[BETA-READ / Side Project] RoU | B1 | Chapter 1 (Patreon)

(Be advised that this book contains a dark setting, strong romance, and explicit scenes. I do not recommend it for anyone under 18.)

-----[BETA-READ / Side Project]----

Rise of the Unbound / Book 1: The Blade and The Pawn

• Cover / synopsis: https://www.patreon.com/posts/141212971

• Prologue: https://www.patreon.com/posts/141378684

IMPORTANT:

• This is the draft of a fiction I plan to release on either amazon or KU one day. Feel free to rip me apart in the comment section!

• If you like it, you're also welcomed to leave a like or a comment!

• I'll try to post 1 or 2 chapters per week, but can't make any promises. Ascension of the Primalist is my priority!

Chapter 1: The Hounds

Eight years later

The air in the warehouse was filled with the faint scent of spilled cloves mingled with the dry decay of old wood and rat droppings. Perched on a thick beam high above the floor, Seven watched the dust motes dance in the slivers of sunlight cutting through the grimy windows.

He hated this.

Waiting was part of the job, an ache he knew all too well. But protecting was an insult. It was a dog’s work, something for a loyal pet. He was a Hound. A weapon trained to hunt, to take lives. Not to babysit.

Below, a door finally screeched open, spilling the sounds of the alley outside into the cavernous building. A man stumbled in, his breath coming in panicked gasps. 

He was followed by a second figure in a worn leather jacket, the faded emblem of a silver hawk—some minor noble’s sigil—stitched onto the shoulder. The man moved with an unnatural lightness, his boots barely whispering over the floorboards.

“Varko is getting impatient, Jorun,” he said, his voice surprisingly thin and reedy. “He was supposed to get his money a week ago.”

As he spoke, he held his hand out with the palm up. The air around it began to shimmer, vibrating as if under intense heat. Seven watched, unimpressed, as faint currents of wind began to coalesce.

A Skyrider, he thought.

Most of those Weavers of the wind element were nothing more than glorified couriers for the nobles, ferrying messages across the nation. The more promising ones might be trained as scouts or assassins. But this one didn’t carry that edge. He just looked impatient—and weak.

The Skyrider’s brow furrowed. 

Slowly, the air drew together and condensed into a thin, translucent blade about the length of a dagger. It trembled in his grasp, its edges flickering like a dying flame. From the time it took and the pathetic result, he was a Weaver from the gas state. The lowest rung on the ladder of elemental mastery.

Some people at the Iron Claws’ headquarters claimed the name represented the density of astra within a Weaver's core, but Seven couldn’t care less about all this poetry. All that mattered was strength. And this man had none. 

Seven could have crossed the floor and sliced his throat twice before that wind-sliver was stable enough to even cut butter.

Down below, Jorun fumbled with a small pouch at his belt. “I-I don’t have it all,” he stammered as he stared at the shimmering blade. “The full one-fifty… It’s too much. But I’ve got half!”

The Skyrider sneered, the effort of maintaining his spell seemingly making his lip curl. “Varko doesn’t do halves. He needs to make an example of you. Remind people what happens when they’re late.”

He took a step forward, the pitiful blade held out like a real weapon.

Jorun shrank back. “Please… you know who my daughter works for. Killing me… it could be bad for you!”

The Skyrider barked a laugh, the sound echoing in the empty warehouse. “What, because she’s one of the Iron Claws’ whores? You think they give a damn about the father of some bed warmer? They won’t do a thing.”

“But what if they do?” Jorun argued, a desperate hope flashing in his eyes.

“Then what?” the Weaver retorted with a scoff. “They’ll send a Hound my way? One of their trained dogs? I’ll slice him up just like I’m about to slice you.”

“So-some of them are stronger than Weavers!” Jorun exclaimed, his voice cracking. “The number Seven… they say that crazy bastard has killed dozens!”

“Pah! Slum stories,” the Skyrider spat, dismissing the claim with a wave of his free hand. “If that lapdog were here, I’d gut him like the piece of—”

The man never finished.

Seven dropped from the beam in a controlled fall, landing on the balls of his feet in the shadow behind the Skyrider. Before the man could even turn, Seven's arm was already moving. The cold steel of his dagger slid across the Weaver's throat in a single, fluid motion. It was a clean and deep cut.

A hot spray of blood spurted out, splattering across Jorun’s shocked face and soaking the front of the Skyrider’s leather jacket. A wet, gurgling sound escaped the man’s lips as his wind-blade dissolved into nothing. He clawed at his neck, a futile gesture, and his eyes widened with a surprise that was rapidly fading into the dull glaze of death.

He then staggered, trying to turn, to fight, to comprehend. But Seven didn’t give him the chance. He grabbed the man’s head, yanked it to the side, and drove his dagger into the soft space between his ribs, straight into the heart. Stabbing through the back was an option, but the thick layers of muscle made it a chore. 

