Valter sat at the head of the long oaken table, the stained swirls and whorls caught the light in a way he found pleasing. The table dominated the center of the richly appointed room that the Vish leadership typically met in. Well, minus Valter himself normally. Valter himself was only present on rare occasions. As the leader of the Vish, he rarely did much directly, instead he gave orders, expected those orders to be followed, and expressed his displeasure when they were not. Something every member of the Vish did their utmost to avoid having directed at them. He typically had little else to do with the day to day running of the Vish as a criminal enterprise. That was what he had lieutenants for.

  That would change after today; he would likely have to take them in hand directly as his plans marched forward. Remind them that they were all in his grip, dancing on his open palm. He would have to make the reminder a poignant one. The individuals who ran things for him were prideful creatures, convinced of their own power. They would need an example to understand that he could crush them ruthlessly with little more effort or concern than he devoted to taking his morning shit. Truthfully, he would prefer to keep them functional, corpses, while useful at times, were not terribly efficient at following orders. Good tools were difficult to find, as was good help, and his people were decent enough to be annoying to replace.

  The stained oak doors that led into the hallway beyond the room opened to reveal several of his subordinates chatting amiably on their way in. They stopped dead in their tracks the moment they caught sight of Valter sitting at the head of the table, waiting for them. The others collided with the unmoving backs of their compatriots, having not expected them to suddenly stop. Valter suppressed a sigh, jaw resting on his fist as he waited for them to sort themselves out. It rankled him. For Rankers, even weak ones, such a display was pathetic. Muttered apologies poured out of the duo in the lead, urgency laced every movement now as they rapidly piled into the room, taking their seats along the length of the table.

  One of the new arrivals, a thin man with skin stretched over his face so tight it distorted the bones beneath, looked as if he wanted to make himself invisible. He hesitated, then bowed his head. “Sir… we weren’t expecting—”

  "You weren't expecting to waste my time, either, Emile. Sit." Valter's voice didn't rise; it was the quiet of a hangman's breath before the drop as something that wasn't quite an aura, and yet shared many of its characteristics whispered out of Valter. The wisp of power lanced through Emile's aura like a lancet through a boil. Emile practically fell into his chair, shaking like a frightened animal. The others followed suit, their early bravado bled out as efficiently as air from a punctured lung.

  Essa, the regional boss for the main American corridor, arrived last. She was tall, well put together and pleasing to the eye, and wore a nearly transparently practiced expression of hate behind her practiced smile. She sat directly across from Valter, hands folded in front of her, posture languid. He was certain it was a calculated facade—best to confront him head-on and prove her usefulness, rather than cater to anyone else. Essa was a practical and intelligent woman; she understood quite well that she was safer in Valter's pocket than anywhere else. He was fine with the arrangement, and it did not go unnoticed by the others that such meetings were frequently held here, in Essa's European Villa. It marked her firmly as one of his during the power plays and maneuvering that marked criminal organizations like the Vish. It put her well beyond the reach of any casual scheming.

  Valter let the tension spool out for a while. A predator never announced itself to the prey, not until the snap of jaws and the rending of flesh was inevitable. He waited until even the brashest underboss at the table—Barlow, the one with the too-sharp teeth and twitchy fingers—started gnawing on the inside of his own cheek, just to have somewhere to put the nerves.

  "Perhaps you believe I called this meeting to chide you about your recent failures." He let the implication hang there, savouring the shift in the air as every neck at the table tightened. "I am not so petty."

  A ripple of uncertain relief. They leaned forward, thinking perhaps there was profit or favour to be had. Wolves sniffing for scraps, never realizing the butcher's block was behind the door.

  "I called you here," he said, "because all your plotting and barking would amuse me, were it not so fucking incompetent." He said "incompetent" with such cutting contempt that every individual flinched back as if they had been struck. "I tolerate your scheming and jostling for position only so long as it amuses me. Do I look amused?" His inhuman, amber-hued gaze panned over the assembled criminals.

