From his seat, Leroy watched as two figures descended the marble stairway a man and a woman their quiet conversation echoing faintly in the vaulted chamber.
He set down his fork, finishing the last bite of his meal, and wiped his mouth.
By the time they reached the final step, he’d already gestured for the attendants to clear the room. The guards withdrew soundlessly, one by one, until only the three of them remained beneath the amber chandelier.
The long table was already laden with wine and food — untouched, waiting.
The man was Cheng, The Pale Dragon.
He wore the same dark martial uniform Leroy remembered from their last meeting, though now both his forearms were adorned with massive bronze bracelets — his relics.
“Apologies,” Cheng said, his deep voice breaking the silence as he sat down to Leroy’s left. “Two of my men started a fight upstairs. Had to settle that first before they tore each other’s heads off.”
The woman followed, shutting the heavy door behind her with a click.
She was Lisa, The Wild Snipe.
A long crimson coat flared as she moved, white trousers tucked neatly into black knee-high boots. A silver-chrome rifle — her relic — was slung across her shoulder, glinting faintly under the chandelier’s light.
Her blonde hair was braided loosely, brushing the edge of a black eyepatch. A black fedora with a red plume sat tilted on her head — equal parts elegance and warning.
“Sorry, Leroy,” she said, her tone brisk but warm. “A shipment of weapons came in without notice. Had to make sure no fools tried to tamper with it.”
She took the seat to his right, setting her rifle against the table.
Leroy exhaled through his nose, smirking faintly.
“You two never change. Always with excuses.”
Cheng chuckled, and Lisa laughed under her breath.
“We’d apologize properly,” Cheng said.
Leroy shook his head with mock disbelief, glancing at the array of empty chairs across from him.
“Where are the rest of them, then? Or am I hosting a meeting for three tonight?”
Lisa adjusted her hat.
“They’ll come separately, as always. Can’t have our underlings seeing us all getting along.”
“True,” Cheng agreed, pouring wine into three crystal glasses.
The three of them raised their glasses and drank — not as superiors and subordinates, but as comrades-in-arms who’d seen too much to ever need formality.
Among all the syndicate leaders, Lisa and Cheng were the only ones Leroy truly trusted — the only two he would ever call friends.
After a moment, Leroy swirled the last of his wine and spoke casually.
“I saw quite a number of superhumans upstairs. You two ever think of recruiting any of them?”
Cheng let out a short laugh that turned halfway into a burp, quickly stifled.
“Not everyone’s fit for a banner,” he said. “Some prefer to chase glory on their own terms.”
Lisa leaned back in her chair, resting her elbow on the armrest.
“Most of them don’t last long anyway. Lone wolves die alone — we all know that. But they never listen.”
Leroy smiled faintly, but his eyes said something else — the quiet understanding of a man who knew exactly what it meant to walk alone too long.
“Yeah,” Lisa muttered, refilling her empty glass. “These days, a single relic is enough to make them think they’re gods. One taste of power and suddenly they’re too good for their own crews.”
Leroy raised an eyebrow, swirling the wine in his cup before taking a slow sip.
“Does that ever cause trouble for either of you? I’m asking as a friend, not as a councilman.”
Both Cheng and Lisa chuckled, the sound low and weary.
“Not really,” Cheng replied, resting his elbows on the table. “If anything, this is our golden age. The Nine Syndicate Leaders have never been this strong.”
Lisa nodded, setting her glass down beside her fedora, which she’d removed and placed neatly on the table.
“Even if there are more relic wielders now,” she said, “competition keeps the balance.”
“Honestly, I’ve never seen the point in fighting our own faction,” Cheng added, leaning back lazily in his chair. “Look at the Sorcerer Faction—they’ve lasted centuries because they stand united.”
Leroy smirked.
“They also have a Sorcerer Supreme holding the leash,” he said, his tone somewhere between humor and cynicism. “Do we have anything close to a Weapon Master Supreme?”
That earned another round of laughter, their voices echoing off the marble walls.
The laughter hadn’t even faded when the muffled sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor. Someone was running.
A moment later, the door burst open.
A man stood there, panting heavily, one hand gripping the doorframe, the other pointing straight at Cheng.
“Cheng— you bastard!” he shouted between breaths. “Your men just beat five of mine in District Six!”
He was an impossible sight:
Balthazar, The Blasphemer.
His hair rose in a high, jagged crest—white at the roots, fading into violent purple at the tips.
His face was dusted white with heavy black mascara, and his lips painted blood-red in a grin that didn’t belong to a sane man.
His clothes were a fever dream of color — a patterned shirt, diamond-checkered pants — and across his waist and chest, a dozen knives of varying length gleamed under the chandelier light.
The smuggler king of the syndicates. Unpredictable, unkillable, and utterly mad.
“Who told your men to be weak?” Cheng replied calmly, sipping his wine without so much as glancing up. “Peace doesn’t mean I let my underlings grow soft. Remember that.”
