Pilot

  In Vespera, authority and rebellion were in constant conflict. High above, jagged monoliths, skyscrapers carved into the city, their sharp spires pierced the planet's skyline, bathed in an endless glow of holographic billboards and artificial lights. Untouched by the filth below, the rich and powerful lived among the clouds. Their streets were silent, their air pure, their lives dictated by privilege and the ever-watchful eye of multiple enforcers. However, beneath that manufactured paradise lay the true face of Vespera — a tangled underbelly of crime, desperation, and rebellion. In the depths of the planet-wide city, the neon lights flickered erratically, struggling against the encroaching darkness. Dark, narrow alleys reeked of rust and decay, lined with vendors haggling over prices, selling black-market tech, stolen weaponry, and narcotics that promised escape from the crushing reality of the Federation’s rule. Here, laws were merely suggestions, and the only justice that mattered was from those who could enforce with their own hands.

  The Intergalactic Federation, an empire of order and control, stretching across countless star systems, binding entire worlds under the iron grip of law. It was a machine that demanded submission more than anything else, a monolithic force that could crush rebellion before it even began. They spoke of unity, of progress, of a future dictated by order — but to those who lived in the shadows of their authority, their presence was nothing more than a noose tightening around the throat of true freedom. And nowhere was this struggle more apparent than on Vespera — the city-planet of neon, cold steel, and artificial light.

  The Federation maintained a presence, of course. Patrol drones hovered above the city’s primary districts, scanning for threats with an unblinking red eye. Armored officers clad in the Federation’s signature black-and-red uniforms marched through the streets like predators, ever watchful for any sign of disagreement. But they were not invincible.

  The Outlaws — the lawless warriors, bounty hunters, and rebels refused to kneel — had made Vespera their battleground. And though the Federation called them criminals, anarchists, and murderers, to the oppressed, they were the last remnants of freedom in a galaxy that had all but forgotten it. The air itself carried the weight of tension, every back alley whispered of hidden details and unspoken conflicts, every neon-lit bar had a fugitive on the run. The streets were a battlefield where corruption and resistance danced in an endless cycle, a war waged not with grand armies, but with whispers, assassinations, and sudden bursts of bloodshed. Vespera was alive in a way no Federation-controlled world could ever be — chaotic, ruthless, and free.

  Tucked away in Vespera’s backstreets, past the flickering holographic billboards and the whirring of hovering vehicles overhead, sat a small, aging restaurant known as “Marty’s Shack”. It was a relic from a time before the city’s underbelly was fully consumed by crime and corporate greed, before the Intergalactic Federation stamped its insignia across every neon-drenched surface. The establishment was humble, almost pitiful in comparison to the towering skyscrapers outside, its cracked glass windows barely holding together under the weight of time and regret. A faded blue sign buzzed weakly above the entrance, flickering between as if the place itself was barely clinging to existence. Inside, the lighting was dim, casting a dull, yellow glow over the stained wooden counters and rusted metal tables, each one etched with years’ worth of outlaw graffiti — names of infamous criminals, death threats, and the occasional vulgar drawing scrawled in using a deep knife.

  The air inside carried a thick mixture of grease and cheap booze. A holographic menu board blinked irregularly, advertising fried meats, stale bread, and a mystery soup that had been brewing for so long that no one questioned its origins. The ventilation system wheezed like an old man struggling for breath, barely keeping up with the smoke curling from the open kitchen, where a tired old cook — Marty himself — scraped a burnt slab of meat off a rusted grill. He had seen everything in his decades worth of running this joint: fugitives licking their wounds, corrupt enforcers breaking down the desperate mercenaries planning for their next kill. He served them all, no questions asked.

  A radio crackled in the background, broadcasting another Intergalactic Federation propaganda bulletin, its polished voice provided a stark contrast to the grungy establishment. “Citizens of Vespera, the Federation ensures your safety. The presence of outlaws and criminal elements will not be tolerated. Report any suspicious individuals immediately. Glory to the Federation.”

