Plans And Grievances (2)
The tension in the Black Crow's reception lounge was so dense it could choke. Cushions rustled beneath the weight of posturing leaders, and barely-touched refreshments sat cooling on the low tables between them. Each faction leader brought their own flavor of hostility and ego to the space—silent, but simmering. Then, with a dry chuckle that barely masked her venom, Vera Corbin of the Smiling Rats broke the silence.
"Quite the mess we've found ourselves in, haven't we?" Her voice was coarse, seasoned with sarcasm and bitterness. She leaned forward, fingers toying with a half-empty glass. "I still can't believe those upstart nobodies managed to do this to us. To me."
The others didn't reply immediately. But they watched her—some with amusement, others with indifference. Vera brushed aside a lock of her pale hair and pulled down the collar of her shirt just enough to reveal the bruising that still crawled across her collarbone, faintly glowing where her regenerative tissue struggled to mask the trauma Renji had inflicted.
"I had bones shattered and lungs collapsed, and for what?" Vera hissed. "To be thrown out like trash? The Smiling Rats? Eliminated by some freshblood team we've never even heard of? This—this is humiliation."
Dante Varek of the Crimson Pact narrowed his crimson eyes. He was not a man of many words, but when he spoke, it was often a statement of absolute intent. "We'll make them regret it," he said, voice calm but laced with deadly conviction. "When the tournament is over, I'll rip Kuroya's spine from his back myself."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the henchmen behind him, though none dared speak aloud. Abe Hikari of the Spiral Fangs gave a sardonic snort but said nothing. His gaze remained glued to the flickering light of the lounge's centerpiece—an artificial fire pit designed to mimic real flame.
Then Kiyoshi Takeda, leader of the Forgotten Dawn, finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was older than the others, and he wore the years like a blade—sharp, poised, and always lethal. He stared at the flames as though seeing something no one else could.
"Renji Kuroya isn't just a fluke," Kiyoshi said calmly. "He and his team—each one of them—are trained, experienced, and something more. Mutants, yes. But there's discipline in their movements. Purpose. They're not just surviving. They're evolving."
The room fell eerily quiet. Even Vera, who was already preparing to lash out, paused mid-sentence.
Kiyoshi glanced around the room, slow and deliberate. "We built our factions from chaos. From the ashes of the first dungeon outbreaks. We took in the lost, the powerful, the desperate. But our forces—" he paused, "—they're fragmented. Most of our members rely more on instinct than skill. More on rage than refinement."
Dante's eyes narrowed slightly, and Abe's jaw tightened.
"And what are you suggesting, Kiyoshi?" Vera finally asked, her voice dry.
"I'm not suggesting anything yet," Kiyoshi said, his tone even. "Only pointing out a fact that's inconvenient to admit. If we continue as we are—bitter and divided—those kids will overtake us. If not in this tournament, then soon after. And they won't need to start a war. They'll simply replace us by being better."
The statement hovered like a blade between them. Asano folded his arms and leaned back into the dark velvet of his chair. For once, he had nothing snide to offer.
The others sat in stillness, chewing on Kiyoshi's words. Each had their pride, their followers, and their territory. But they all knew one undeniable truth: in the underworld, power was not inherited. It was seized. Maintained. And ultimately, if one grew complacent, it was taken away.
For now, they were all trying to pretend they hadn't just watched the beginning of a new power rising under their noses. But soon, they'd have to decide: fight as one—or fall one by one.
---
The underworld society, for all its lawlessness and brutal traditions, had long served as a central hub for those who chose to—or were forced to—live outside the confines of the government's rigid systems. This subterranean network of power, chaos, and fragile alliances was not just home to criminals, smugglers, and war profiteers. It had evolved into a sanctuary of sorts. A twisted refuge for the forsaken.
But no force in the underworld was as unpredictable—or as dangerous—as the mutants.
They were the cursed children of a new era. Victims of the volatile energy emitted from the dungeons that had torn across the world like open scars. Exposure to dungeon energy didn't kill everyone. In fact, some survived. But survival came with a price.
That price was mutation.
Mutants were, in essence, infected humans. Twisted not only in body but in the fragile recesses of their minds. Some gained strength, speed, or abilities that bent the laws of nature. Others changed beyond recognition, their bodies warped, reshaped, sometimes grotesque, sometimes beautiful—but never normal.
And not all survived the transition with their minds intact.
The energy that fueled their evolution also birthed insanity. A large number of mutants eventually lost themselves to the hunger, to the madness that gnawed at their reason and stripped them of their humanity. These were the wild mutants, often referred to in the underworld as "Strays"—feral, monstrous things that devoured everything in their path, driven by an insatiable craving for essence, blood, and destruction.
Governments quickly declared such beings as high-level threats.
But what of the ones who managed to retain their minds? Who learned to control their mutations, to harness their unnatural abilities? They were not spared either.
The world above did not see them as survivors. It saw them as time bombs. Dangerous. Unnatural. Threats.
So even the sane mutants were hunted. Tracked down by elite government task forces, thrown into containment camps or executed in the name of public safety. There was no redemption offered. No trial. No consideration. Just fear.
Segregated, exiled, demonized—these controlled mutants had nowhere to turn but down.
Down into the underworld.
The underworld became the final refuge for many infected. And the factions that ruled its cities, slums, and safehouses were quick to exploit this flood of raw power.
Asano of the Black Crow was among the first to see the opportunity. So were Kiyoshi Takeda of the Forgotten Dawn, Abe Hikari of the Spiral Fangs, Dante Varek of the Crimson Pact, and Vera Corbin of the Smiling Rats. All of them infected. All of them mutants who had clawed their way to power before the world even realized what was coming.
When the first dungeons had appeared and monsters flooded the cities, it was chaos. Civilization trembled. Governments scrambled. But the factions? They adapted.
They recruited.
They offered protection to the exiled infected in exchange for loyalty. They trained them, experimented on them, even enhanced their mutations through exposure to controlled dungeon energy. The results were monstrous, but effective.
Within a short time, each faction had built itself a private army of mutants. Soldiers who could tear through steel, harness lightning, manipulate shadows, or reduce buildings to rubble with a punch. The underworld's power grew exponentially. So did its defiance of any rule or structure not born within its own bloody walls.
The factions struck fear into the heart of law enforcement. They became warlords, dictators, saints, and executioners all rolled into one. Each leader carved out their territory, establishing a hierarchy that placed them at the top and all others beneath their heel.
And it worked.
For years, the factions operated with impunity. Their internal power struggles were frequent, brutal, and bloody—but never so destabilizing as to upset the balance. There was always an unspoken understanding. Rivalries existed, betrayals occurred, but none dared challenge the collective authority of the Five.
That is, until now.
Renji Kuroya and his team of nobodies had shattered that balance.
With every victory in the tournament, with every defeat they dealt to faction warriors, they climbed further into view—not as challengers, but as threats.
And threats in the underworld don't survive for long.
Asano and the others knew this. They felt it in the bloodied wounds left by Renji's power, in the whispers among their own ranks, in the shifting gaze of the infected population who now looked upon Renji's team as something more than mere fighters.
They saw hope.
Hope was dangerous.
And if the faction leaders had learned anything from building the underworld from its bones, it was this:
Hope had to be crushed before it became revolution.