  "No, yo—" Ketter attempted to speak, at which point Valter struck. Not that anyone at the table saw him move. One moment, Ketter had opened his mouth to speak, the crack of shattering wood and smell of blood heralded the screaming. A massive shard of something black and jagged rammed through Ketter's shoulder and out the back of the solid oak chair he was seated in, cracking the back panel in half.

  No one moved, no one spoke. Every face present had gone pale as the blood drained away and the nerves took hold.

  Valter looked bored.

  "Do be quiet, Ketter, or I will have you be quiet myself," Valter said flatly after a moment of listening to the man scream. The man in question snapped his jaw shut, clutching at the spike in his shoulder with his free hand, attempting to remove it. Not that it would do him any good with his paltry stats. He was barely more than human. Barely.

  "When your schemes hurt our collective interests, my personal goals, I become involved." Valter continued on, his gaze settling on Barlow for a moment before moving on to one of the newer arrivals to his council. A man by the name of Andrew Thorp, a man in his later years, his grey hair was thinning on top of his wide head, while his corpulent form strained the suit he wore. A pathetic example of the species, if there ever was one, given that he was human and nothing more than that. In his rush to move up in the ranks of the Vish, he had made several mistakes and miscalculations while he made his way to a seat in this very room. It was going to cost him dearly.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "I have allowed your games and ploys for all these years so long as they have not damaged my bottom line, but you have damaged my interests, haven't you, Andrew?"

  Andrew Thorp’s hand, fat and splotched with burst capillaries, trembled as he searched for a retort or a denial. His jaw worked at the air. Behind that skull, Valter watched the gears of survival desperation grind against the certainty that he was dog food if he said the wrong word. Even the attempt at a poker face failed; beads of sweat started dripping off his jowls, pooling on his vest. His eyes bulged, lips trembling, as though every word he’d ever spoken was fighting to claw itself back inside. He started to say, “I—" but then seemed to realize he hadn’t earned the right. The silence after was thick enough to cut into chunks and serve with a fork.

  Valter let the suspense carry, smiling lazily, not moving from his relaxed position at the head of the table. "The captain who failed to recover the accumulator, one of yours, planted under another to cause problems." Valter narrated, holding up a single finger with his free hand.

  "Your distinct lack of ability to salvage that failure by recovering the accumulator after the fact, you didn't even make an attempt, Andrew." Valter held up a second finger. Valter's not-aura pressed down on the fat man like the weight of shackles as he was marched towards the guillotine stand.

  "Finally, the source of our recent issues, Sturm, was one of yours, wasn't he? Working in Essa's backyard, in some sort of misguided attempt to destabilize her by carrying out research and pushing experimental drugs. I'm afraid that's three strikes, Andrew." Valter said in a tone so chillingly calm it may well have frosted the windows.

  Valter's amber eyes flashed with violence as he finally abandoned the relaxed posture he had been holding to lean forward over the table. His presence seemed to loom over the entire room like a demon god looking down on the mortals below.

  “This is when you run, Andrew.”

  Andrew Thorp almost toppled backward, his chair catching against the edge of the rug and pinning him between the table and his fate. For a split second, he looked like a frog on a biology tray, spread wide and waiting for the next cut. Then, with a speed born of abject terror, he vaulted sideways, rolling off the chair and crashing to the floor. His meaty hand scrambled for the handle of the sidearm tucked under his vest, coming away slick with panicked sweat. The others at the table made no move to help him; more than that, they recoiled, as if the mere act of resistance might send a new spike arcing into their own flesh.

  Valter watched the scene with an indolent fascination, like a cat amused by a beetle struggling on its back. Andrew managed to get to his knees, the gun shaking in his grip, trying to decide whether to shoot himself in the head and deny Valter the pleasure or try his luck. The decision was torn from his hand by the black spike that emerged from the floor at the speed of thought to tear through his hand, and send the pistol clattering to the ground. More spikes erupted from the one that impaled Andrew's hand, like dark fingers, the reaching branches of a dead tree that grew twisted. Spikes found their way into his knees, ankles and feet, forcing the fat man to his knees even as he howled in agony.

  Valter rose from his seat slowly, letting out a disappointed tsk.