  No one in Marty’s Shack even looked up. The Federation’s announcement was as regular as the day’s special — both equally disappointing. A few customers sat scattered across the dinner, hunched over their plates, silent and paranoid. A slouching bounty hunter checked his weapon under the table, pretending to sip his drink while a pair of gang members whispered near the back, throwing glances toward the entrance. Everyone here knew the rules — don’t cause trouble, don’t ask questions, and don’t get yourself killed.

  But then, the doors creaked open, and trouble walked in. A figure strolled in like he owned the place, shoulders loose, steps unhurried. His half-lidded purple eyes scanned the restaurant with the sharpness of someone who was both completely relaxed and completely in control. He was tall, lean, yet effortlessly strong, his presence too loud despite him not saying a word yet.

  He wasn’t dressed like a desperate fugitive, nor a battle-worn outlaw. His clothes were casual and clean, his dark leather jacket absorbed the dull, yellow light as he stepped forward — but there was something undeniably off about him, something that made every person in the room shift uncontrollably in their seats. Maybe it was the way he smirked to himself, amused by a joke only he understood. Maybe it was the fact that his bounty — an absurdly high number — flashed on a nearby screen, and he didn’t even blink at it.

  Dex Solstice found an empty booth, plopped himself down like this was his personal dining room, and picked up a worn-out menu like a man making the most important decision of his life.

  “Alright,” he muttered to himself, tapping the table. “Let’s see what kind of garbage this place calls food.”

  He leaned back against the booth, flipping the stained, crumpled menu between his fingers as if he were reading the scriptures of a long-lost civilization. His disheveled, black-and-white hair, and his cunning purple eyes darted across the list of options, narrowing slightly at each disappointment.

  “Steak’s probably overcooked…” he muttered. “Pasta? Fried chicken? Maybe. What the hell is ‘Marty’s Special Mystery Dish? That sounds like a death sentence.”

  A tired, grease-stained waitress approached, barely sparing him a glance as she pulled out a datapad to take his order. She had the look of someone who had seen too much — dark circles on her sunken eyes, a permanent frown, and a uniform that hadn’t been washed in days.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice as dry as the air.

  Dex tilted his head, offering her a grin that was both cocky and completely unserious.

  “Alright, listen, I have very, very specific tastes,” he started, lightly tapping the table with his one finger. “And if y’all ever mess that up, I might just have to throw a little tantrum.”

  The waitress blinked at him, unimpressed. “Buddy, I don’t get paid enough to care.”

  Dex clicked his tongue. “Good attitude, I like that. Okay — give me your best fried chicken, but if it’s even slightly soggy, I’m flipping the damn table.”

  “Right,” she barely looked at her datapad as she typed. “Any more complaints?”

  “Now, I hate vegetables,” Dex continued, his voice laced with genuine disgust. “So if I see a single leafy green on my plate, I’m spitting it in your fucking face.”

  “Got it. No greens.” said the waitress, her eyes speaking clearly of boredom.

  Dex leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “And the fries — make ‘em crispy. I’m talking golden brown, the kind of crispy that crunches loud enough to wake up the dead. None of that disgusting, soggy nonsense. You give me soggy fries, and I will—”

  “—flip the table?” she guessed, already sounding exhausted.

  “Exactly, you’re catching on!”

  The waitress let out a slow sigh, finishing the order. “Anything to drink?”

  Dex tapped his chin, then smirked. “Ya got watermelon juice?”

  She raised a brow, slightly taken aback by the randomness of that request. “Uh… no.”

  He clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Of course not. You people have no culture.”

  “Just get some water.”

  “Ugh, fine.” Dex groaned, leaning back against the seat like he’d been personally wronged.

  The waitress walked off. Why do all the weirdos come in here? She muttered as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  While his order was being taken, Dex’s sharp, purple eyes lazily drifted across the room, taking in the details that people wouldn’t bother noticing. The restaurant was a melting pot of lowlives. Gang members, bounty hunters, and outlaws looking for their next opportunity. Every face told a story — some desperate, some dangerous, and some too stupid to know which category they belonged in. The place had a rhythm, an unspoken law of its own. People kept their heads down, business was handled in muzzled tones, and if someone drew a weapon, it was usually because they had a death wish.

