[BETA-READ / Side Project] RoU | B1 | Chapter 4 (Patreon)

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

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 4: Elements

A gust of wind howled in the alley behind Seven, sending dust and debris billowing into the air. But he didn't look back and just ran. The alley was a blur of refuse and shadows as another blade from the Skyrider hissed closer this time.

Seven veered left, dashing into a passage so narrow his shoulders brushed the grime-slicked walls, then surged an instant later into a wider backstreet. 

Just as he turned and began to run again, a low, guttural sound echoed from the main thoroughfare behind him. It was wet and heavy. And definitely not from a man.

Seven risked a glance over his shoulder. 

A new noble with the mayor's sigil, a white bear, stood at the alley's mouth with a cold expression. Next to him hunched a creature that belonged in a nightmare: a crimson lizard as long as a carriage, with a pale, spectral flame flickering along its scaled spine. 

An astral beast.

The noble pointed a gloved finger at Seven. He couldn't hear the words with the distance between them, but he could still read the man's lips: burn him.

Seven immediately sprang sideways and his body slammed into the boarded-up window of the adjacent tenement. Wood splintered and glass shattered. He rolled inside and landed on the floor in a cloud of dust. 

A family, gathered around a rickety table, stared at him, their attention yanked away from their meager dinner. The mother screamed.

Seven dashed through their small hovel like a gray phantom and burst through their front door, back onto a more crowded street. 

Seizing that opportunity, he turned, though instead of running, he began to walk. Forcing his pace to match the throng, he pulled the hood of his tunic up to cover his hair. Slowly, he weaved through the passersby, his eyes discreetly scanning for pursuit behind. 

Seven spotted a drunkard leaning against a wall ahead, a heavy wool cloak draped over his shoulders.

"I'll borrow that."

In one smooth motion, Seven snatched the cloak and yanked it free. The man spun around, his mouth open to curse, though Seven was already gone, swallowed by the crowd with the sour-smelling garment wrapped around him.

A distant roar echoed in the distance, followed by more screams. The massive lizard was not built for subtlety, and people around here were certainly not used to such a sight. 

Seven kept walking two blocks, then three more, before slipping into another dark alley. Once he was sure no eyes were on him, he broke into a sprint again.

His lungs burned from all the dust. If he didn't take out the Butcher fast enough, this new power, this awakening... it would all be worthless. He'd be forced into eternal service or be dead before the sun set.

As he ran, Seven suddenly felt it again. 

The air in the narrow alley split before him, sliding past his skin as if to let him pass. At the same time, the shadows cast by the high walls seemed to deepen, pulling at him, begging him to step inside and vanish from sight. 

Why both?

Seven's hand fumbled in his pocket to pull out the flawless stone. The thing was still glowing. Not with one light, but two: a pinprick of emerald green and a swirling core of jet black.

Two elements. Seven's eyes widened. 

A Skyrider and a Soulwarden? Was that even possible? Was it because of the two stones? No, that made no sense. 

The first stone had been for that thing in his chest. 

Seven probed inward, searching for an echo of something—a warmth, resistance, or hunger. To see if it had truly died on the stage. But he felt nothing. 

Later, he told himself. 

Seven wove through a cluster of startled beggars, focusing on the new, cold reservoir of astra in his chest. Unsure how to use it, he tried drawing a strand of power out through sheer will… and to his surprise, it worked. 

The air around him shimmered, clinging to his skin like an invisible tunic, yet his pace did not change.

Useless.

With a frustrated wince, he gave it another attempt, this time pushing the energy toward his legs in the hope of making the wind obey. The effect immediately changed. For a brief instant, his stride lengthened and the ground blurred beneath him. 

Seven's focus narrowed to the tension in his lower limbs' muscles, to the way the air coiled around them, until a flash of color filled his vision. Shit.

Snapping his head up, he twisted to the side to dodge a woman clutching a basket. The next instant, the pressure around Seven's legs vanished, and the astra dissipated in wisps. After briefly glaring at the woman, he tried to summon it again, but a wave of sharp nausea rolled through Seven's stomach. 

He instantly stopped. Elemental Decay.

Seven knew the signs. People talked so much about those: how Weavers could end up killing themselves if they were too greedy with the mystical energy. First fatigue and nausea, followed by a breakdown of the body, and then they were consumed by their own power.

Barely a minute of using astra, and he was already hitting his limit.

