SuleStreet Kids (1)
“How many streets do you control?”
The fallen boy couldn’t answer Ray’s question. Though the pain racking his body was excruciating, he also sensed something ominous in the opponent’s tone.
Swish! Thud!
The knife grazed the boy’s cheek and stabbed into the ground. Blood droplets splattered across his face.
“H-Hik!”
“Answer.”
“Three… three streets!”
“Which numbers?”
“From 23 to 25….”
Tension. Anxiety. Fear.
The swirling, murky mana in the opponent’s aura felt oppressive.
“You’re lying.”
“W-What?!”
Instead of replying, Ray seized the boy’s wrist and slammed a blackjack onto his knuckles.
Thud! Crack! Thud! Crack!
“Aaaagh! Stop!!”
The boy thrashed as his bones splintered, but Ray’s magically reinforced grip held firm like stone.
“Ugh… Ugh…”
When Ray finally released him, the boy’s hand was a bloody mess with white bone fragments jutting out. The floor was smeared with his snot and tears.
Ray’s voice loomed above.
“Your loyalty to your leader isn’t half bad. Lying for him—or maybe you just love your gang that much.”
This wasn’t Ray’s first rodeo. He prided himself on understanding street kids better than anyone.
Loyalty? Brotherhood?
Such things always shattered before overwhelming fear.
Ray turned.
“…H-Hik!”
The other boys who met his gaze immediately pressed their faces to the ground.
Step. Step.
They trembled as he approached, teeth chattering, praying not to be singled out.
Not me. Please, not me.
Thud.
Ray halted.
“You.”
“H-Hik! I’ll talk! I’ll tell you everything!”
The boy who glimpsed Ray’s boots didn’t dare look up. Without prompting, he vomited details about his gang—a desperate, instinctive bid to survive.
“W-We control 14 streets… 46 members… Boss is C-Cedric….”
Fourteen streets. Forty-six members. A massive operation compared to Ray’s two streets in Sector 50.
Ray pondered. Gathering intel alone was inefficient. If he could command these street kids instead…
…But seizing control will take time.
“You.”
“Y-Yes!”
“Look up.”
The boy hesitated, fearing retaliation.
Swoosh.
The sound of Ray drawing his blackjack made the boy jerk his head up instantly.
“Name?”
“N-Nesh…”
“Nesh. What did your boss say when he sent you here?”
“T-Told us to… beat them half-dead… steal their food… said he’s watching…”
At that moment, Nesh glimpsed movement in his periphery—comrades rising stealthily behind Ray, knives in hand.
“Watching me, huh?”
They crept closer, masking their pain, moving with strained subtlety. Nesh’s lips twitched into an involuntary smirk.
“Tell your boss this.”
As Ray spoke—
“Diiieee───!!” “You fucker───!”
Blades arced toward Ray’s back and neck. But a sudden magical gust threw the attackers off-balance.
Thunk! Thunk!
Ray spun, his blackjack tearing through leather and bone. The ambushers crumpled. He didn’t stop—the weapon crashed into Nesh’s back next.
Splat! Crack!
Ray hauled Nesh up by the hair as he trembled on all fours.
“Tell him:”
He whispered into the boy’s ear,
“It’s not just him watching… I’m watching too.”
The next day, Ray noticed the street kids’ changed expressions—or rather, the shift in their mana’s hue. Wariness remained, but fear now tinted it heavily.
“H-Hiiik!”
“Run!!”
Some fled upon spotting him. He ignored them; they didn’t obstruct his patrol.
Morning to evening, he combed Sector 49 but found no magical leads.
Maybe a magic shop? Or something I’ve never heard of?
Futile hope. Sector 49 was too low-tier for magic’s touch. Like Sector 50, its residents lived oblivious to the arcane.
Thud.
Ray paused outside a bookstore. Its lights were off, windows cracked or boarded—as if pelted with stones. Inside, shelves groaned with books.
He’d learned about these “paper bundles of knowledge” while roaming. Rare and expensive for slum dwellers. Two questions nagged him:
Why does a bookstore exist here? Could it hold magic texts?
He yearned to rush in and devour any spellbooks. Though barely literate, he’d force himself to parse every word.
Break the window?
Rubble around him offered perfect projectiles. But causing a scene in the slums was unwise—especially around adults.
With a frustrated sigh, he walked away.
“Mind if we chat?”
A gang of boys materialized at the alley’s mouth. Ray turned—another group blocked the rear.
Perfect. He’d planned to seek them anyway.
“I’m Philoss. Your name?”
The speaker was lanky with sunken eyes—not from fatigue, Ray guessed. He’d seen that hollow gaze in Sector 50’s drug-addled vagrants.
“Same gang as yesterday?”
“Same. You wrecked Anthony, Horn, and Melv.”
“They needed discipline. If you’re here to fight, hurry up. I’m busy.”
“No fight today.” Philoss retrieved a note. “Boss likes your skills.”
Murmurs erupted:
“You can read this?”
Ray snatched the note.
“Join me. You won’t starve.”
“What’s it say?”
“How’s your boss chosen?”
Philoss blinked. “Through fights. Strongest becomes Boss.”
“Good. Take me to him.”
Philoss led Ray to a scrapyard-ringed factory, baffled. He’d expected to drag a defiant prisoner, not escort a volunteer.
Creaaak—!
Rusty hinges screamed as the factory doors opened. Inside, dim light filtered through broken windows onto debris-littered floors. The stench of metal, concrete, and soil mingled nauseatingly.
Clang!
The doors shut. Boys lounging on torn sofas and mattresses glared—bulkier than average, their auras seething with hostile red-and-blue mana.
Ray’s pulse quickened. How long to knock them all out?
At the center, a drum fire blazed. A boy sprawled on a sofa rose—Cedric.
“So you’re the one.”
“Ray.”
Ray’s gaze locked onto Cedric’s ring—a crimson gem oozing blood-like mana.