  Across the room, a table where a group of bounty hunters sat hunched over their drinks, pretending to ignore him. Amateurs. Dex could tell from their stiff posture, the way their eyes flickered toward him whenever they thought he wasn’t looking. The hands rested a little too close to their bests, itching to reach for a weapon. He counted four of them — two seemed seasoned and experienced, judging by the scars and burn marks on their arms, and too rookies who still had that eager, restless look in their eyes.

  They’re debating it. He could almost hear their thoughts. Do we try it? Do we take the bounty on Dex Solstice?

  A slow smirk tugged at his lips. He turned his head slightly, just enough to make eye contact with one of the younger bounty hunters.

  The poor bastard froze, gripping his drink tighter, while Dex didn’t say a word and just stared. The rookie looked away immediately, his fingers twitching against the glass. His older companion nudged him under the table, whispering something Dex couldn’t hear. He’s probably telling him to let it go. Smart choice.

  Dex exhaled through his nose, his amazement growing as he shifted his gaze to another part of the restaurant. A gang sat in the far-left corner, a group of six, all wearing the same red-striped jackets — some back-alley syndicate that thought they owned this part of the city. Unlike the bounty hunters, they weren’t watching him. They were too busy laughing over some joke, drinks clinking together as one of them slammed his fist against the table. But Dex wasn’t stupid, he noticed the subtle things. The way one of them, a lanky guy with a scar over his lip, had been eyeing him ever since the moment he walked in. The way another one had whispered something to his buddy, and then glanced his way, a little too casual to be considered natural.

  He let out a quiet sigh, leaning back further into the booth, his expression slipping into one of complete boredom. “This again?”

  It was always the same. Walk into a place, get some stares, and then people backed off or got greedy. His bounty wasn’t the highest out there, but it was enough. Enough to make some desperate idiots think they could make a name for themselves. The gang member reached for his drink, swirling the glass idly before taking a sip. His fingers drummed lazily against the table. He could already predict how this was going to go.

  They’re going to wait until I leave. That was how these types operated. No one wanted to start a fight in public unless they had to — too many ways it could go wrong. But once he stepped outside? That’s when they’d make their move. “Can’t y’all just get this over with, goddamnit.” he wished.

  The clatter of plates broke through the quiet hum of conversation. A steaming dish was placed in front of Dex with practiced precision, the aroma of fried perfection whirling into the air.

  “One order of double-stacked crispy chicken with seasoned fries.” the waitress announced, her voice neutral and exhausted.

  Dex’s purple eyes lit up. He straightened in his seat, clasping his hands together as if in silent prayer. “Now this—” he breathed, taking in the golden-brown, perfectly crisped exterior of the chicken. “—is what I live for.”

  The waitress gave him an expressionless look, muttered something about enjoying his meal, and walked away before Dex could drag her into an unnecessary conversation about the art of frying chicken.

  Dex barely noticed. His world had narrowed down to the plate in front of him. He picked up one of the fries, giving it a testing squeeze. The crispness was perfect — just the right balance between firm and fluffy. He popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Then, with slow, deliberate care, he lifted the piece of fried chicken, inspecting every inch of it like it were some priceless artifact.

  The bounty hunters were still watching, the gang members too. He could feel their eyes on him, waiting for him to make a move. Maybe they thought he’d get nervous. Maybe they expected some outlaw bravado, some sneer or glare to acknowledge their presence.

  Instead, Dex took the biggest bite out of the fried chicken, chewed slowly, and let out a deep, satisfied sigh.

  “Holy shit,” he groaned, voice practically dripping with pleasure. “This might just be the best damn thing I’ve ever had.”

