Chapter Eight

  "Your first instinct will be to lie to me. You think you have more to fear from your bosses than from me. I promise you're wrong. Give me the information I want, and we'll be square. I'll let you go. Don't, and things will get decidedly unpleasant."

  Ambrose's voice was calm, almost conversational, as he released his spiritual pressure from one of the gang members. The man stumbled to his feet, gasping for air like he'd been drowning moments before. He was wiry, with greasy blonde hair, a pudgy face, and patches of metal embedded in his skin that glinted dully under the low garage lights. His augmentations were cheap street modifications, the kind that offered minimal benefit at maximum risk. The metal-to-flesh integration showed signs of infection around the edges, angry red veins spreading outward from each implant.

  Ambrose watched him silently, giving him the space to decide how stupid he wanted to be. Experience had taught him that silence was often more effective than threats. Let people fill the void with their own fears, their own imaginations of what might happen next.

  The garage was dimly lit, the concrete floor stained with oil and other substances Ambrose preferred not to identify. The air smelled of fuel, sweat, and fear. He'd chosen the location carefully, isolated enough that screams wouldn't attract attention, but close enough to his targets to be convenient. The other two gang members remained pinned to the wall by his spiritual pressure, their eyes wide with terror as they witnessed their companion's interrogation.

  "You don't know who you're messin' with, man!" the thug spat, his voice shaky but defiant.

  Ambrose found the statement amusing. The same could be said about him. The men in this city assumed they were untouchable, the apex predators of Virion. That illusion was about to crumble. They existed in a hierarchy they understood, street thugs, enforcers, lieutenants, and bosses—with clear rules and expectations. Ambrose operated outside that system entirely, a predator they had no framework to comprehend.

  His spiritual pressure remained active but controlled, just enough to remind the thugs of his power without crushing them completely. It was a skill he'd refined during his time as Knight of Avalon, learning to modulate his capabilities for maximum effect with minimal wasted energy.

  "I doubt you know where Vorshawn Red is," Ambrose continued, his tone steady. "So I won't bother asking that. What you can do is point me to a lieutenant or tell me about any supply houses for your drugs."

  The thug's face twisted into a sneer. "How about you go buy an erectile implant and use it to go fuck yourself?"

  Ambrose blinked, caught off guard by the bizarre insult. That was new. Virion's slang had evolved in strange directions, it seemed. He filed the phrase away, another small detail about this unfamiliar world.

  With a thought, [Infernal Sanctuary] activated. Chains wreathed in dark fire erupted around the thug, wrapping him tightly and yanking him forward. The familiar silver-red flames cast dancing shadows across the garage walls, giving the space an otherworldly appearance. The man struggled, shouting curses, but it was no use. His willpower wasn't nearly strong enough, and he lacked any skill that might have freed him.

  The chains were a manifestation of Ambrose's will, made tangible through his spiritual power and infernal trait. They responded to his thoughts, tightening just enough to cause pain without doing permanent damage. Not yet, anyway.

  Do you wish me to intervene, hatchling? Akaroth's voice echoed in his mind. Dragons are very persuasive.

  "Not yet," Ambrose replied mentally. "Let's see what simple fear can accomplish first."

  Ambrose raised his hand, holding his forefinger and thumb slightly apart. A tiny portal, no larger than a coin, appeared between them, a flickering doorway of flame. Through it, the distant sounds of city traffic could be heard, a strange spatial dissonance that never failed to unnerve those witnessing it for the first time.

  "This is a portal," he explained, his voice calm and measured. "I'm sure you've realized that. Right now, it's connected to another part of the city. The destination isn't the point. What matters is that this portal can cut through nearly anything. And in a moment, I'm going to put it through your eye if you don't tell me what I want to know."

  He adjusted the portal slightly, letting its edge brush against the man's cheek. A thin line of blood appeared, followed by a whimper of fear. The thug's enhanced eyes, clearly stolen or black-market modifications based on their mismatched colors, widened in true terror as he finally comprehended the danger he faced.

  The thug's bravado crumbled. Ambrose had seen this happen many times. People liked to talk about standing firm in the face of torture, about staying defiant until the bitter end. In reality, the human body had limits, even with the enhancements granted by the System. Fear was a powerful motivator, and when faced with permanent mutilation, most chose self-preservation over loyalty.

  "Fine! Fuck! Don't put that damn thing in my eye, okay? I'll tell you!"