  "Pathetic," He sighed while casual steps carried him over to where Andrew clutched his hand, impaled by the black spike, desperately trying to free himself. Like a dog with its leg caught in a bear-trap. Valter snagged the pistol from where it had fallen with an easy bend before he crouched down in front of Andrew to look the man in the eye. "A sad end, for a sad man seems to be what you get, Andrew. Let me make it worse for you." Valter's hand shot out to grasp Andrew by the jaw.

  "Watch closely now," Valter's other hand came up with the pistol still held loosely, the barrel came around to rest against Valter's own temple, even as he grinned at the man cowering before him.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The crack of the discharged round was loud in the room that was silent, but for the muffled moaning of the wounded man. Valter's gaze never left Andrew's wide, terrified eyes.

  "Incompetent to the end, Andrew, you should know to bring something bigger to hunt monsters and nightmares." Valter grinned, pure malevolence. He discarded the gun as his hand began to change, blackening wicked claws forming at his fingertips. "Let's see if I can find that spine of yours. I'm certain it's in there somewhere."

  ——-

  Valter sat back down at the head of the table, no one had moved. He was certain that some of the underbosses hadn't even drawn a breath since he rose from his seat. He noted with no small degree of amusement that many of them weren't sure where to look; Valter's blood drenched countenance, or the steaming pile of meat on the floor that had once been Andrew Thorp before Valter had taken his time reducing the man to so much scrap meat. Piece by piece. Savouring the screams.

  "Hmm, much better," he leaned back, casting his gaze over his minions, who all seemed to be suitably chastised. Even Essa, who was normally more resilient than the others, was looking quite cowed. "I don't think we will have to have another such discussion for a while, will we?" All around the table, there was nothing but enthusiastic nods of assent.

  "Excellent, moving on, you will all be pleased to know that we have completed our main goals and reached an acceptable threshold," Valter announced, grinning widely. "We'll soon be moving on to the next phase of our plans, and you should all prepare accordingly for the increased mana levels and increased attention." He looked around conspiratorially, "After all, once we start moving, it will be a rush for who can grab the most power in the aftermath."

  ——-

  I stood with my arms crossed, staring critically at the wall of the underground training room. It wasn't quite right; the lines weren't clean enough. My control of the new Skill wasn't yet tight enough to achieve the speed I wanted. I let out a sigh, turning to glance at the open tome resting on a nearby table. I hadn't had much time to work on the book of rituals Argyle had gifted me, and it had been somewhat impractical when I had first looked into it. There were certainly many rituals contained within that could be incredibly useful given the right circumstances; many of them required specific components and a ritual formation to be drawn out. The materials were expensive but a non-issue given my current wealth. This issue had been the formations. Chalk circles and salt lines simply weren't practical in most scenarios, too messy, too much risk, too much chance of screwing it up. Not to mention the environmental factors like wind, rain or the effects of an ongoing battle.

  After a significant amount of experimentation with the new Skill I had gained during the Resonance event, Vipera and I had discovered that due to the mana infusion, it made my webs an excellent material for creating ritual formations. Which led directly to my current bout of wall staring frustration, and a discovery that was equal parts interesting and disconcerting. The new Skill wasn't the only thing that had come from the Resonance event. In between each knuckle on both of my hands, there was now a small hole. The first physical change brought about by my bloodline.

  I let out a sigh, "At least it's a practical one, I don't need an item to use my webs as a human anymore." Without thinking about it, I pointed my fist at the wall. Webs sprayed out towards the wall. I seized control of them with [Mana Web Construct]. I strained against the Skill, trying to control every strand as it flew through the air. It was like trying to grab a greased egg, too much and the mana would destroy the strands, not enough, and I had no control. I tsked turning away from the wall without looking, it hadn’t felt right. Just like every one of the countless times I had attempted this. There was no way it was right.

  "I need a break," I muttered, flipping the tome closed before tossing it into my inventory absentmindedly. As I turned to leave, I glanced at the wall out of the corner of my eye.

  “Son of-”

  Follow so you don’t miss future chapters. It’s the easiest way to support the story and makes a real difference on RoyalRoad.