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  The restaurant fell into an awkward silence. A few people exchanged glances, unsure how to react to the outlaw having what could only be described as a borderline spiritual experience over a piece of chicken. One of the bounty hunters shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The gang members looked at each other, some stifling sneers, others frowning in confusion. But Dex didn’t care. If anything, their reactions just made the meal taste better. He leaned back in his seat, stretching out one arm while taking another massive bite, completely at ease. His purple eyes flickered lazily toward the bounty hunters, then to the gangsters. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned.

  “Have y’all ever eaten something so good you almost wanna cry?” he asked, voice casual, as if he were talking to his old friends.

  No one answered, every person in the room remained silent out of fear.

  Dex smirked, tilting his head. “No? Damn. You’re missing out.” he exhaled in satisfaction as he pushed the empty plate forward. The remnants of sauce streaked across the surface like battle scars, evidence of a meal he thoroughly enjoyed. He flicked a toothpick between his fingers, his expression one of complete ease despite the heavy stares drilling into his back. The bounty hunters, four of them, sat two tables away, pretending to be engaged in conversation. But their eyes kept darting in his direction, assessing and calculating his very move. But they weren’t the only ones. The gang members from earlier, six in total, had spread out across the room, positioning themselves near exits and along the bar, feigning casual interest in their drinks. The restaurant had taken on a new kind of silence — one that was heavy with anticipation.

  Dex didn’t need to turn around to see it. He could feel the shift in the air, the way the weight of hostility pressed down like a storm about to break. He rolled his shoulders, reaching for his glass of water, and taking a deliberate sip. He didn’t look at any of them deeply, but his smirk deepened, as if he found the whole situation amusing. The bounty hunters pulled the trigger first. Their leader, a grizzled man with a scar running from his jaw to his temple, rose from the seat. His partners followed, stepping in rhythm as they approached Dex’s table. The restaurant’s customers instinctively leaned away, some even getting up to leave. The tension was suffocating now, just as thick as the neon haze outside.

  “You finished eating?” the leader asked, his voice was as rough as a pound of gravel, worn from years of smoking or shouting orders.

  Dex tapped his toothpick against the table, not bothering to look up. “Yup, it’s a good meal worth eating, you guys should try it some time.”

  A few of the gang members snorted from their seats, watching with amused interest. The bounty hunter’s lip curled. “I think I know why you’re here.”

  Dex finally lifted his gaze, his violet eyes gleaming under the dim lighting. “Yeah, yeah. Bounty on my head, all that jazz. Y’all never get tired of this, huh?”

  The restaurant fell into a tense silence, save for the distant hum of neon buzzing outside and the quiet clinking of glasses from a few uninterested customers. The bounty hunters stood in a loose semi-circle around Dex’s table, their postures stiff, and their hands resting just close enough to their weapons to make their intentions clear.

  “We don’t gotta get tired of it, Solstice. As long as you keep breathin’, there’s good money in bringing your ass in.” Said another bounty hunter.

  Dex exhaled loudly, tilting his head back as if he was bored beyond relief. His chair creased slightly as he shifted his weight, one elbow resting lazily on the counter. The bounty hunters tightened their stance, and the gangsters, who had clearly been hoping for an opening of their own, bristled. He swirled the last sip of his drink before downing it in one smooth motion. Then, with a careless flick of his wrist, he tossed the empty glass over his shoulder, shattering against the floor, the sharp crack of breaking glass cutting through the silence like a gunshot.

  The bounty hunters flinched, each of them stepped back in disarray, while the gangsters tensed, one of them even ran out the establishment out of fear.

  But Dex didn’t falter. Instead, his face was nothing but a sinister grin that crept its way into the minds of everyone. “I mean, come on. Look at y’all!” You really think this is gonna go the way you want?” He asked, pulling out a sharp, serrated dagger in his left hand. “Hell nah, you ain’t winnin’ against me.”

  Just outside the restaurant, a shadowed, mysterious figure stood on the rain-slicked streets, his cloak reflecting on the city’s neon glow. It billowed slightly in the cool night breeze, his posture unreadable, yet his presence was undeniable. His eyes were sharp and calculating, remaining locked onto the bustling establishment, watching through the glass as the chaos unfolded within. The muffled sounds of shouting, clattering plates, and frustrated voices drifted through the air, and yet he had to step inside.

