NOVEL NEXT Chapter 57: Station Supporting Agencies
"Kneel and lace your hands behind your back," he snarled. The heavy air was cut like by a venomous blade. A shameless smirk tugged at his lips, even as beads of sweat presaged his growing unease. His axe was only inches from Beorn's neck and glimmered ominously in the poor light.
Beorn, his face dripping with cold sweat, dared not move; the tension in the room was a suffocating fog. The grip of the leader tightened on the axe handle, and the veins in his hand bulged with effort.
"What do you think, hero?" the leader sneered, his voice running over with sarcasm. "This must be your resolution. Yet, I doubt you'll act."
Nyxander remained unfazed, his calm demeanor an unsettling contrast to the storm of fear enveloping the room. "That must be your plan," he said, striding forward with deliberate, unhurried steps. "But I'm afraid it won't work."
The leader's confidence faltered as he saw Nyxander approaching. Desperation overtook him, and with a guttural cry, he swung the axe toward Beorn's neck. Beorn shut his eyes tightly, bracing for the inevitable.
In that fleeting moment, space itself seemed to ripple around them. "Aetherial Shroud Manipulation: Void Crystallization," Nyxander whispered. A translucent barrier, as solid and unyielding as a diamond, materialized around Beorn's neck, halting the axe mid-swing, its crystalline surface shimmering faintly as the axe blade struck.. The blade quivered, its momentum absorbed entirely by the crystalline void.
The throat of the leader constricted in a guttural hum of disbelief as his mind scrambled to comprehend the phenomenon before him. Before he could do anything further, Nyxander's voice cut through the silence. "Stormbreak Void Fist: Void Bolt (First Stage)."
His fist, crackling with faint arcs of flickering void energy, met the leader's chest. The sound was thunderous, a concussive wave that hurled the man from his seat to crash through the wooden walls. Splinters and dust erupted into the air, the body landing in a crumpled heap near his subordinates.
Beorn opened his eyes hesitantly to find Nyxander crouched beside him, loosening the ropes that bound him. "What just happened?" Beorn asked, his voice shaking as his eyes darted around the wreckage.
"Not too complex," Nyxander said with a casual grin, tugging at the final knot. "He made a wrong move, and I capitalized on it.
In a few minutes, the three thugs-now with the same ropes binding them-were kneeling in a neat row, their hands tightly clasped behind them, the rope looped between them like a chain to keep them captive in this tableau of humiliation.
Beorn, standing beside Nyxander, nodded toward the subjugated men. "What do we do with them now? Since you've decided to intervene, the next step is yours."
He turned to him then, his eyes flickering with curiosity. "Why do you sound like we shouldn't have stepped in to begin with?"
Beorn opened his mouth to answer, but the gang leader cut him off with a hissing venom. "Does your North Celestial Lord know about your actions? You'll regret this interference." His hands were balled into fists that quivered against the binding ropes while contortions of rage twisted his face.
Nyxander's eyes darkened, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Did I ask you to speak?" An octave lower, full of malice, his voice came. The bravado fell away as sweat trickled down the leader's temple.
"O-overstepping," he stuttered, ducking his head.
Nyxander turned again to Beorn, the hard edges gone from his face. "What were you trying to say again?
Beorn heaved a heavy sigh as if the weight of his words was too much to bear. "There's an agreement between the North Celestial Station officials and these thugs. As you know, each Astro Station has limited members, making it hard to handle all tasks. To make things simpler, the two struck a deal-they provide some support in exchange for the right to collect taxes from the people in the station's walls.
Nyxander's head cocked a reflective tilt; his hand strayed to rest on his chin as the revelation seeped in. "Interesting," he murmured low.
Breaking the silence, he asked, "And what are your names?"
The minions huddled into a flurry of respectful tones. "Bako." "Bili."
Nyxander turned to regard the leader. "And you?"
He said nothing; his teeth flashed between tight-lipped gums.
"It seems he needs some encouragement," Nyxander said, his fists tightening, his tone carrying a quiet threat.
"Kal," the leader spat, his defiance faltering under the pressure.
"Good. Let's head to the business district," Nyxander declared suddenly.
