The dawn that broke over Veridia was a muted, grey affair, the sun struggling to pierce the perpetual haze that clung to the city, especially its lower districts and the festering wound of The Pit. For the inhabitants of Fenrir's former territory, however, it was a dawn unlike any they had experienced in years. The oppressive weight of the Red Fangs' tyranny was gone, replaced by an unnerving, watchful silence. Doors remained bolted, but ears were pricked, listening for any sign from the new, terrifying power that had descended upon them.
Ravi had spent the night in a state of deep communion with his mortal shell, assessing its limits and accelerating its regeneration. The aches had subsided, replaced by a thrumming undercurrent of divine energy, a quiet power that suffused his very being. His injured leg, while not perfectly healed, now bore his weight with little more than a dull ache, the limp noticeably lessened. His senses were sharper than ever, the squalor and desperation of The Pit an open book to him.
Mira had not slept. She had spent the night perched near the hovel's single grimy window, her rebar spear across her lap, acting as a self-appointed sentinel. Fear had given way to a kind of fervent zeal. She had seen a god walk among men, a dark and terrible god, perhaps, but one who brought justice where none had existed. Her world had been irrevocably altered.
As the slum began to stir with its usual morning misery, Ravi rose. His gaze fell upon Mira.
"You are still here," he observed, his voice neutral.
"I serve the Slum God," Mira replied, her voice firm, her eyes meeting his without flinching. The night had solidified her resolve. "Where else would I be?"
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Ravi's ancient eyes. He did not seek worship, but loyalty born of conviction was a tool he could utilize. "There is much to be done. This territory requires… sanitation."
He stepped out of the hovel into the grey morning light. Instantly, the furtive movements in the surrounding shacks ceased. Eyes watched him from behind cracked doors and through gaps in rotting planks. Fear was a palpable miasma in the air.
Ravi walked towards the blighted heart of what had been Fenrir's domain – a small, muddy square where the Rat King had often held his brutal 'court' and dispensed his cruel 'justice'. A few of Fenrir's lesser thugs, those who hadn't been in the slaughterhouse and had perhaps been too cowardly or too insignificant to be summoned, were now emerging, looking lost and uncertain. Some were already trying to assert their former petty authority over terrified vendors or scavengers.
Ravi's arrival silenced them. He stopped in the center of the square, his presence alone commanding absolute attention. The remaining Red Fang remnants froze, their bravado evaporating like morning mist.
His voice, when he spoke, was not loud, but it carried an unnatural resonance, reaching every corner of the square, every hidden listener.
"Hear me, denizens of this blighted place!" His gaze swept over them, cold and imperious. "Fenrir is judged. His reign of filth is ended. From this day forward, new laws govern this territory. This is my First Decree."
A hush fell, so profound that the distant drip of water from a leaking pipe sounded like a hammer blow.
"Henceforth," Ravi declared, his voice like the chipping of stone, "there shall be no theft by force, no assault upon the weak, no exploitation of the helpless within these borders. Those who prey on others, those who trade in suffering, those who perpetuate the cycle of cruelty – your time is over."
His eyes narrowed, and the divine pressure, the 'Godly Aura', washed over the square, a chilling wave that made knees tremble and hearts pound. "Violators of this Decree will face immediate and absolute judgment. There will be no warnings. There will be no mercy. Only a reckoning."
A few of the remaining Red Fang thugs, perhaps emboldened by desperation or sheer stupidity, exchanged nervous glances. One, a burly lout named Grish, who had been Fenrir's enforcer for collecting 'protection' money, sneered, though his eyes betrayed his fear.
"And who are you to make laws, stranger?" Grish blustered, trying to project an authority he no longer possessed. "The Pit has its own rules! Fenrir might be gone, but—"
Ravi's gaze snapped to Grish. The pressure intensified around the thug, crushing him, making him gasp for breath.
"I am the one who judged Fenrir," Ravi stated, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that somehow carried even more menace. "And I am the one who will judge you."
Before Grish or his companions could react, Ravi moved. He was a blur of motion, covering the distance to Grish in an instant. His hand shot out, not in a strike, but clamping onto Grish's face, fingers digging into his cheeks, thumb pressing against his throat.
Grish's eyes bulged with terror and pain. He tried to scream, but only a choked gurgle escaped.
"You were a purveyor of fear," Ravi said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion, his eyes like chips of ice. "You extorted the weak, enjoyed their terror."
A dark, almost black energy, far more potent and visible than anything Mira had seen before, began to emanate from Ravi's hand, enveloping Grish's head. It was not the agonizing, soul-scouring power he had used on Fenrir, but something else – a direct, brutal annihilation.
Grish's body convulsed violently. A sound like wet cloth tearing ripped through the silence, and then, with a horrifying, visceral finality, Grish's head simply… imploded. Blood, bone fragments, and brain matter erupted in a gruesome spray, spattering the muddy ground and the horrified faces of Grish's nearby companions.
Grish's headless body crumpled to the ground, twitching for a moment before falling still.