  He already knew the culprit behind it all.

  With a quiet sigh, he closed his eyes briefly before speaking in a low, almost resigned tone, the weight of familiarity heavy in his words. “Not again,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’ve already caused enough, Dex.” His voice carried a mix of disappointment and amusement, as if he’d long accepted the inevitability of nights like these. Yet beneath the surface, a quiet concern lingered — because no matter how reckless or unhinged Dex could be, trouble always had a way of escalating beyond mere destruction, and he knew all too well that one day, it might be more than just a broken restaurant left in its wake.

  He was tall but lean, built like a blade rather than a hammer — muscle sculpted not for brute force, but for precision, for speed. His coat, long and tattered at the edges, barely swayed in the dry breeze, as if the wind itself dared not disturb him. Beneath it, a fitted black shirt clung to his frame, and dark cargo pants hung loose over heavy boots dusted with the dirt of long-forgotten roads. His hair was silver — wild, yet somehow orderly, strands falling in jagged layers that framed his face while others cascaded down the back of his neck. It shimmered faintly under the dim alley lights, a stark contrast to the shadows that seemed to embrace him. His hat, tilted low, cast most of his face in darkness, but what little could be seen — a sharp jawline, the ghost of a smirk — hinted at a presence both knowing and dangerous.

  The lone figure stood in the shadows of the alley, a faint blue glow illuminating his sharp features as he held a sleek, black holographic pad in one gloved hand. The screen flickered to life with a hum, its surface filled with scrolling data, bounty listings, and encrypted transmissions. The figure barely reacted as he flicked his finger across the interface, the rapid movements of his hand precise and practiced. His expression remained unreadable — calm and indifferent — until the screen settled on a single name. A grainy, yet unmistakable image filled the screen — a young man with messy, black-and-white hair, purple eyes alight with untamed arrogance, and a smirk that practically mocked the universe itself. His posture in the captured shot was casual, almost lazy, yet his very existence radiated an undeniable danger. The bounty listing beneath the image flashed ominously. A sum that placed him among the highest-paid outlaws in the system. That amount was enough to make even the most hardened bounty hunters sharpen their blades and lock their sights on the prize. The figure's amber eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, traced over the details of the listing, absorbing every word.

  Name: Dex Solstice

  Bounty: 50,000,000 ?

  Status: Alive Only

  Threat Level: Extreme, proceed with caution

  Known Affiliations: Renegades, Outlaw Association

  The figure’s grip on the pad tightened slightly.

  50,000,000 Myria, that number didn’t come without reason. Dex wasn’t just some lucky criminal with a lucky streak. He was dangerous, the kind of outlaw that could turn entire city sectors upside-down just by walking into the wrong — or the right — place.

  His reputation had spread like wildfire, whispered between mercenaries and black-market brokers. Some called him reckless, others called him a demon. But all of them agreed on one thing — he was completely unpredictable.

  A gust of cold wind swept through the alley, but the figure barely noticed. His attention remained locked on the screen, thoughts flickering through his mind like a greasy machine. A bounty this high meant Dex had made some very powerful enemies. The Intergalactics, for one. But it wasn’t just them. No, this kind of price wasn’t just about law enforcement. Someone else wanted him taken off the board.

  The figure’s gaze lingered on the “Alive Only” tag, which was rare. Most outlaws at this level had a “Dead or Alive” status, but this… this was different. Someone wanted Dex breathing, for reasons unknown.

  A slow exhale left his lips, vapor trailing in the cold night air. He tapped the screen once, causing the bounty listing to shift. A side profile displayed various known altercations, brief records of fights Dex had been in. The logs were incomplete, but they painted a vivid picture — Dex didn’t just survive fights, he dominated them.

  One particular entry caught the figure’s eye:

  Incident Report #427-VX

  Location: Orion Market, Outer Rim

  Outcome: 14 bounty hunters incapacitated, 4 critical injuries.

