That night, the air of the city was enveloped by a sharp metallic scent, a stinging blend of blood seeping into the earth and the smoke of charcoal that reminded one of a fire that never extinguished. Amid the roar of the steam engines echoing and the screech of train wheels from afar, a secret message found its way into Fitran's hands—not through a graceful messenger bird in flight, but via a street child with keen eyes, appearing suddenly from the shadows of the night, approaching swiftly.

  “Boss Fitran!” The boy's voice trembled, his face unable to hide the turmoil raging within. “I… I was sent to tell you! Someone wants you to come to Sapphire District. He said, ‘only the new king has the right to speak of the price of blood.’”

  Fitran received a piece of paper adorned with a strange symbol: a severed dragon's head, blood dripping from its sharp fangs. His hand clenched the paper as if wishing to read more than the mere words inscribed. “This is not an ordinary invitation, is it?” he asked, staring at the boy with eyes as cold as ice. “Are you sure this is from the right people?”

  Silas regarded him with hesitation, his expression reflecting deep unease. “Boss… Is this an invitation from the ‘Syndicate’? The one rumored to have total control over the black market for organs and forbidden magic?” His voice was low, wrapped in uncertainty about the truth of the information he had just revealed.

  Fitran grinned, his sparkling eyes dancing along with the flickering campfire, shadows merging with the light, enhancing his arrogance. “Who else in this city dares to speak of the price of blood?” His face drew close to Silas’s, the glimmer of deceit shining in his eyes. “If the mafia boss has summoned me, it means I have become a threat… or, more precisely, a valuable opportunity.”

  “Be cautious, boss,” Gideon ventured, his voice hoarse and tinged with deep concern. “They are dangerous. Those creatures kill with whispers, not knives. We mustn't let them provoke a war while we are unprepared.” He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, as if it were their only guarantee of safety.

  Fitran rose, grabbing the leather jacket that lay nearby. Nevertheless, his demeanor remained calm and confident. “War has knocked at the door since I removed Pragg and dismantled the Iron Wraiths.” He looked at Silas and Gideon one by one, then turned back to the trembling campfire. “I won’t back down. This is merely the beginning of a new chapter. Guard the stronghold well. If I do not return…” his voice dropped low, “…burn everything. Leave no trace.”

  Sapphire District: Mafia Headquarters

  Fitran stepped cautiously, traversing the narrow corridor illuminated by blue gaslight. Shadows flickered on the walls, as if trapped souls were pleading for liberation. He passed armed guards who regarded him with sharp, wary gazes, while elegantly dressed women cast half-fearful yet awestruck smiles in his direction. At the end of the corridor stood two giant men looming like mountains, opening the door to the dimly lit dining hall shrouded in cigar smoke. The stench of tobacco was suffocating, as if it concealed dark secrets within.

  Upon entering, Fitran felt the tension enveloping the room. In the center, an elderly man clad in black silk sat regally, his pudgy fingers adorned with shining gemstone rings that sparkled in the subdued light. The man regarded Fitran with a cold stare, seemingly attempting to pierce through the layers of his soul. “You do not appear daunted,” he said softly, his tone heavy with the weight of experience, as if he were accustomed to deciding life and death with merely a flicker of his eye.

  Without hesitation, Fitran took his seat in the leather chair facing Salvador. He sat up straight, his eyes never looking down. He observed the long table before him, where a row of glass tubes containing submerged organs lay, each marked with a label—“Heart of Marquis D’Angelo,” “Kidney of Lady Miranne,” “Eye of Viscount Anruel.” A weathered old book rested beside them, its title “Organic Transmutation and Magical Reattachment” appearing as if it held intimidating secrets. “As I gaze upon all of this,” he thought, “I begin to comprehend how cruel this world truly is.”

  Salvador lifted his cup of wine with a faint smile on his face, “You’ve caught the attention, Fitran. The entire city is talking about you. Whispers circulate regarding your exploits, about how you’ve brought down the street lord. But that is just the beginning.” He paused for a moment, fixing Fitran with a piercing stare as if he wished to penetrate his very soul, “This city is broader than blood-soaked streets. There lies a deeper power, one you may touch if you dare to step further, and I am here to offer that to you.”

  Fitran cupped his hands on the table, his voice as cold as ice. “I’m not one for pleasantries, Salvador. If you intend to kill me, do it now. If you wish to discuss business, just say so.” The tension between them felt like a wire stretched tight, ready to spark disaster. He was unafraid, though his instincts flashed warning signals; this man was a genuine threat.