This was faster. And easier.

The Skyrider’s body went limp, all its tension draining away in an instant. Seven released him, and the man collapsed forward, crashing onto the stone floor with a heavy thud.

Jorun stared at the corpse for long seconds, then at Seven—at his long black hair, then the scar below his right eye. “How… how did you know I would be here?”

“It’s my job to know.”

Seven scanned the man’s worn clothes, the frayed cuffs, the cheap boots. He saw the path Jorun walked to his hovel every night, the gambling den he stopped at, the brand of cheap ale he drank. Every time someone tailed him, he had always used this warehouse to lose them by slipping out through the hidden door at the back. The man was a book of bad habits, open for anyone to read.

The whole affair had been a tedious chore—and it certainly deserved compensation.

“This job wasn’t on the guild’s coin,” Seven said, meeting Jorun’s gaze. “It came as a… professional courtesy. Because of your daughter.”

The man's eyes widened slightly.

“But no one would blame me if I’d arrived a minute late,” Seven continued with a flat voice, “and found you already bleeding out on the floor. Killed by… that man.”

He let the words hang in the dusty air as his hand slowly moved toward his dagger. To make the message even clearer.

“I—I’ll make things right!” Jorun stammered, gulping while glancing at the blade.

Seven nodded toward the dead Skyrider at his feet. “Those coins you were about to give him would certainly help.”

“Of—of course, Mister Nine.” Jorun quickly untied the pouch from his belt and offered it with a trembling hand.

Seven's jaws tightened at the name, but correcting the man would be pointless. Anonymity was armor. Fame was a weakness; the more people who knew his assassination methods, the better they could prepare for his blade. So it would be Nine’s hand that brought down this Skyrider today—not his.

Seven snatched the pouch and jerked his head toward the door. “Go,” he ordered. “Head to the Iron Claws’ headquarters. Wait for me there. I have some things to take care of.”

“Wait,” Jorun muttered, pointing a shaky finger at the body. “What if one of his associates comes for me because you killed him?”

Seven paused, and annoyance pulled up the side of his mouth. “And how would they know he’s dead?” he retorted, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be right behind you. Just walk.”

As Jorun scrambled out the door, Seven knelt beside the corpse. He quickly rifled through the Skyrider’s pockets, and his fingers found a small handful of coins and a cheap silver ring. He scowled at the meager haul before standing and melting back into the shadows of the warehouse.

Seven emerged into the alley a moment later, spotting Jorun’s hunched figure hurrying down the street.

They were in the borderlands, the district right between the Seraklieus’ protected walls and the sprawling decay of the slums. There was no clean division, just a gradual rot. The stone buildings of the inner city gave way to brick tenements scarred with grime. Those then bled into crooked wooden structures that leaned on each other for support, like a row of drunkards.

As they walked, Seven caught snippets of conversation from darkened doorways and alley mouths. The topic was the same everywhere: the upcoming Awakening Day.

Anger coiled in Seven's gut.

For most, the ceremony was a long-awaited event. It came with a chance to become a Weaver of an element and leave the filth of the slum behind. For Seven, it was an execution date.

He glanced down at his forearm, where the crescent-shaped brand lay hidden beneath his sleeve. The mark was known for making one's body reject the star-stones. Something that turned the astra inside into a lethal poison.

Many theories surrounded the Black Merchants—those who captured kids and branded them. Since they were often waiting nearby to collect the bodies of failed awakenings, most suspected their interest lay in the aftermath. Like selling remains to flesh-stitchers, or to buyers with far more unsettling tastes.

Seven's teeth ground together, and he shouldered his way through a knot of people. In four days, he would have to attend the ceremony like every twenty-year-old. 

No one in Seraklieus could escape the Awakening Day. 

Not even prisoners. 

The city was too poor to squander any chance of creating some ‘enhanced’ slaves. The authorities wouldn’t hesitate to bind a man hand and foot just to force a star stone into his grasp if they had to.

And this was why Seven had spent years listening to stories. Many marked ones had tried to cheat the curse by using two stones at once. But each of them had just died faster than the others.

All except one. A young woman. 

And to this day, Seven still clung to that fact. To that hope.

It proved the method could work—if luck and timing aligned. She had likely awakened on the first stone, while the second fed the curse just long enough for her new core to stabilize.

It taught Seven the brutal truth: the quality of the stone would decide if he lived or died.

The city’s standard ones were trash—low-purity ores riddled with imperfections. The one-in-a-thousand chance was fine for normal people. Not for the marked ones. 

A flawless star-stone was undoubtedly the answer. 

The near-certain success it offered would allow him to form a core before the curse killed him.

But flawless stones were nobles' heirlooms, far beyond Seven's reach. He had spent eight years killing and doing contracts, yet he didn't even have a hundredth of the required sum.