  Suspect Dex Solstice fled the scene without sustaining visible injuries.

  The mysterious figure’s eyes traced the glowing lines of text, the cold blue light of the holographic pad reflecting against the sharp angles of his face. The numbers meant nothing to him, but the name attached to it — Dex Solstice — was impossible to ignore. He read on, his expression unreadable beneath the hooded cloak that draped over his lean frame. The report made it sound clinical, matter-of-fact, like Dex was just another outlaw causing trouble, another name in the long list of wanted criminals. But the mysterious figure knew better, this wasn’t just some random brawl or reckless skirmish, Dex had done this alone. Fourteen bounty hunters, all trained to take down high-value targets, and they still couldn’t lay a scratch on him. The figure let out a low breath, neither impressed nor surprised. “Of course they couldn’t.” he said.

  That was just the kind of person Dex was — untouchable, relentless, and utterly chaotic. The kind of person who didn’t just fight to survive, but thrived in mayhem, and the kind of person to turn a simple bounty collection into a disaster zone. He tilted his head slightly, considering. “So he’s still trying to keep himself in check.” A quiet hum left his lips, showing neither approval nor disapproval, just contemplation. And yet, as the figure shut off the pad and slid it back into his cloak, there was no sign of greed or interest in his gaze.

  His fingers brushed against the edge of his cloak as he made his way forward, boots lightly tapping against the pavement. The chaotic energy of Vespera was something he had long grown used to — the sharp glances from the crowd, and the ever-present hum of danger in the air. As he neared the entrance, he thought about how to approach Dex. A direct meeting would only cause unnecessary trouble, and if Dex was already in the middle of something — as he usually was — then walking in without a plan would just make things worse. No, he’d watch first, wanting to see what kind of mess Dex had gotten himself into this time. Then, he’d step in if needed. His gaze lingered on the neon sign above the shack, half of its letters flickering on and off in a broken pattern.

  After coming to a conclusion, his foot reached the first step of the entrance.

  BOOM!

  A deafening explosion erupted from inside the diner. The doors blew outward, torn from their hinges as a shockwave of heat and fire slammed into the street. Windows shattered in a violent burst, raining shards of glass onto the pavement like a glittering deathtrap. The force sent nearby civilians sprawling, screams mixing with the high-pitched wail of alarms. But the mysterious figure didn’t move, as if this was a normal occurrence to him. The blast whipped his cloak violently around him, ashes reflecting in his sharp eyes. Smoke curled upward, thick and suffocating, but he barely flinched. His fingers twitched for a moment, as if debating whether to intervene, but he held back. Instead, he deeply sighed, tilting his head as he watched the fire lick at the building’s last remains.

  “Guess he started without me.” The mysterious figure muttered.

  The thick smoke curled like ghostly tendrils, swallowing the wreckage of the shack in a suffocating embrace. Embers flickered in the air like dying stars amidst the chaos. The once-lively atmosphere of Marty’s Shack had been reduced to ruin, its walls caved in, its neon lights shattered, flickering weakly before dying altogether. The stench of charred wood, burnt flesh, and gunpowder hung thick in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. The relentless screams had faded — only the sound of shifting rubble and the occasional groans of the barely conscious remained.

  The explosion had turned the surrounding street into an apocalyptic wasteland. Shards of glass covered the pavement like a jagged carpet, glinting under the dull glow of nearby street lamps. Tables and chairs had been blown apart, their remains scattered like discarded bones. Smoke rolled outward, swallowing the alleyways, creeping between towering buildings that loomed overhead like silent spectators. And yet, amidst the destruction, stood the mysterious figure at the edge of the ruin, untouched by chaos. The light cast his shadow long against the cracked pavement, his form lean but built with a quiet lethality — like a blade honed to a perfect edge, waiting to be drawn.