  Salvador chuckled softly, his voice sharp like shards of glass. “You are indeed bold, Fitran. However, that is not why I summoned you here.” He winked, as if offering a glimmer of hope in the depths of darkness. “I am intrigued by… your fearless way of thinking regarding the shadows of the past. Amid this darkness, you can see the light. Realize this: the world is not determined by the nobility but by those who control access to magic. Nobles may orchestrate everything due to the power they possess… But what matters more is who dares to seize it.”

  Salvador chuckled lightly, his voice trembling like the rustling of corroded metal. “Oh, Fitran, how bold you are. But remember, I did not summon you here merely for a war of words. There are far deeper matters that have captured my attention—your unflinching perspective on the past. You see, this world is truly governed not by the nobility, but by those who control access to magic. Do you recall the dread that gripped us when those organizations traded in that power? The nobles reign over this world due to their organs containing the essence of magic—while the common folk are forced to bow, marginalized, never given the chance to rise against it.” He gripped the table, causing the wood to shudder, and continued, “But, imagine for a moment… if someone were to successfully steal that organ and implant it into any body. The streets, the markets, even the factories, could suddenly be filled with ordinary people capable of unleashing fire spells that scorch or freezing streams of water.”

  Fitran narrowed his eyes, his muscles tense as if bracing for an impending assault. “You don't seriously expect people to accept this with open arms, do you? Are you truly suggesting we sell the nobles' organs in the black market?”

  Salvador nodded slowly, his expression flat and devoid of emotion, as if his decision had been made after careful consideration. “That is just the beginning, Fitran. I have prepared a secret route to access magic. Pay attention to this.” He pulled a small device from the pocket of his black coat and pressed a glowing red button. Instantly, with a terrifying creaking sound, a panel in the wall opened, revealing the figure of a young man lying helplessly on an operating table. The man’s chest was open, showcasing a heart pulsating in a vibrant blue hue, like a spotlight shattering the darkness of night. “Once this organ is implanted,” Salvador continued, his voice dwindling like vanishing smoke, “anyone will possess the ability to wield magic. We have conducted experiments on fifty orphaned children. Actually, fifty-one—one failed, but that is a price worth paying to uncover the path to true power.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Fitran stared intently at the body, his eyes widening as if he was witnessing a new world. “Can you imagine what would happen if everyone could master magic? Do you really believe the nobles would stand by and watch that unfold?” His voice boomed, a mix of anger and concern forming a heavy tone, like thunder threatening before the storm arrives.

  Salvador grinned widely, revealing a row of golden teeth that gleamed in the dim light. “That is their problem, not ours. Right now, we are discussing the creation of opportunities amidst this turmoil, Fitran. Just imagine, I can elevate you to more than just a street king. We can make your name a legend, or… perhaps the beginning of an unimaginable revolution. You and your band could become the new rulers amidst all this chaos, as long as you are willing to collaborate.”

  Fitran fell silent for a while, pondering each word Salvador spoke. His thoughts whirled rapidly, battling between the haunting doubts and the new values that had just been revealed. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of hesitation in Salvador, just for a moment, yet enough to remind him of the danger that lingered at the edge. Would this path lead him to the change he desired, or would it bring forth even greater troubles on his journey ahead? Finally, with a trembling voice, he began to speak, “Are you truly certain that all this can come to pass?”

  Salvador smiled widely, his teeth sparkling like gold, reflecting the dim light in the room and evoking thoughts of the wealth one could possess in this cruel world. “That is their concern,” he said in a sharp, challenging tone, his eyes shimmering with fervor. “We’re talking about opportunity, Fitran. I can elevate you far beyond merely occupying the throne of the streets. I can turn it into a legend, or… perhaps become the driving force of the revolution we all crave.”

  “You and your gang could become the new rulers of this place, if you choose to collaborate,” Salvador continued, casting a confident glance at Fitran.

  Fitran fell silent for a moment, pondering each word with utmost caution. He understood that this world, filled with boundless magic, was a haunting dream—or perhaps a nightmare with the potential to destroy everything.

  “What’s your plan, Salvador?” Fitran’s low voice broke the silence, his lips curving into a faint, skeptical smile. “How did you acquire that organ? Did you kill a noble, or did you have to make it part of your wild scheme?”

  Salvador shrugged as if it were of no significance, his cold smile creating a dismissive atmosphere between them. “Accidents, sabotage, or sometimes negotiations, Fitran. Not all nobles are keen to spend their twilight years on a golden bed. Many among them would rather sell their organs before death claims them—either for riches, or… for a chance to live again in another's body, as if we were transacting in a shadowy market filled with secrets.”

