"You boys and your pissing contests…"
Violet Crane, queen of the 'Fiery Whip' gang, lounged on her winged lion, her lavender robe draped in ways that whispered war crimes into men's thoughts. She wasn't a leader—she was a goddess deciding whose skull deserved her heel first.
Below her, Boneblade Liang had Fang Tian pinned like a dog begging for slaughter. The Sanguine Serpent—once a nightmare of coiled scales—lay torn open in the sand, its guts spilling out like a drunk's bad decisions.
Boneblade's jagged sword, oozing poison as thick as envy, hovered over Fang's throat. It didn't kill clean—it killed slow. Painful. Personal.
"Your crew?" Boneblade sneered. "Dog food. Your beast? A bloody rug. You? Worm bait."
Fang Tian spat blood, eyes darting wildly. Left. Right. Nowhere. No allies. No miracles. Just the wheezing sound of his serpent's death rattle.
Above them, nine gangs stood like vultures circling a rotting corpse.
