CHAPTER 217: THE IRON GRIP

Chapter 213: The Iron Grip

The headquarters of the Iron Syndicate was a fortress of black steel and soot, squatting like a toad in the center of Rolune’s Industrial Sector.

It was a building that breathed; steam vented rhythmically from its iron gills, and the low, grinding vibration of heavy machinery hammered in the chest of anyone foolish enough to approach.

Inside, the air tasted of rust and dried blood.

Vorgus Iron-Hand, the Guild Master of the Syndicate, sat behind a desk made of reinforced plating.

He was a massive man, a bear of a human whose physical presence filled the room.

His right arm had been replaced by a heavy magi-tech prosthetic—a brutal piston-driven claw that hummed with an unstable, red mana light.

He wasn’t reading a report.

He was crushing one.

"’The First Year Monarch’s Collection,’" Vorgus read from the crumpled holographic flyer, his voice a grinding growl that vibrated against the metal walls. "

’Unmatched Quality. Unbeatable Prices. Direct from the Spire.’"

CRUNCH.

His mechanical fist closed. The crystal slate shattered, shards of glass tinkling onto the steel desk.

"Who is backing this?"

His lieutenant, a thin, pale man named Krell who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, swallowed hard. He adjusted his spectacles, his hands trembling.

"We... we traced the registration, sir. It’s a shell company. ’Aegis Holdings.’ It popped up out of nowhere a few months ago in the outer districts. They bought the Silver-Spire penthouse in cash this morning."

"Aegis," Vorgus spat the word like a curse. "And this ’Dawn Guild’?"

"They’re the ones distributing the flyers," Krell stammered, tapping a secondary slate.

"They’re claiming an exclusive partnership. Sir, if this auction happens... if they flood the market with untaxed Tower loot... the market prices for C-Rank cores will drop by forty percent. We’re holding a massive inventory bought at high margins. If the value drops, our liquidity vanishes overnight."

Vorgus narrowed his eyes. They burned like coals in a furnace. The Iron Syndicate didn’t survive by playing fair. They didn’t become the kings of Rolune by following market trends. They survived by strangling the competition before it could take its first breath.

"This isn’t business," Vorgus said, standing up.

The servos in his arm whined, a sound like a dying animal. "This is an invasion. They think because they have some student prodigy’s loot, they can break our blockade?"

He walked to the reinforced window, looking out at the smog-choked city he ruled. The neon lights reflected in his eyes, cold and unyielding.

"They think money protects them. They think the Silver-Spire is a fortress."

He turned back, the red light of his mechanical arm casting long, bloody shadows across the room.

"Send the Silencers."

Krell paled, his clipboard clattering against the desk.

"The... The Silencers? Sir, that’s... expensive. And messy. The Silencers are B-Rank hitmen. If the Association finds out we deployed them against a student—"

"The Association doesn’t look at the gutters," Vorgus cut him off, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper.

"I want this ’Chairman’ found. I want the student, Michael Wilson, broken—publicly. And I want that loot in my warehouse before the sun rises."

He leaned over the desk, the heat from his arm radiating into Krell’s face.

"Burn the Silver-Spire if you have to. Just end it."

[Gilded Lotus Inn – Rooftop]

The night air of Rolune was thick and humid, carrying the neon glow of the city lights below like a heavy perfume.

It was a city that never truly slept, only lowered its voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

I stood on the edge of the hotel roof, looking down at the street.

The Gilded Lotus was neutral ground, technically. It was a sanctuary for hunters. But money had a way of eroding neutrality, and I knew the Syndicate had plenty of money.

I wasn’t in my room. I had told my team—Alex, Seraphina, the Twins—to stay inside, lock their doors with the strongest mana wards Gideon could conjure, and ignore any noise.

They were tired. They deserved rest.

And I needed to be alone.

I checked my watch. The glowing digits read [01:42 AM].

"They’re late," I muttered, the wind whipping the collar of my jacket.

According to Victor’s intel—bought from a corrupt Syndicate clerk for the price of a single B-Rank potion—the hit was scheduled for 01:30.

I stretched my arms, feeling the cool metal of the ring on my right hand. It hummed against my skin, a cold, predatory resonance that felt distinct from Draken’s abyssal weight.

[Item: Fenra’s Eye of Solitude (Epic)]

[Status: Active.]

[Condition Met: No allies within 500 meters.]

[Effect: +20% All Stats. +10% Stealth/Assassination Skills.]

I felt... light.

My body, already pushed to the limit of E+ Rank through grueling training and dungeon clears, felt like it was vibrating with excess energy.

The stat boost from the ring was intoxicating. It wasn’t just strength; it was awareness.

My [Quantum Analysis Mind] expanded, fed by the increased Intelligence stat. I could process the wind currents swirling around the spire. I could hear the heartbeat of the city. I could sense the mana signatures of the rats scurrying in the alleyway twenty stories down.

And then, I felt it.

’Mana Signature detected. Multiple targets. Rapid approach. Sector: North-East.’

Five distinct signatures. Suppressed. Tightly controlled. Moving fast.

"Finally," I whispered.

I turned away from the ledge, facing the fire escape access door.

Five shadows detached themselves from the darkness of the adjacent rooftop. They didn’t make a sound.

