The bald man moved first.
He didn’t hesitate — just surged forward like a bullet with a machete, face snarling and veins pulsing. The others followed without thinking. A pack of blades and rage.
In an instant, the air thickened around him. The space warped — a crushing pull erupting from the center of Dirga’s chest like an invisible star. The gang charged straight into a gravitational trap.
And that’s when Dirga realized it.
Compared to Sasa, these men weren’t opponents. They were feathers. Paper dolls.
Dirga could feel them in the pull — not as threats, but as weights in orbit. Their momentum collapsed. Their bodies jerked in midair, feet skidding, weapons flailing as they were dragged toward him.
Their eyes went wide.
It was the first time they’d ever seen real power.
One man dropped his weapon out of fear. Another screamed. One lost balance and tumbled. The rest collided into each other — gravity turning their charge into chaos.
Machetes meant for Dirga slashed across allies instead. A blade plunged into a comrade’s throat. Another caught a man’s leg. Screams cut the music outside. Blood sprayed across the concrete.
And at the peak of it—
A full-body leap into the air. As he did, he cut the pull.
In an instant, the gathered men collapsed into each other like a tower of glass.
Weapons clattered. Bones cracked. Flesh tore.
Dirga landed with a soft thud.
He looked at the heap of bodies — broken, twisted. A few were still groaning. Most were still.
His eyes found the bald one.
The man’s body twitched. He wasn’t dead. Not yet.
This was the second time Dirga had killed someone.
But this wasn’t one man.
He stood over them. The neon light of Obsidian Vein flickered behind him, casting shadows like wings at his back. He felt nothing.
No fear. No guilt. Just the hum of power.
He didn’t justify it.
There would be no clean path forward. The road ahead was soaked in blood — and Dirga had chosen to walk it.
Some of the men still breathed. Crawling. Whimpering.
Invisible threads of force curled around their necks. Gentle. Almost kind.
A dozen bodies fell still.
Dirga lowered his hand.
From that single encounter, he understood more about his powers:
His gravity and telekinesis had limits.Within five meters, his power was absolute.At ten meters, it dropped to a fraction.Beyond that... nothing.
Dirga stepped forward, boots echoing through the alley.
The bodies behind him didn’t stir.
The street was too quiet.
Dirga’s boots echoed against wet pavement, his breath steady. No sirens. No bystanders. No screams. Only shadows — thick, lingering, and strangely expectant.
Someone had cleared the stage.
He stepped forward, the neon sign of Obsidian Vein flickering overhead like a warning flare.
When he pushed open the front door, the air hit him like a wave.
Alcohol. Smoke. Blood. And something else — synthetic. Rotting. Chemical.
Inside, the club was lit like a fever dream. Disco lights spun lazily, painting walls in garish reds and blues. Music pulsed — a deep, droning bass that sounded more like a heartbeat than a song.
But there were no dancers.
Until the speaker crackled.
"Ah... Mr. CEO," came a voice.
"Welcome to our little haven. I saw what you did to my boys out front."
A dry laugh. "Impressive. But I know you killed the boss. So you know what to expect."
The line hissed static.
And the club came alive.
From the shadows, they emerged.
Dozens — maybe hundreds — of men. Scarred. Armed. Some high on adrenaline. Others high on worse. Greed gleamed in their eyes.
Bounty hunters. Thugs. Vultures.
And Dirga was the prize.
A man leapt from the second floor with a roar. "Moneyyyy!"
Dirga didn’t even blink.
He sidestepped — just one millimeter — and the man crashed headfirst into the floor.
Dirga brought his heel down.
The man stopped moving.
He didn’t need to ask. Lucian had put a price on his head. And now, every bottom-feeder in the Vein was here to collect.
Dirga walked calmly into the center of the chaos.
Chairs. Bottles. Shattered glass. Silverware. Everything loose ripped upward — suspended for one breathless moment, twinkling in the air like the remnants of a shattered star.
The pull snapped downward, and everything fired toward him like bullets.
Not toward his body — but toward the wave of enemies rushing in.
Glass sliced through skulls. Shards ripped through necks. Bottles embedded in eyes. Screams rose, tangled with blood and metal.
A storm of red rained across the marble floor.
To those who had charged, he offered death. Swift and merciless.
But to the few who stopped — who trembled and dropped their weapons — he offered silence.
He walked past them like a ghost.
Let them live. They were chasing coin, not revenge.
And they weren’t his mission.
Dirga stepped into the elevator, boots slick with blood.
Only one destination left.
He pressed the button.
The doors closed behind him with a hiss.
Silence in the metal box.
His reflection stared back at him — eyes like twin black suns, glowing faintly with the color of collapsed light.
And standing there, just outside, were two figures.