  Ambrose waited, keeping the portal alight. He'd learned that patience was a powerful motivator. The silence stretched, broken only by the thug's ragged breathing and the soft crackle of hellfire.

  "I don't know where the big boss is, you're right," the thug admitted hurriedly, "but there's a warehouse on Hubbard and 9th, near the docks. A lieutenant oversees it. Guy named Kravos, he handles distribution for the whole eastern sector. Level 168, used to be military before he went private."

  Ambrose nodded, satisfied. The information had the ring of truth to it ,specific details freely given under pressure. Kravos. Level 168. That would be a worthy opponent, maybe, though still well below Ambrose's capabilities. More importantly, a lieutenant would have direct access to information about Vorshawn's operations and possibly his location.

  He tossed the man to the side, the chains releasing him as he reapplied his spiritual pressure. The thug crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain. His cybernetic implants sparked slightly, disrupted by the sudden flood of spiritual energy.

  The others were questioned in turn, but they all gave the same answer. Hubbard and 9th. Ambrose considered testing the validity of their information through further torture but decided against it. He already had what he needed—a starting point and access to someone higher up the food chain. Hurting these men further wouldn't yield anything useful.

  His Forge Icon pulsed faintly within him, 30% complete but growing more integrated with each challenge he faced. Forging was about making something useful from raw materials. These thugs had provided the raw material he needed—information. Now he would shape it into action.

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  With a casual wave, he opened a portal and tossed the three gang members through it. Vivienne could deal with them. The Tree of Avalon was always hungry for more souls, and while these weren't particularly potent, they would contribute to the island's strength.

  Through the portal, he caught a glimpse of Avalon's perpetual twilight and the massive Tree reaching toward the sky. Vivienne's form shimmered into existence, her violet eyes widening slightly at the unexpected delivery. She gave him a brief nod before the portal closed, cutting off the view.

  He had a warehouse to visit.

  Waves rolled gently on the sea, their rhythmic motion creating a peaceful melody that mingled with the faint hum of futuristic boats floating nearby. The air was cool and salty, carried on a light breeze that whispered through the docks. Overhead, moonlight spilled across the clouds, painting them with silver highlights as they drifted lazily through the sky.

  Virion's twin moons cast overlapping shadows, creating strange patterns on the water's surface. Ships of various designs bobbed in their moorings, some sleek and modern, others clearly retrofitted from older models. All bore the marks of a technologically advanced society, with hovering capabilities and energy signatures that glowed softly in the darkness.

  It was a shame, really, that Ambrose was about to ruin such a tranquil night with violence.

  He parked his car near the edge of the docks and stepped out, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. The Hellcat's engine cooled with a soft hiss, the infernal energy he'd infused into it gradually settling into dormancy. He'd driven the long way around to avoid any police patrols that might still be searching for him after his encounter with Detectives Smith and Fielding.

  The warehouse loomed ahead, a massive structure of steel and concrete, its exterior battered by years of salt air. Dim lights flickered around its perimeter, casting long, eerie shadows across the ground. Security drones patrolled the roofline, their optical sensors sweeping methodically across the surrounding area. They were primitive by C-Grade standards but would be effective against normal intruders.

  Akaroth stirred within his infernal dimension, her draconic essence responding to the anticipation of combat. She was as much a part of him now as his own limbs, a constant presence that had become familiar and reassuring over time.

  Prey that doesn't know it's prey, she commented, her mental voice tinged with predatory satisfaction. The hunt begins in earnest tonight, hatchling.

  There were a few ways he could approach this. Stealth, for instance, would be the most logical choice. Sneaking inside and gathering intel without alerting anyone would give him the advantage. It was smart, methodical.

  But Ambrose wasn't stealthy. He never had been.

  His father had tried to teach him the value of stealth, of striking from shadows and retreating before the enemy could respond. Those lessons had never taken root. Ambrose preferred directness, the honest confrontation of power against power. Perhaps it was pride, or perhaps simply an acknowledgment of his natural strengths.

  The straightforward approach, kicking down the door and tearing through anyone who got in his way, was far more his style. It gave him the element of surprise, and, frankly, it was a lot more satisfying. There was an honesty to direct confrontation that appealed to him at a fundamental level.

  Still, there was another option. He could walk in and try talking first. Realistically, it wouldn't change much. These people weren't going to hand over what he wanted just because he asked nicely. They'd respond with hostility, as criminals always did.