Balthazar grinned wider, his teeth clenched together in a grin too stiff to be human. His eyes gleamed with delight, the kind only found in lunatics who live for chaos.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
In one fluid movement, he vaulted over the nearest chair and landed beside Cheng, his arm slinging around The Pale Dragon’s shoulders like an old drinking buddy—
—while the other hand slipped a thin, polished knife from his hip and pressed it gently against Cheng’s throat.
“You talk too much, friend,” he whispered with that unnerving smile. “Let me see if you still sound that calm when I open your neck.”
The room tensed in an instant.
Lisa’s hand had already brushed the stock of her rifle. Leroy didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened, reading every motion like a tactician counting seconds before a storm.
The laughter was gone now.
Only the soft, dangerous hum of a blade against skin remained.
“Don’t look so pale,” Balthazar sneered, his grin curling into something wolfish. “You remember what happens to liars, don’t you?”
The glint of his blade caught the chandelier’s light—
until a calm, iron voice broke the tension.
“That’s enough, Balthazar.”
Leroy didn’t raise his tone, but the weight in it froze the air.
The Blasphemer’s grin twitched, then faded. Without another word, he slid the knife back into its sheath.
Instead, he reached for the open wine bottle, uncorked it with his teeth, and took a long, reckless swig.
“Apologies, First Brother,” he said between gulps, his voice slurred by laughter. “Got a little carried away.”
Wine spilled down his chin, washing streaks through the white makeup on his cheeks until the real skin beneath peeked through—half man, half painted madness.
“Don’t think about it,” Leroy replied evenly.
He didn’t need to say more; his restraint alone reasserted order.
But the moment’s calm didn’t last.
The heavy door slammed open again—so hard the hinges screamed.
Balthazar nearly choked on his drink, wiping his mouth as he turned.
A towering figure filled the doorway.
A lion-headed man, broad as two humans, his golden mane braided with metal rings, his eyes burning like molten amber.
Burgess, the Jungle King.
The same person who’d crushed Sigurd in the Colosseum.
He stood there, chest rising with a low growl that rumbled in his throat.
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
His gaze locked on Leroy — predator to predator — but The Green Wraith met it head-on, unblinking, his expression as still as stone.
Then, suddenly—
Burgess laughed. A deep, rumbling laugh that shook the tableware.
The tension broke, and even Balthazar snorted wine through his nose.
The Lion King strode in and took the seat beside Lisa.
“Sorry, everyone,” Burgess said with a grin that showed teeth sharp as daggers. “I was waiting for the Blasphemer to arrive first. Didn’t want to interrupt his little show.”
“The hero of the Colosseum looks well,” Lisa said with a smirk.
“Flattery from Wild Snipe herself? I’ll take that as a victory,” Burgess replied, his eyes narrowing with good humor.
White bandages still peeked from beneath the armor across his chest and shoulders—souvenirs from the arena.
Leroy extended a fist, and Burgess met it with a soft thud of respect.
“Your fight was magnificent,” Leroy said. “Professor Bjorn’s still brooding that his wonderkid lost.”
Burgess shook his head modestly.
“Sigurd nearly had me. If he hadn’t been so sure of himself, I’d be the one bleeding on the floor.”
Lisa chuckled, pouring a larger wooden mug of wine and handing it to the lion warrior.
“Leroy,” she said after a moment, “we’re only waiting for Zaragoza now. The others sent word — they’re tied up with tasks.”
Leroy nodded, expression unreadable. He wasn’t angry.
In their world, business always came before loyalty — it was an unspoken law among the syndicates.
Still, he asked quietly,
“And the rest? Where are they?”
Cheng took a breath, scratching his chin as if sorting through memories.
“Aira and Nolan are east,” he said. “Border contracts, I think. As for Axel…”
He paused, brow furrowed.
“No idea. He’s gone quiet. Which, coming from him, is either very good news… or very bad.”
Burgess burst out laughing, a deep roar that nearly sent a mouthful of wine spraying across the table.
He clamped his jaws shut just in time, the liquid sloshing between his fangs as he choked down the laugh.
“And as for your old flame, Mia” he managed between chuckles, “you’ll have to charm her yourself if you ever want her to show up.”
The table erupted in laughter.
Cheng slammed a palm against the armrest, Lisa nearly spilled her wine, and even Balthazar wheezed from the absurdity of it.
Leroy, meanwhile, simply froze.
He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, face unreadable, a faint smirk tugging at his lips — the kind of smirk a man wears when he’s outnumbered and too dignified to fight back.
Balthazar stood, spreading his arms theatrically like a drunken poet.
“My dearest!” he cried, voice echoing in mock tragedy. “Why did you abandon me? Is there truly no forgiveness left for a sinner like me?”
His falsetto dramatics made the room explode in laughter again. Burgess thumped the table with his massive fist, sending glasses rattling.