  Fitran stared deeply at Salvador, disbelief flickering in his dark eyes. “How much do I need to pay for all this?” he asked, feeling his growing curiosity push against him, like a fire igniting within his soul.

  Salvador leaned in, his eyes piercing through Fitran with a gripping tension. “It’s not about money, Fitran. I crave access to your underground network—those silent shadows who know every crack in this dark city. I need... eyes and ears, and, if necessary, dirty hands for a few special jobs. Perhaps, together we can reach the pinnacle, and you will seize control of everything.”

  Fitran tapped the table with his fingers, the sound of wood resonating through the oppressive and dim silence of the room. “So, you want me to be your dog?” he asked in a challenging tone, although doubt was clearly etched on his face.

  Salvador shook his head, disbelief spilling from his lips in a laugh. “No, Fitran. I want you to be my partner. Nothing comes free in this world. Besides, can you truly say that you have no past that needs to be obliterated? Everyone in this town, in the end, serves someone. We must collaborate if we wish to alter the course of this game.”

  Fitran offered a faint smile, laced with sarcasm. “What happens if I refuse, Salvador? What are you planning?” he asked, throwing down a challenge with a sharp gaze that seemed capable of piercing the soul.

  Salvador raised an eyebrow, his voice growing cold, reminiscent of metal scraping against stone. “You are too dangerous to be left alone, Fitran. This street belongs to anyone... until they kill the wrong boss,” he continued, emphasizing each word with a tension that hung heavy in the air. His stare was piercing, as if to assert that this was no mere threat.

  The room fell silent, as if time had paused for a moment to absorb the gripping declaration. The only sound was the ticking of the clock, filling the void like the roar of waves crashing in a sea of panic.

  Suddenly, with an extraordinary tone, Fitran let out a small laugh. “This world is truly absurd, Salvador. Kings, mafia bosses, nobility, and street children... they all wait their turn to become corpses. I will consider your offer, but remember—if you deceive me, you will become the next severed dragon’s head.” He stepped closer, his face trembling between confusion and threat, his eyes shimmering in the darkness, creating a captivating contrast.

  Salvador laughed, his voice shrill like gunpowder exploding, echoing through the room. “I look forward to your answer, Fitran. Don’t take too long. This world can hardly wait for change,” he said, slapping the old wooden table before him, producing a loud and challenging sound.

  Fitran stood with a sharp expression, his gaze fixed on Salvador as if his eyes were arrows aimed at their target. "I shall depart," he declared firmly, "but do not dare think that I will bow like a puppet in your grasp. One wrong step from you could change everything." He shrugged, signaling that this space felt too cramped for two kings clashing in the same arena.

  Salvador waved casually, a mischievous smile gracing his face, brimming with certainty. "Farewell, king without origins. The world will spin faster after this night," he remarked, his voice laced with challenge, his eyes sparkling like stars reluctant to fade. "Do not vanish for too long, Fitran. We all wait with bated breath."

  Outside the mafia stronghold, droplets of rain began to fall, soaking the ancient stone streets. Fitran strode forward with purpose, occasionally stamping his feet to disperse the lurking shadows. “What will happen here?” he murmured to himself, his mind burdened with heavy, unanswerable questions. Every alley seemed to conjure endless shadows from tales of the past. Whispers of hope laced with intricacy filled the air, echoing like a desperate song. “What if new blood could shatter the bounds of magic? Is this a revolution... or perhaps the end of days?” He paused briefly, glancing around with uncertainty, feeling the fear intertwine with those whispers.

  “This world is too dark for mere passivity,” Fitran whispered, his hand tightly clutching a small bottle filled with glimmering red liquid, a thing he had kept with utmost care. “This change will come at a cost,” he continued, his voice nearly swept away by the thunder rumbling in the distance. The rain began to pour heavily, yet he stood resolute, courage igniting behind the flickering gaslight, like a deathly urge calling him forth.

  That night, Fitran realized: the fate of this city and himself could no longer be separated. He gazed at the darkened sky, feeling a weight on his chest as if burdened by an unbearable load. “This is the time,” he whispered slowly, exhaling a heavy breath filled with emotion from his parched lips. With steady steps, he felt as if he were lifting the world toward the whirlpool of change that could no longer be restrained. Each heartbeat ignited a new spirit; threads of hope penetrated his soul, burning away the fears that had once choked him.