Tomorrow, he would have to buy a medium-grade stone with his life's savings—one that offered a five percent chance of success. Five chances in a hundred to survive. 

Ninety-five to die screaming on the rostrum while the Black Merchants waited to bag his corpse.

The odds were not good.

Seven moved closer to Jorun as the man rounded a final corner, and the hulking warehouse that served as the Iron Claws’ headquarters appeared ahead.

Jorun hesitated at the great iron doors as if his courage was failing him. Seven made an impatient gesture with his head, and the man gulped before stepping inside.

The den’s stench rolled over us at once: sweat, cheap ale, and blood. Jorun recoiled as if struck by something, his hand snapping up to cover his mouth. To Seven, though, the reek was nothing new. 

The main hall seethed with life; dozens of mercenaries bearing the Iron Claws emblem, drinking and laughing with painted courtesans by their sides, while slaves strained under crates in the shadows. Weaving between them were the Hollows, shuffling with empty-eyed shells while carrying trays filled with frothing mugs.

Eight years had passed since Kaiser first dragged Seven into this hole, and little had changed. Different faces, same rot. For many, it was a chamber of horror and nightmares. For him, it was simply home.

Jorun stood still for a moment, but then his eyes found what he was looking for. He scurried toward a young woman near the forges, and Seven moved toward Kaiser’s office in the back.

“Bringing him here?” one of the guild’s enforcers said from Seven's side. “You’ve got no heart.”

Seven's lips twitched. “I got tired of playing the nursemaid. Besides, he’s the one who sold her to Kaiser in the first place.”

The man grunted but said no more. 

Seven found all that absurd. The girl had begged Kaiser to protect the very man who had sold ten years of her life to the Iron Claws to pay off his gambling debts. Stealing her freedom because he couldn’t control his own greed.

Deals like that always came with a contract. 

Hers bound her to sell her body in this place, and breaking it carried a standard price: the 'Paralyzing Curse.' Half her body would seize up and turn into useless flesh. Sometimes it was just a limb, sometimes more. Kaiser preferred the latter. Said they made better reminders.

And yet the girl had pleaded for her father’s life. Perhaps it was proof that one could still find pure souls in this pit. Or maybe she just wanted him alive so she could kill him herself.

The moment Seven passed near them, he caught a fragment of their conversation.

“...then Nine fell from the ceiling like death itself,” Jorun said, shaking his head as if still trying to believe what he had seen. “Killed that Skyrider in a second.”

The girl’s eyes flickered toward Seven. “That’s not Nine, father,” she muttered. “That’s Seven.”

Jorun’s eyes went wide. “But… isn't he supposed to be a mad—”

Seven didn’t wait to hear the rest. He slipped through a heavy door at the back, navigating two short hallways before arriving at the office of Kaiser.

The man who had caught him in that alley back then now sat at the head of the guild—a position he’d claimed for himself by burying a knife in his predecessor’s chest. The backing of the Butcher and a few others had certainly made the assassination easier.

Kaiser sat behind a massive oak desk, looking much the same—scarred face, dead eyes, and massive build. The only difference was the finer leather that clad him and his dark hair, now slicked back with an excessive amount of grease.

“Well, now,” Kaiser said, without even looking up from the contract in his hands. “How was your mission?”

“Dull,” Seven retorted. “They sent a Skyrider, but he could barely form a blade. You don’t need me for that. Have someone else watch him.”

Kaiser’s eyes left the piece of parchment to glance at Seven, then a smirk spread across his lips. “Taking decisions for yourself now, are we?”

Seven just stared, letting the silence answer for him before turning to leave.

“It’s always the same with you marked ones.” Kaiser’s voice, now casual and musing, made Seven stop before he reached the door. “You all become reckless and disobedient when the Awakening Day gets close. Before that, you’re perfect Hounds—vicious, hungry, willing to do anything for the coin you think will save you. It’s as if death suddenly frightens you.”

Seven glanced over his shoulder. Why was the man telling him this?

“That’s a shame to lose a good blade,” Kaiser continued, leaning back in his chair while his eyes glinted with amusement. “But you… you’re something else. Your name wins me gang wars without a single weapon being drawn. Things will be damn annoying once you’re gone… which is why it’d be great if you don’t die Saturday.”

“I’ll do my best not to,” Seven answered with sarcasm that barely veiled the anger growing in his chest.

He turned once again toward the door. This was a waste of time.

Kaiser let out a low, gravelly chuckle. “Good, but I still have one last question before you leave.”

The man paused for a moment, as if testing to see if Seven was going to leave anyway. “How many more years are you ready to sell to live?”

Seven froze, his hand hovering inches away from the iron handle. "What do you mean?”

Kaiser leaned forward, his smile widening into a grotesque leer. “I mean, how many years of your life are you willing to sell me… for a flawless stone?”

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Next --> Chapter 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/beta-read-side-2-143217681