Shaking his head, Seven pushed the new senses aside and glanced at the dual-glowing stone in his hand. Should I keep it? Study it? No. Too risky.

As he passed an abandoned tannery, he hurled the crystal orb through a shattered window. The thing disappeared into the darkness, then exploded an instant later in a faint wisp of black and green light. The evidence now gone, he focused back on dodging the passersby while running.

A dozen minutes later, Seven finally reached the Iron Claws headquarters. 

The front entrance was a death trap, so he scaled the familiar back wall and slipped through a high window into one of the storage rooms. Kaiser's deal—some of them would know. They would be surprised to see him.

Seven pulled his hood low, hiding his face, and stepped out into the main den. He moved like a ghost and wove through the Hollows, who shuffled with trays, and the slaves hauling crates. 

None reacted. He was just another shadow for them. 

Before any of the real guild members at the tables could notice him, Seven slipped down the long corridor toward the 'training' rooms.

The last batch of future Hounds had arrived a month ago. The Butcher would be there, breaking them. The man always supervised the first months to be sure everything was done right. 

As Seven neared the heavy oak door, a thin whimper slipped through the cracks. He eased it open, just enough to hear.

"...that slum rat can still make tears? Impressive," a low voice growled. The Butcher. A few rough chuckles echoed next. Four laughs. Four of them. Then another voice rose, higher-pitched. Kellen, one of Kaiser's lieutenants. "Already back, Fris? How was the sale? Did the merchandise give you guys any trouble?"

Seven's hands were already at his belt as he bolted in. His arms snapped forward. Five throwing daggers hummed through the air one after another, flying past the whining, youngsters chained along the wall.

Thud. Thud.

Two of the men didn't even have time to curse. One blade took the first in the eye, another buried itself deep in the other's throat. They collapsed, their laughter cut short.

The two remaining guards dove aside, their swords rasping free. From the back of the room, the Butcher turned, his massive frame blocking part of the torchlight. "What in the nine hells are you—"

His eyes landed on Seven. Recognition hit the man. His hand immediately plunged into an inner pocket of his blood-stiffened apron.

Oh, hell no.

Seven ripped one of his long daggers from its sheath and threw it, a desperate, end-over-end hurl. The Butcher jerked back, and the blade sliced his cheek, leaving only a superficial wound in its trail. But it had worked—the man's hand was out of his pocket.

A sword slashed toward Seven. Instinctively, he ducked under the clumsy swing, drew his second dagger, and burst forward, vaulting over a stretching rack of torturing tools. He slammed into the Butcher, who raised a heavy iron shaft used for branding to block the stab.

"You little shit!" he roared, shoving Seven back.

Seven's free hand grabbed the man's sleeve, pulling him off-balance, and he raised his dagger for the kill—

Something cold and sharp struck Seven's back. A sword. 

Wincing in pain, he spun and shoved the blade aside. The two other men were on him. He parried a slash, his dagger screaming against steel, and kicked the other assailant in the gut before slamming his knee against the man's chin, sending him to the ground, his weapon clattering a few feet away.

As the first swung again, Seven ducked, then rose again, his own blade coming up and sinking deep into the thug's armpit. 

The man screamed, then Seven ripped the dagger out and slit his throat almost in the same motion. 

Seven then turned to the other man still on the floor, who was crawling to reach his sword. An instant later, Seven lunged, and his blade plunged toward the thug's throat when suddenly, he froze.

A pain, intense and absolute, tore through his body and stole his breath, as if scorching knives of pure flame were piercing every inch of his flesh. His vision went white. Then, his muscles seized, threatening to tear themselves from his bones.

The predatory contract.

Seven gritted his teeth, arms shaking. A few feet away, the Butcher was back on his feet, holding the shadow-wreathed parchment in one hand, a triumphant smirk on his bloody face. "You lost, boy."

Seven let out a guttural growl and fought the pain, forcing his body to obey. Not. Yet.

He thrust his dagger forward, burying it in the last man's throat. Blood gushed, spraying Seven's face. He then ripped the blade free as the thug's head fell back.

The Butcher's eyes widened, and his smirk vanished. Just as the man raised the new blade in his hand—the one he always used to train people—his gaze snapped past Seven toward the door on the left.

Vision blurry and filled with black spots, Seven forced his head to turn. 

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light of the hallway behind. For a moment, Seven's pain-addled mind registered the familiar black cloak of Hounds. Six? But the build was wrong.