  His high-collared cloak draped over his shoulders, dark and unassuming, save for the subtle hint of a sheathed katana at his waist. His jet black hair fell messily on his forehead, shifting ever so slightly as the wind whispered through the empty sheet. Golden brown eyes peered out from behind a smooth, shogun mask from ancient times, filled with a sharp, calculated gaze. He had been standing there for a while now, observing from the moment the first shout rang within the restaurant. He had seen the way the brawl escalated, how bounty hunters and gangsters alike swarmed a single man, hoping to claim a reward worth more than most would see in a lifetime. Yet now, the dust was settling, and only a few others remained. The figure exhaled slowly, fingers brushing over the hilt of his katana, but before he could take another step forward, his senses sharpened — there, the faintest shift in the air, a misplaced footstep between shattered glass. He didn’t need to turn around to know what it was, a bounty hunter.

  A man who had likely hidden himself when the chaos had erupted, waiting for the right moment to strike. And yet, even with all that patience, he was still nothing more than a fool.

  “You’re pathetic at sneaking,” the mysterious figure uttered, his voice carrying no urgency and no fear — only a quiet certainty.

  The bounty hunter behind him froze. His plan had been perfect — or so he thought. He had crept through the alley, knife gripped tight, breath held as he prepared to drive the serrated edge into the man’s exposed back. Yet now, with those words alone, his body seized with terror. How? He barely had time to process the thought before steel flashed.

  A single, fluid motion. The katana unsheathed in an instant, cutting through the air with a whisper of fatality. The bounty hunter never even saw it. His vision tilted, the world around him spinning unnaturally, and then — darkness. His severed head tumbled to the ground, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop, his lifeless eyes still frozen in shock. His body followed a heartbeat later, collapsing onto the blood-slicked pavement with a dull thud. The mysterious figure didn’t so much as glance at the corpse. The katana gleamed under the dim light, its edge pristine, untouched by the blood that now pooled beneath it. With a flick of his wrist, a fine red mist scattered into the air before he smoothly returned the blade to its sheath.

  “You bounty hunters are all the same,” he murmured, not even bothering to sound disappointed. “Way too predictable.” He exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly, as though shaking off the weight of boredom, then reached up, fingers grasping the edges of his shogun mask. In one slow, deliberate motion, he pulled it free. Beneath it, his sharp features were revealed — golden-brown eyes, once shadowed by the mask, now gleamed with an amused, almost lazy sharpness. His tousled jet-black hair shifted with the wind, unruly as ever. He ran a hand through it idly, his smirk deepening.

  “Guess I can stop pretending now.” His voice carried a quiet satisfaction, though his gaze never wavered from the true spectacle before him — the burning wreckage of Marty’s Shack.

  The fight had reached its crescendo, and through the thick haze of smoke, a single figure emerged. His form was draped in something almost alive, dark tendrils of energy coiling around him like shadows made flesh, twisting and writhing as if feeding off the destruction itself. The mysterious figure’s eyes narrowed slightly, his grip on the hilt of his katana tightening ever so slightly. “Wizardry,” he muttered under his breath. “I told you not to use that power against ordinary people.” The word carried weight. A power beyond the limits of the ordinary. And in that moment, as Dex Solstice stepped forward, his silhouette illuminated by the glow of scattered embers, there was no doubt in his mind — this was going to be very interesting. He tilted his head, his wild, two-toned hair swayed with the wind.

  “Didn’t think I would see you here, Renzo.” said Dex with a visible grin on his face.

  Renzo exhaled slowly, fingers weaving through the air as faint streams of mana gathered at his fingertips, its appearance that of a mysterious fluid. He knew Dex wasn’t one to hold back, not even against a supposed ally. The moment Dex had stepped forward, Renzo had already resigned himself to what came next. Renzo’s fingers moved in precise motions, guiding the swirling tendrils of Mana that coiled and uncoiled at his command. The substance slithered like liquid shadow, shifting seamlessly between his hands as if alive, awaiting his next move. Across from him, Dex stood at ease, his hands lazily tucked into his pockets, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his excitement. And then, without warning, Dex raced towards him — and the world around shattered into motion.

  “Try not to die too fast, alright?” said Dex, his grin unwavering.