Everyone turned to him, their confusion evident. The leader was the first to voice his objection. "I'd rather die than be humiliated!" he roared, the fire of rebellion still burning in his eyes.
Beorn sighed. "Most rogue immortals would rather die than be shamed."
Nyxander smiled faintly. "Don't worry. This isn't about humiliation-I have a plan."
He turned to the bound thugs, his voice commanding. "Now, stand."
Reluctantly, they did so, their movements stiff. Beorn led the group, the rope swaying between the prisoners as Nyxander followed behind, an axe in each hand, his presence casting a shadow of authority over them all.
They stepped into the murky labyrinth of the streets, the shadows weaving around them like an ominous shroud. The thugs exchanged furtive glances, their subtle gestures betraying a silent pact. The darkness offered the perfect veil, and they began to plot their escape, the faint glimmer of defiance flickering in their eyes.
"I hope you won't make foolish decisions," Nyxander's voice pierced through the stillness, cold and unyielding, slicing through their thoughts like a blade. The chilling tone sent an involuntary shiver down their spines, their fleeting courage dissipating into the night. Sweat beaded on their brows, trickling down like liquid guilt, extinguishing their ill-conceived plans.
They trudged onward, their footsteps echoing against the cobblestone streets. With every turn through the winding walkway, the shadows seemed to tighten around them, whispering their shame. Soon, the oppressive darkness gave way to the soft glow of street lamps as they emerged into the bustling district. The warm light stretched across the cobbles, pushing back the encroaching night and guiding their way.
Eyes turned toward them. Passersby stopped in their tracks, their gazes lingering on the peculiar procession. Whispers spread like wildfire, and soon a trail of curious onlookers followed. The thugs hunched their shoulders, their heads bowed low, desperately trying to shield their faces from the scrutiny of the growing crowd.
At last, they came to a halt. The crowd, now a living, breathing circle of humanity, tightened around them, murmurs rising into an uneasy symphony. The air was thick with speculation, and fingers pointed unabashedly at the three captives.
Kal, the thug leader, finally snapped. Rage twisted his face as he lifted his head, his glare sweeping over the crowd. His eyes burned like embers, and the sheer intensity of his fury sent a wave of fear rippling through the onlookers. The murmurs ceased abruptly, replaced by gasps as people instinctively recoiled, covering their mouths with trembling hands.
"Hello, everyone," Nyxander's voice broke the tension, calm yet commanding, like the toll of a distant bell. He stepped closer to the thugs, his hands deftly untying the rope binding their wrists. The faint scrape of the rope unraveling echoed like a prelude to something significant.
"You must all be familiar with these three faces," Nyxander began, his voice carrying over the crowd, resonant and deliberate. He moved in a slow circle around the thugs, his presence magnetic, drawing every eye. "Tonight marks a turning point. From this night onward, they will no longer be what you have known them to be."
His words hung in the air, heavy and cryptic. The crowd's murmurs surged again, like the rising tide, their collective curiosity and confusion a palpable force. Even Beorn and the thugs looked bewildered, their expressions a mix of apprehension and intrigue.
Nyxander's voice rose above the growing noise, firm and resolute. "They will no longer collect taxes from you, neither by force nor by your reluctant compliance. Instead, they will work, honest labor under the banner of a new, non-official organization known as the Station Supporting Agencies, or SSA."
The declaration struck like a gong, leaving the crowd in stunned silence. The name, SSA, seemed to echo in the minds of all present, a beacon of hope cloaked in mystery. Slowly, the murmurs returned, hesitant and disbelieving. Eyes darted from Nyxander to the thugs and back, struggling to reconcile the past with this unexpected future.
The thugs, too, stood frozen, their confusion etched deeply into their faces. Kal's rage had dimmed, replaced by wary suspicion, while Bako and Bili exchanged uncertain glances. Even Beorn's brow furrowed, his lips parted slightly as though to question, but he remained silent, trusting Nyxander's enigmatic plan.
The crowd's whispers crescendoed into a cacophony of speculation, but Nyxander remained unmoved, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos. His piercing gaze swept over the gathering, and his words, spoken with unshakable conviction, continued to linger in the air, planting the seeds of change.