his scarred features, he looked more monster than man—precisely the image that would serve their purposes well in the days to come.

  "I think I'll be enjoying my time out of the colosseum."