Mithras was correct. Gangs had always existed, forming around brotherly bonds, and reflecting the needs of their communities. But without fail, they would eventually get twisted by the corrupt and crooked, devolving into mobs of self-serving criminals.
And in the Purple Dawn Continent, the man who caused the deviancy, perverting the original purpose and ideals of the first gangs...is none other than Hakim: the original gangster.
Just like Mithras, and most of the Fylkirs, really, Hakim was born in the little place that is now called Ravenwood. Raised by the struggle, bred by the streets, with pain as his wage, and filth as his surroundings.
Human, he fought all his life to make something of himself, only to realize that he'd followed his grandfather into madness and sold his soul to the Devil to become a hopeless abomination. For indeed, what is the Weaver...if not the Devil?
And for the Huntmaster, it made perfect sense. For what is this cursed world...if not the creation of the Devil? At least that was Hakim's perspective. A perspective forged by the catastrophic consequences of his Blood Conversion.
Blood Conversion often has mixed results. And in Hakim's case, it destroyed his soul—sealing his humanity behind a canvas of unhinged brutality.
Not that it mattered now, the Huntmaster had not cared about his human life in tens of thousands of years, too focused on the world of dripping blood he aimed to paint.
That Hakim now stood on top of a crystalline tower, shoulders shaking left and right as he moved on a silent beat.
"I'm just another cat caught up in the matrix of a plain and vain remix. Trying to take your heart for a blemish on my dumb fit.
Now I've got a task to hunt a brotha's ass, tell me will they blast me now? I think of an alias in case these crooked bitches ask me, now. It's gettin' crazy after dark, these narcs be like
Tryin' to shut me down but I'm too smart, now picture me scared of the penitentiary. I've been movin' these things since the days of elementary.
Now tell me what you need when you see me. I'm stackin' bricks, buyin all the things on Soul Creak.
Yet believe me when I say I'm a slacker now, never had no dough, now drilling in the afterglow. I'm a slacker, going wherever the wind blows.
Those just tuning in might not be aware so I'm letting you know...that I'm a slacker, and every time I take a look around...all I see is...mark-ass punks...bottom bitches. And you can all go to hell, for all I care. How does that sound?" Hakim sang an old tune, and as his beat trailed off, the Huntmaster raised his hands, conjuring a scarlet pentagram that flashed with sanguine rays.
The smiles and sneers vanished, replaced by a mix of rage and suffocating terror.
Only two people could provoke such a reaction from the Huntmaster:
Odoacer and...
"Lord Trajan..." Hakim said in a humble and respectful tone, not daring to provoke...the King of Majesty!
"So long as you know your place, the Blood Aristocracy still has a use for you. But dare to disrespect my brother's name, and second-generation or not...100,000 years old or not...I will reduce you into ashes and dust that very instant.
Understood?" In a twister of scarlet light, Trajan appeared at Hakim's back, staring at his Blood Nephew with a contemptuous look.
"Ah, chill. It's just a joke." Hakim tried to brush it off. But Trajan wouldn't have it, his Majesty erupting at full strength.
"UNDERSTOOD?"
Trajan's voice echoed like a supreme and inviolable command, instantly taking control of Hakim's body, and forcing the Fylkir...to answer as ordered.
"Y-yes...Lord Trajan." Hakim gnawed his teeth.
And so, the world's most dangerous group had assembled, waiting for Mithras.
Sadly for them, in their rush to test their nephew, the Fylkirs had forgotten a little fact.
Springtime City...now stands in the Mainyu Archipelago.
And the Mainyu Archipelago only has one ruler: Akamana di Angra!