The aftermath of the raid had left the gang in disarray. Bandages wrapped bloodied arms, hushed murmurs spread like wildfire, and the faint scent of fear lingered in the hideout. Valen observed it all from the edge of the main hall, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed. His cold eyes scanned the room, noting how the gang's loyalty toward Trask was beginning to waver.
But not everyone was so easily swayed. Trask himself sat at the head of the table, his fists clenched and his sharp gaze fixed on Valen. The faint smile Valen had worn after the raid had gnawed at Trask's pride, planting a seed of paranoia that now blossomed into open distrust.
The gang leader leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "Valen."
The room fell silent as all eyes turned toward him. Valen pushed off the pillar with calculated ease, striding toward Trask with his usual air of calm confidence.
"Yes, boss?" he replied smoothly, his tone just respectful enough to avoid being seen as insolent.
Trask's eyes narrowed. "You were... impressive last night. Too impressive."
A ripple of unease passed through the room. Some of the gang members shifted uncomfortably, glancing between Trask and Valen.
"I did what was necessary," Valen said, his voice steady. "We would've lost more men if I hadn't stepped in."
"And yet you barely have a scratch on you," Trask countered, his tone laced with suspicion. "How is that, Valen? Luck? Or something else?"
Valen's expression didn't waver. Instead, he stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to force the room into strained silence.
"Perhaps I'm just more capable than you give me credit for," he said. "But if you think I have something to hide, say it plainly."
The tension in the room was palpable. Trask's grip on his chair tightened, but before he could respond, Ilena cut in.
"Enough," she said, her voice sharp. "We're all on edge after last night. Pointing fingers won't fix anything."
Trask glared at her, but Ilena held his gaze without flinching. After a tense moment, he relented, leaning back in his chair with a scowl.
"This isn't over," he muttered, his tone dark.
Valen inclined his head, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He turned and left the room, leaving the gang to stew in the aftermath of the confrontation.
The next day, Trask's suspicions boiled over into action. Valen was summoned to the training grounds—a dusty yard behind the hideout where the gang often sparred. When he arrived, a crowd had already gathered, and Trask stood at the center, his arms crossed.
"Valen," Trask called out, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. "It's time we settled a few things."
Valen approached, his expression calm but alert. He could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken challenge in Trask's words.
"I hear you've been practicing some... unusual techniques," Trask said, his tone mocking. "Let's see if you can back them up."
He gestured to Garek, who stepped forward with a broad grin. The burly enforcer cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the yard like a warning bell.
Valen's gaze flicked to Trask, then back to Garek. He knew this wasn't just a test—it was a trap. If he refused, he'd appear weak. If he won too easily, he'd confirm Trask's suspicions.
But Valen wasn't about to let himself be cornered.
He stepped into the ring, his posture relaxed but ready. "Let's get this over with."
The crowd formed a loose circle around them, the air buzzing with anticipation. Garek lunged first, his massive fists swinging with brutal force. Valen sidestepped with practiced ease, the blow whistling past his shoulder.
Garek followed up with a quick jab, aiming for Valen's ribs. Valen twisted his torso, narrowly avoiding the strike, and retaliated with a sharp kick to Garek's knee. The enforcer grunted, staggering slightly, but recovered quickly.
"You're quick," Garek growled, a smirk tugging at his lips. "But let's see how long you can keep that up."
He feinted to the left before unleashing a powerful right hook. Valen ducked under the swing, his eyes focused and calculating. He stepped in close, driving an elbow into Garek's ribs, the impact eliciting a sharp grunt of pain.
Garek retaliated with a backhanded swing, catching Valen on the shoulder and forcing him to retreat. The crowd roared, their excitement feeding the intensity of the fight.
As Garek advanced, Valen's mind raced. He couldn't afford to reveal his full strength—not yet. Instead, he relied on precision and strategy, using Garek's brute force against him.
Garek charged, throwing a wild haymaker. Valen ducked low, sweeping Garek's legs out from under him. The larger man hit the ground with a heavy thud, but before Valen could capitalize, Garek rolled to his feet, his movements surprisingly nimble for his size.
The two circled each other, their breaths heavy but controlled. Garek's patience began to wear thin, his attacks growing more aggressive and less disciplined. Valen seized the opportunity, slipping past Garek's defenses and landing a series of rapid strikes to his torso.
Garek roared in frustration, swinging wildly. Valen danced out of range, his movements fluid and deliberate. He could feel the dark magic stirring within him, a tempting surge of power that begged to be unleashed.
As Garek lunged again, Valen allowed a fraction of the magic to flow through him. His speed increased, his reflexes sharp as a blade. He sidestepped Garek's charge and delivered a devastating palm strike to his chest, sending the enforcer stumbling backward.
Garek's eyes widened in shock as he crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. The crowd fell silent, their awe and unease palpable.
Valen straightened, his expression calm but cold. He extended a hand toward Garek, who hesitated before taking it.
"Not bad," Trask said, his voice strained as he forced a smile. "But don't get too comfortable, Valen. You're not untouchable."
Valen met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "I wouldn't dream of it."
As he walked away, the whispers followed him, growing louder with each step. The gang was beginning to see him as more than just another recruit and Trask knew it.