I, the slave boy, awaken with the most potent seed!!

The darker streets of Astoria buzzed with a chaotic energy, shouts and curses filling the air.

Merchants hawked their wares from rickety stalls, their voices hoarse from hours of yelling. "Fresh fish! Get your fresh fish here!" one bellowed, the stench of his rotten produce wafting through the crowd.

Nearby, a woman with wild eyes thrust a handful of wilted herbs at passersby, insisting they held magical properties.

Amidst this tumult, a hooded figure weaved through the throng, his steps quick and purposeful. In his grasp was a folded sheet of paper.

His dark cloak billowed behind him as he dodged elbows and shouldered his way past arguing citizens.

"Watch where you're going, you blind bat!" a burly man shouted as the figure brushed past him.

"Blind? I'll show you blind, you overgrown ox!" his companion retorted, shoving the first man hard.

The hooded figure paid them no mind, his focus solely on his destination. As he rounded a corner, his shoulder collided with a stocky fellow carrying a crate of dubious-looking fruit.

"Hey!" the man bellowed, his face flushing an angry red.

He dropped his crate with a thud and lunged forward, grabbing the hood of the mysterious figure. With a sharp tug, he yanked it back, revealing a bald head covered in intricate tattoos. "Where d'you think you're going, eh? Too good to say sorry?"

The tattooed man's eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. His mind raced, taking in the confrontational stance of his accuser. 'Is this fool new to Astoria?' he thought, bewildered by the man's audacity. 'No one with any sense picks fights in these streets, especially with me.'

Aloud, he spat, "I won't say sorry for your clumsiness, you lumbering oaf."

The stocky man's nostrils flared, his eyes bulging with indignation. Without warning, he shoved the tattooed figure hard, sending him stumbling backward. "You'll regret that, you inked freak!"

But the tattooed man was quicker. He regained his balance in an instant and retaliated. He pulled a blade from his sides and shoved it at the man's neck, twisted it forcefully before pulling it out.

The stocky man, struggled from his life as he crashed to the ground with a heavy thud.

All around them, the crowd continued their business as if nothing had happened. No one turned to look, no one offered help. It was as ordinary as breathing in Astoria's rough streets.

The tattooed figure, clutching the crumpled sheet of paper in his fist, spun on his heel and resumed his hurried pace. He left the lifeless, dirt-covered man behind without a backward glance.

Minutes later, he arrived at his destination – a nondescript building with boarded-up windows.

He slipped inside, the din of the streets fading as he entered the empty halls of their hideout. The sudden silence was almost deafening after the chaos outside.

As he ventured deeper into the building, he came upon a tense scene. Xylar the Soulless, was pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

His weathered face was contorted in a scowl, dark eyes flashing with barely contained rage. Around him stood a handful of men, their postures rigid with anxiety as they watched their boss's agitated movements.

The tattooed man approached cautiously, he knelt down and cleared his throat. "Xylar the Soulless," he said, his voice low and respectful.

Xylar didn't even glance in his direction. He continued his relentless pacing, muttering under his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

The tattooed man shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of the tension in the room. He waited, knowing better than to interrupt Xylar's thoughts.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Xylar whirled to face him. His eyes, cold and hard as flint, bore into the tattooed man. "Thunder," he growled, his voice rough with irritation. "Why are you here? What could possibly be so important that you'd dare interrupt me?"

Thunder – for that was indeed the tattooed man's name – fought to keep his expression neutral.

Xylar's moods were legendary, and his punishments for perceived slights were brutal. "I've brought news, boss," he said, willing his voice to remain steady.

Xylar's lip curled in a sneer. "News?" he spat, taking a menacing step towards the knelt figure of Thunder. "What news could you possibly have that would be better than the disaster we're facing? Fifty of our best men, gone. Vanished into the depths of Drakoria without a trace. Mordred and Gustavo, two of our most skilled, dead.

And the bounty? Lost."

With each word, Xylar's voice rose, filling the room with his fury. The other men present shrank back, grateful not to be the focus of their leader's wrath.

Thunder felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "It's about the bounty, boss," he managed, his fingers tightening around the crumpled paper in his hand.

Xylar's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Speak plainly, Thunder, or I'll cut out your tongue and feed it to the rats."

Thunder nodded quickly, holding out the paper with a trembling hand. "The bounty on Matilda's head – the one Mordred and Gustavo were after – it's been increased. To 40,000 Thalens."

The change in Xylar was instantaneous. His eyes widened, the anger in them replaced by a spark of keen interest. "40,000?" he repeated, snatching the paper from Thunder's grasp. His eyes darted over the paper, confirming the information.

"By all the gods," Xylar muttered, a note of wonder creeping into his voice. "Is the one offering this bounty trying to bankrupt themselves? This is enough to change a man's life entirely."

Thunder, emboldened by Xylar's reaction, pressed on. "There's more, boss. There's another bounty. On a new target – someone who's traveling with Matilda. It's... it's 50,000 Thalens."

The room fell deathly silent. Xylar's head snapped up, his gaze locking onto Thunder with an intensity that made the tattooed man want to shrink into the floor.

"50,000?" Xylar whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and raw greed. "On top of the 40,000 for Matilda?"

Thunder nodded, relief washing over him as he saw the gears turning in Xylar's mind.

Xylar turned away, his eyes unfocused as he processed the information. His earlier rage had evaporated, replaced by a calculating gleam. '90,000 Thalens,' he thought, his pulse quickening. 'With that kind of money, I could buy my way into nobility. No more scraping by in the gutters of Astoria. I could have servants, fine clothes, respect...'

His mind raced with possibilities, a vision forming of himself lounging in a grand manor in Drakoria, attendants catering to his every whim. He could almost taste the rich wines, feel the silk sheets against his skin.

Abruptly, Xylar spun to face Thunder, his decision made. "Gather every man we have," he barked, his voice ringing with authority.

"I don't care if they're volunteers, loyal soldiers, or street rats we've pulled from the gutter. I want them all ready to move."

Thunder blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift. "Boss?"

"We're going to Drakoria," Xylar declared, his eyes glinting with determination. "And we're going to claim those bounties for ourselves. No one will stand in our way including the Enforcers. If we have to tear down the entire Enforcers Headquarters brick by brick, so be it."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the gathered men.

Xylar's lips curved into a predatory smile. "I'll lead this hunt myself."

He strode forward, clasping Thunder's shoulder with a grip like iron and lifted him up from his kneeling posture. "You've done well, Thunder. Now go. Organize our forces. I want every able-bodied man ready to march by nightfall."

Thunder nodded eagerly, relief and pride swelling in his chest. "Right away, boss," he said, backing towards the door.

As Thunder disappeared into the hallway, Xylar allowed himself a moment of private celebration. The grin that spread across his face was cold and triumphant, a far cry from his earlier scowl.

'It's almost poetic,' he mused, chuckling darkly to himself. 'Gustavo and Mordred's deaths weren't in vain after all. They've paved the way for my ascension. Their sacrifice will be the first step on my path to greatness.'

He turned to the paper he was holding – rough likenesses of Zafron and Matilda, their faces marked with large Xs.

"Soon," he whispered, his fingers tracing the outlines of their faces. "Soon, you'll make me the man I was always meant to be. And I'll make sure you suffer for every moment you've made me wait."

With that ominous promise hanging in the air, Xylar crumpled the sketches in his fist. The hunt was on, and he had no intention of returning empty-handed.

No matter what.