  But offering them the chance to avoid violence eased his conscience. He'd give them the opportunity to comply before smashing their faces in. It was a courtesy he extended not out of respect for them, but out of respect for himself and the principles Alice had always believed he could uphold.

  The warehouse door was unlocked, surprisingly. Ambrose pushed it open, stepping into a vast space filled with rows of shipping containers stacked high like a metal labyrinth. The air inside was heavy with the smell of oil and salt, and faint voices echoed from somewhere deeper in the building.

  His [True Sight] activated automatically, the enchanted eyepatch Vivienne had given him adapting to the dimness. Details hidden to normal vision became clear: heat signatures of human bodies moving among the containers, the faint glow of active technology, and the subtle shimmer of security measures designed to be invisible to the naked eye.

  Balconies and catwalks crisscrossed the upper levels, and he could hear the faint clatter of boots on metal above him. Figures moved between the containers, marking them with symbols he couldn't make out. The warehouse was a hive of activity, dozens of workers processing shipments that Ambrose strongly suspected contained more than legitimate cargo.

  Ambrose moved forward, his boots echoing softly against the concrete floor. The group nearest him stopped what they were doing and turned to face him. Their movements were synchronized, suggesting military or security training. These weren't ordinary street thugs.

  They were cybernetic, like most of the gangsters he'd encountered in Virion, but these men were different. Their suits were sharp, tailored from expensive fabric interwoven with runic patterns that glowed faintly in the dim light. The patterns suggested defensive enchantments, likely providing protection against conventional weapons and low-level System attacks. They were a step above the street thugs he'd interrogated earlier.

  His spiritual awareness extended outward, sensing their levels and capabilities. All D-Grade, ranging from 95 to 112, with combat-focused specializations. Dangerous to normal opponents, but barely a warm-up for Ambrose.

  "I'm looking for the man in charge of this operation," Ambrose said, his tone calm. "If you can direct me to him, I'll leave you alone."

  The statement wasn't entirely true, he had no intention of letting any of Vorshawn's lieutenants escape, but it offered them the choice that mattered to Ambrose's conscience. The opportunity to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.

  One of the men snorted, glancing at his companions before laughing. "Don't you know where you are, man? You signed your death warrant coming in here."

  He cracked his knuckles as the others smirked, their expressions dripping with overconfidence. The cybernetic enhancements in his arms whirred softly as they adjusted, preparing for combat. His eyes glowed faintly with targeting systems, locking onto Ambrose with what he clearly thought was intimidating precision.

  Ambrose sighed, running a hand through his beard. "This isn't a good idea," he said, his voice laced with boredom. "Last warning."

  He kept his spiritual pressure contained, not yet revealing his true capability. Let them think they had a chance. Sometimes mercy came in unexpected forms, like allowing an opponent to believe they might win, giving them the dignity of thinking they were going down fighting rather than being slaughtered like helpless prey.

  Predictably, they didn't listen. Two of them produced long staffs from spatial storage, while another pulled out a shotgun etched with runes that pulsed an angry red. The weapons were of decent quality, likely capable of harming C-Grade enemies under normal circumstances. The staffs crackled with electrical energy, while the shotgun hummed with what sounded like a modified gravity charge.

  The final gang member's eyes changed color, shifting from normal human brown to a glowing orange as he activated some kind of combat enhancement. His spiritual pressure increased slightly, the only one of the group with any spiritual capability at all.

  Ambrose didn't bother scanning them further. He felt spiritual pressure from only one of them, the man with the gun, and it wasn't anything impressive. Disappointing, really. He'd hoped for more of a challenge, something to test his abilities against. These men were little more than a distraction.

  He supposed he shouldn't have expected much. The city's criminal elements had grown complacent, unused to facing a real challenge. In a place where hierarchy was determined by technology and cunning rather than raw power, they'd never encountered someone like Ambrose, someone who had faced dragons and demons, who had battled entities that could reshape reality itself.

  His hand drifted to where Akaroth would normally rest, only to remember he'd left the axe in his infernal dimension. No matter. Against opponents of this caliber, he wouldn't need a weapon. His portals and chains would be more than sufficient.

  "Okay then," Ambrose said, his voice low and calm. "Who's first?"

  The warehouse fell silent, the calm before the storm. Outside, the waves continued their peaceful rhythm, oblivious to the violence about to erupt within.