A collective gasp, a sound of pure, unadulterated horror, swept through the onlookers. Several women fainted. The remaining thugs stared, their faces ashen, their bowels threatening to give way. This wasn't just killing; this was obliteration. A demonstration of power so absolute, so terrifyingly brutal, it shattered any lingering defiance.
Ravi stood over the headless corpse, his hand still outstretched, dripping with gore. He slowly lowered it, his expression unchanged. He looked at the other trembling thugs.
"Does anyone else question my Decree?" he asked, his voice calm amidst the carnage.
The thugs fell to their knees as one, faces pressed into the mud, babbling pleas for mercy, swearing fealty, anything to avoid Grish's fate.
"Mercy is earned through obedience and repentance," Ravi stated. "For now, your lives are spared. But you will carry my Decree. Spread the word. There is a new order in The Pit. And the Slum God does not tolerate defiance."
He turned his gaze to the wider crowd of slum dwellers, who were watching with a mixture of abject terror and a dawning, almost worshipful awe. This new 'god' was terrifying, yes, but he had just eradicated one of their tormentors in the most decisive way imaginable.
"This square," Ravi declared, gesturing to the blood-soaked ground, "was a place of Fenrir's cruelty. Now, it will be a place of offering."
He looked at Mira. "Fenrir's ill-gotten gains. His stashes of food, coin, any valuables. Bring them here. They will be redistributed to those he preyed upon. Starting with the weakest, the most vulnerable."
Mira, though still shaken by the gruesome display, nodded quickly, a spark of understanding in her eyes. This wasn't just about punishment; it was about a new, albeit harsh, form of justice. "I know where he kept his main hoards. It shall be done, Slum God." She quickly gathered a few of the now-terrified, formerly Red Fang thugs, their earlier menace replaced by trembling obedience. "You! And you! Come with me! You know the places!"
As Mira and her impromptu, fear-driven work crew departed, Ravi remained in the square, a silent, imposing sentinel. The body of Grish lay at his feet, a stark and crimson offering, a visceral testament to the seriousness of his Decree.
Slowly, hesitantly, some of the slum dwellers began to emerge more fully. An old woman, perhaps Granny Melle, though it was hard to tell from a distance, approached and left a small, withered fruit at the edge of the square, bowing deeply before scurrying away. Others followed suit, leaving meager offerings – a piece of scrap metal, a carved wooden trinket, a handful of dried beans. These were not acts of worship born of love, but of profound fear and a desperate hope for protection from this terrifying new deity.
Ravi watched them, his expression unreadable. He did not desire their trinkets, but their obedience, their understanding of the new order, was essential.
News of the First Decree, and the brutal enforcement that followed Grish's defiance, spread like wildfire, far faster and wider than even the news of Fenrir's death. The imagery was too potent, too horrifying to ignore: a head imploding, a quiet pronouncement of new laws, and the chilling promise of absolute judgment. Other gang leaders in The Pit, like Vylia of the Mire Snakes, heard the tales with growing unease. This 'Slum God' was not just another power-hungry thug. He was something different, something ancient and terrible, operating on a level of brutality and conviction they couldn't comprehend.
In his office, Captain Valerius of the City Watch received another hastily scrawled note from Pip, this one almost soaked through with what Valerius hoped was just cheap wine. "Decree made! Grish's head GONE! BOOM! God is serious! Offerings being made! People terrified! People… hopeful? City must NOT interfere. He is not like others!"
Valerius swore under his breath, rubbing his temples. A god who made heads explode. This was escalating far beyond a simple gang takeover. He needed to see this for himself, or at least get a reliable report from someone less prone to hysterical exaggeration than Pip. But the warning – City must NOT interfere – gave him pause.
Lady Seraphina Vayne, in her shadowed manor, listened to her informant, Marcus, recount the morning's events with a calm, analytical expression, though even Marcus seemed shaken by the details.
"A public execution, my Lady, of unprecedented brutality. And then a decree of… order? He then commanded Fenrir's wealth to be redistributed. It's… contradictory. Savage, yet with a strange semblance of justice."
Seraphina tapped a slender finger against her lips. "Not contradictory, Marcus. Establishing authority. Fear is the most effective tool for control, especially in a place like The Pit. And a display of 'generosity', even if coerced, can foster a certain loyalty amongst the oppressed." She smiled, a faint, chilling curve of her lips. "This 'Slum God'… he is more interesting than I initially surmised. He understands power, it seems. Perhaps on a level few in Veridia truly grasp."
Her jade eyes gleamed. An idea, audacious and dangerous, was beginning to form. A god in the slums. What an… opportunity.
Back in the square, as the sun climbed higher, Mira returned with several bulging sacks, escorted by the terrified thugs. Food, coin, scraps of cloth, even a few tarnished pieces of jewelry – the accumulated plunder of Fenrir's reign.
Under Ravi's silent, watchful gaze, Mira began the distribution, starting with the most destitute – the elderly, the sick, the mothers with starving children. There was no joy in the act, only a grim necessity, and the wide, fearful, yet undeniably grateful eyes of those receiving this unexpected bounty.
Ravi watched it all, a silent, brooding god, his First Decree sealed in blood and the dawning, terrified hope of a forsaken people. The Pit was changing. And its ripples were about to become waves.