It was Four.

The young man's expression was stripped bare into the same emotionless mask the Butcher had beaten into all them. 

If he's here, Kaiser shouldn't be far behind.

The Butcher's gaze flicked between Seven and the newcomer. "Four, you idiot!" he roared, his free hand fumbling in his apron pocket again. "Help me kill this little shit, or you're next!" He held up a second, identical parchment. But this one wasn't yet swirling with wisps of shadows.

Seven snarled, pushing all the pain into the back of his mind, and lunged—not at Four, but at the Butcher. To take out the source. And end this agony.

But Four was loyal—or scared. His shortsword intercepted Seven's path, the clang of steel echoing off the damp walls as Seven parried the slash. The fight turned into three-way chaos, the whimpering of the chained new recruits drowned out by the screech of blades and Seven's feral roars.

Seven dodged and wove like a phantom, trying as much as he could to slice the throats of the two men, but the agony searing through his body was dragging on his limbs. He was too freaking slow. 

Four's sword opened a gash on his arm. Then the Butcher swung his long skinning knife, and Seven stepped back, though the blade grazed his ribs, causing him to bleed from a third spot.

I've gotta end this.

Seven feinted at the Butcher, then spun, committing to the immediate threat. He rammed his shoulder into Four, taking a punch to the jaw to drive his dagger into the man's side. Four grunted and kneed him. Seven ignored it, ripping the blade free and sinking it into the man's neck. Blood spurted out in an arterial pulse and sprayed him. 

Four then collapsed.

Seven stumbled, leaning on a blood-slicked table, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain from the contract rushed again and again through his body like an endless fire.

"You were the best weapon I ever made," the Butcher said, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. He gestured with his knife to the row of terrified boys and girls chained to the wall, who were all staring. "I was almost sad when Kaiser told me his plan. But hey," he continued with a shrug, "business is business."

Seven's eyes flickered to Four's body. A throwing knife was still sheathed at his belt. Seven let his legs buckle, faking to collapse, his body sprawling over the cooling corpse. His hand, hidden from the Butcher, found the hilt.

"Had enough, boy?" The Butcher sneered, taking a heavy step forward and raising his own knife.

Before he could bring it down, Seven uncoiled from the floor and his arm snapped forward. The throwing knife flew like a silver blur. The Butcher yelped, stumbling back as the blade sank into his shoulder. Not a kill shot. But good enough.

Seven sprang to his feet and pounced, his dagger descending into a final strike. 

But he never made it.

Something slammed into his side with the force of a battering ram, sending him flying like a rag doll. An instant later, he crashed into a wooden table of rusted tools and rolled across the stone floor, stopping only the moment he hit the wall.

His ears rang, muffling the mumbling of the terrified youngsters a few feet away. Seven pushed himself to his knees, but immediately the room spun around him. He had lost too much blood.

In the distance, the doorway was full. First was Kaiser, his bearded face split by a broad smile. Beside him, held by the hair, was Six. Bruises covered her cheeks, her eyes swollen nearly shut, while chains bound her wrists and ankles.

Four more men flanked them, each wearing the sigil of a serpent eating its own tail. One was the blond buyer with the large scar from the plaza. Yet it was the man at his side who seized the entire room.

He looked to be in his early fifties, his brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. His face was unreadable and was thinner than most slum-rat, but his aura… it was suffocating. It pressed down on Seven like a falling mountain, making his newly formed astral core feel like a guttering candle.

There is no way I'll remain a slave for my entire life.

Seven's hand fumbled across the floor until it found one of the Butcher's training daggers. His fingers closed around the handle, and he forced himself upright despite the dizziness. 

Yet before he could pick a target, the blond man from the plaza crossed the room in a blur that Seven's eyes could barely follow. No human should be able to reach such speed.

Seven swung his dagger in a desperate, upward arc, aiming for the throat or the head. However, the blade hit nothing but air. Something—a fist? A knee?—then slammed into his gut. 

The world shrank into a single point of pain, and the lower edge of Seven's sternum cracked. He coughed, a spray of blood painting the stone floor, as he folded.

Something hard and fast then chopped down on the side of his neck, and the world, already dim, went black. The last thing Seven saw before the veil completely fell was Kaiser's smile.

That damn, despising smile.

______

Next --> Chapter 5: https://www.patreon.com/posts/149890738