Leroy sighed, unable to hide a smile.
“At least I’m glad she’s alive and well,” he said quietly.
That cooled the laughter just enough for Cheng to lean forward, curiosity softening his tone.
“But seriously, Leroy… have you really let her go?”
Leroy’s expression dimmed, gaze lowering toward his untouched glass.
“There’s been too much to deal with these past few years,” he said. “No time left for anything else.”
Before anyone could reply, the door creaked open again and the final guest stepped through.
A tall man, broad-shouldered, draped in a long black coat that shimmered like oil under the chandelier.
His hat came off in a flourish, revealing a golden grin, his front teeth polished with real gold.
Captain Zaragoza, known across the realm as El Demoledor del Mar — the Sea Demolisher.
His skin was marked with tattoos: scary creatures, anchors, and sigils running up his arms and across his chest.
The twin gauntlets he wore shimmered faintly relics that pulsed like embers beneath the leather.
“Oi!” he boomed, voice full of salt and mischief. “What’s all this noise? A war council or a comedy show?”
He swept off his hat in apology and nodded toward Leroy.
“Forgive my lateness, First Brother. Storms at the docks, you know how it is.”
He took the empty seat beside Burgess, who was already grinning.
Balthazar leaned close to Zaragoza, covering his mouth with his hand like a gossiping maid — though his whisper was anything but quiet.
“We were just talking about Leroy old sweetheart,” he said, his tone half-mocking, half-delighted. “He’s still dazzled by her success, if you can believe it.”
“Shut it, Balthazar!” Leroy snapped, voice sharper than before.
Lisa placed a calming hand on his shoulder, her expression gentle.
“Ignore him,” she murmured. “He’s just looking for someone to throw him out the window.”
“Ah, Mia, my beloved!” Zaragoza declared dramatically, throwing one arm across his chest. “The only woman who ever made The Green Wraith lose a battle!”
He reached for Burgess’s mug without asking — a terrible mistake.
The Lion’s eyes widened in horror.
“Keep your filthy hands off my drink,” Burgess growled, snatching his mug back and thrusting another one toward Zaragoza. “That’s yours. Don’t touch anything else on this table!”
Even Leroy couldn’t help it this time — he laughed, shaking his head.
“Relax, you animal” Zaragoza said, unbothered by Burgess’s gruff tone. The pirate captain leaned back with an easy grin, one boot propped on the empty chair beside him.
“But seriously, Leroy” he continued, taking a long drink. “What kind of fool walks away from a woman like that?”
Leroy tilted his head slightly, gaze falling toward the table.
“It’s… complicated,” he murmured.
He was about to steer the conversation elsewhere, his posture shifting from social to formal
but of course, Balthazar couldn’t resist.
“Complicated,” the Blasphemer echoed with mock thoughtfulness, “or did she just find someone with better charm?”
Leroy looked up, mildly confused.
“What are you getting at?” he asked, flipping open the folder in front of him.
Zaragoza raised his hand dramatically, his golden-toothed grin flashing.
“Come on. You’re one of the most powerful men in the entire All Realm. Don’t tell me there isn’t a line of admirers waiting for you somewhere.”
“Tell those poor women they’re wasting their youth waiting for Leroy to notice them,” Cheng cut in dryly, smirking behind his glass.
“I’ve been busy,” Leroy replied, using the same calm excuse he always did. “There’s no time for things like that.”
Balthazar leaned forward, tapping a finger on the table, tone playful yet strangely pointed.
“You don’t even need to look far,” he said. “The most beautiful woman in the all realm sits right next to you, and you still don’t get it.”
Leroy blinked, genuinely confused. He pointed over his shoulder.
“You mean Lisa?”
Lisa stared at him, her face contorting into exaggerated disbelief.
“Oh, dear…” she sighed, shaking her head. “You really do need a vacation from the Council. He means Lady Starmist.”
“Oh,” Leroy said flatly, then smiled in that awkward, faintly human way that made the room pause for a moment.
Even Balthazar, usually the first to laugh, tilted his head—unsure if he was looking at embarrassment, denial, or something else entirely.
They all wore the same insignia - the same emblem fastened to Leroy’s chest.
Not every relic bearer could wear it.
Only those whose loyalty had been ratified by both their faction leader and the Council itself.
To many across the realm, it was the highest recognition a superhuman could achieve, the proof that one had ascended from chaos into order.
The laughter slowly faded, replaced by the steady hum of purpose.
The air shifted from reunion to command.
Leroy’s demeanor hardened.
He opened his book to the final page, revealing nine sealed envelopes neatly arranged within.
One by one, he slid five of them across the table to Cheng, Lisa, Balthazar, Burgess, and Zaragoza.
The room fell silent.
The soft rustle of paper and the echo of Leroy’s measured voice were the only sounds left.
“Now that we’re all here,” he said quietly, “let’s begin.”