They wore sleek, sound-dampening suits made of shadow-weave and masks that scrambled identification magic. They moved with the professional, fluid silence of high-tier assassins.

The Silencers. B-Rank hitmen. The Syndicate’s cleaning crew.

They weren’t here to talk. They weren’t here to negotiate.

They were here to erase me.

One of them, the leader, raised a hand. A silent signal. Three broke off to flank left and right. Two remained center, raising long, suppressed mana-rifles.

’Projectiles incoming. Velocity: High. Mana Type: Wind/Piercing. Aim: Head and Heart.’

My mind processed the trajectory before they even pulled the triggers.

I didn’t dodge. I didn’t block.

I stepped.

[Space Affinity] + [Swift Step] + [Fenra’s Eye Boost].

The world blurred. Space folded like paper.

PFFT-PFFT.

The mana bullets shattered the concrete where I had been standing a microsecond before, leaving smoking craters.

I appeared in the air behind the two riflemen.

"Too loud," I whispered.

I drew Draken. The divine blade didn’t hum; it hissed, drinking the shadows of the roof.

[Siekie Ryoku Arts: Form One – Swift Step (Modified).]

My blade flashed. Not a heavy swing, but a razor-thin line of darkness.

The rifles were sliced cleanly in half. The assassins froze, realization dawning too late.

I didn’t kill them. Not yet. I kicked the first one in the spine, sending him crashing into the heavy HVAC unit with a bone-shattering CRACK. I grabbed the second by the throat, channeling a burst of [Ice] mana into his neck, freezing his vocal cords, and slammed him into the gravel roof.

"Three more," I counted aloud.

The flanking team reacted instantly. They were pros. They didn’t panic.

They abandoned stealth, drawing serrated daggers that dripped with green poison. Their mana flared—Wind and Shadow affinities. Fast. Deadly.

They rushed me from three angles, a perfect kill-box formation.

But to me, under the effects of the Eye and my heightened perception, they looked like they were moving underwater.

"Let’s test the range," I said.

I activated [Aura Dominion].

FWOOM.

The silver-blue field exploded outwards from my body. But this time, fueled by the +20% stats and the [Mindbreaker] title, the pressure wasn’t just a heavy weight. It was crushing.

The gravity on the rooftop seemed to double. The air turned into lead.

The three charging assassins stumbled mid-stride. Their knees buckled. Their intent shattered against the wall of my will.

"Kneel," I commanded.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an edict.

They fell. Two of them slammed face-first into the gravel, gasping as the psychic pressure squeezed their lungs. The leader, stronger than the others, dropped to one knee, groaning as he tried to push against the invisible weight.

I walked over to him. I didn’t run. I didn’t rush. I just walked, my boots crunching on the gravel, Draken trailing sparks of black lightning against the ground.

"Who sent you?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

The assassin leader grit his teeth behind his mask, veins bulging on his neck as he fought my aura. "Die... brat."

He lunged, a hidden blade popping from his boot, aimed at my femoral artery.

I sighed. "Wrong answer."

I sidestepped casually and brought the heavy pommel of Draken down on his collarbone.

CRACK.

He screamed, the sound raw and ugly in the night air. He collapsed, clutching his shattered shoulder.

"Iron Syndicate," I said for him, crouching down so my face was level with his mask. "Vorgus Iron-Hand."

I reached out and ripped the mask off his face. He was just a man. Pale, sweating, terrified

.

"Go back," I said, my voice cold, devoid of mercy. "Take your trash with you." I gestured to the groaning men scattered across the roof.

"Tell Vorgus that if he sends garbage to my doorstep again, I won’t send them back. I’ll send him."

I deactivated the Aura. The pressure vanished instantly.

"Get out."

The assassins didn’t hesitate. They didn’t try for a second round. They grabbed their wounded, their broken rifles, and scrambled over the edge of the roof, disappearing into the night like cockroaches fleeing a sudden light.

I stood there for a moment, listening to their retreating footsteps.

I sheathed Draken. Click.

The ring on my finger pulsed, its cool energy fading slightly as the combat state ended.

"20% boost," I mused, looking at my hand. "It’s broken. Completely broken."

If I had this during the tournament, Eric wouldn’t have lasted ten seconds.

I looked out at the city lights, the sprawling neon jungle of Rolune. The Iron Syndicate had made their move. They had escalated to violence immediately. They were scared.

They had tried to cut the head off the snake.

Now, it was my turn. And I wasn’t going to use swords. I was going to use something far more destructive.

I pulled out my phone. The screen glowed bright in the darkness.

[Me: They took the bait. The Syndicate is desperate. Assassination attempt failed.]

A reply came instantly.

[Victor: Did they... attempt a negotiation?]

[Me: Aggressive negotiation. They failed. Start the auction.]

[Victor: With pleasure, Boss. Sunrise is in four hours. We’re going to bleed them dry.]

I put the phone away and looked at the horizon, where the faint light of dawn was threatening to break the night.

The Syndicate wanted a war in the shadows? Fine. I would give them a war in the light. I would drown them in gold and bury them in supply.

I turned and walked back toward the stairs.

"Sleep tight, Vorgus," I whispered. "You’re going to have a very bad day."

(To be continued)