The whistle had been sharp and urgent—a sound that cut through the chaos of battle like a blade through silk.

Dev and Vince moved as one, abandoning their wounded opponents without a second glance. The Twin Fangs could bleed out or crawl away—it didn’t matter anymore. The whistle meant assembly, meant reinforcements or emergency, meant their presence was needed elsewhere immediately.

They moved through the forest like shadows given form, boots barely touching the ground as they leaped from branch to branch, from rock to rock, following the faint path illuminated by the moon’s light. Behind them, they could hear Tross’s enraged roars fading into the distance, but they didn’t slow.

Three minutes of hard running brought them to the clearing.

And the sight that greeted them was carnage incarnate.

The field was painted red.

Bodies lay scattered across the torn earth—men in black suits, Ferarro’s colors, their weapons still clutched in dead hands or flung aside in final moments of agony. Blood pooled in the shallow depressions of the ground, reflecting moonlight like dark mirrors. The metallic stench of it hung thick in the air, mixing with gunpowder smoke and the acrid smell of fear.

But despite the overwhelming number of corpses, the battle was far from over.

The Nest’s reinforcements had arrived—over two hundred of them, flooding in from multiple directions. They came armed with everything from assault rifles to shotguns to wickedly curved blades, their faces set in grim determination. This wasn’t a coordinated assault with commanders shouting orders. This was pure, chaotic violence—kill or be killed, the way mafia wars were meant to be fought.

And yet…

Jason’s team was holding them off.

Ten men against an army, and they were winning.

Dev’s eyes swept the battlefield, cataloging everything in seconds. The five remaining members of Jason’s deployed unit who weren’t engaged in elite duels were carving through the reinforcements with terrifying efficiency. They moved like reapers through wheat, each one worth fifty normal fighters.

But what drew his attention were the isolated battles scattered across the clearing—five separate duels between masters, each one creating its own arena of death.

In the center stood Hyperion and Kendrick.

Kendrick—third-ranked in the notorious Jaguar group, Ferarro’s personal enforcers. With Stevens overseas on assignment and only five of the ten elite members available, command had fallen to him. He stood six-foot-three of controlled violence, his black tactical suit already torn in several places. In his hands he wielded twin combat axes, each one wickedly sharp, the handles wrapped in worn leather stained dark by years of use.

Opposite him, Hyperion—fourth-ranked in Jason’s twenty-man team—moved with calculated precision. His blade, somewhere between a machete and a short sword, was already dripping red.

They circled each other, neither speaking now, both breathing hard. The time for words had passed.

To the east, Knox had engaged one of the Jaguar members—a wiry man with dual kukri blades who moved like a striking snake. Knox had abandoned his sniper rifle for close combat, wielding a combat knife in one hand and a tactical tomahawk in the other. The kukri blades came at him in a blur of steel, but Knox’s movements were precise, each block and counter strike placed with accuracy.

West of them, Sam faced off against a hulking brute armed with a heavy chain. The Jaguar member swung the chain in wide, devastating arcs that would have crushed bone and pulverized organs. Sam ducked and weaved, his twin batons looking almost comically small compared to the massive chain, but every time he found an opening, those batons cracked against knees, elbows, ribs—targeting joints and weak points with methodical brutality.

To the south, Max was in his element. His opponent wielded a pair of short swords with considerable skill, but Max’s throwing knives danced through the air on their invisible strings, creating a web of death that forced the Jaguar member onto constant defense. Max’s unsettling smile had widened into something almost manic as his knives found flesh again and again—shallow cuts that bled and weakened, death by a thousand slashes.

And to the north…

Collene moved like a dancer through hell.

Her opponent was a woman—rare in the Jaguar group—who wielded a naginata with frightening expertise. The long polearm gave her reach advantage, and she used it ruthlessly, the blade singing through the air in wide, sweeping arcs.

But Collene had her own weapon.

The barbed whip uncoiled from her waist like a living serpent, its length nearly fifteen feet of braided leather studded with cruel metal thorns. In her hands, it became an extension of her—fluid, unpredictable, deadly.

The naginata came down in a vertical slash. Collene’s whip cracked out, wrapping around the weapon’s shaft and yanking it aside. The Jaguar member adjusted instantly, spinning the polearm to break free, but Collene was already moving, the whip’s return arc catching the woman across the shoulder. Barbs tore through fabric and flesh, drawing a hiss of pain.

“First blood,” Collene said softly, her short-cropped red hair damp with sweat and other people’s blood.

The Jaguar member’s response was wordless fury, the naginata becoming a blur of steel as she pressed the attack.

Dev and Vince didn’t waste time observing. The moment they assessed the situation, they dove into the carnage.

Vince went high, finding a position on top of a partially collapsed stone wall that gave him clear sightlines across the battlefield. His twin handguns came up, and he began systematically eliminating threats—each shot placed to kill. No mercy, no hesitation. This was mafia warfare, and mercy was a luxury that got you buried.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Three Nest enforcers dropped with holes in their heads or chests.

Dev, meanwhile, went low—flowing into the thick of the fighting like water finding cracks in stone. His short sword became a blur of motion, deflecting incoming blades before finding throats, hearts, major arteries. He didn’t bother with non-lethal strikes anymore. These men had come to kill, and he would oblige them in kind.

A bulky enforcer charged him with a machete. Dev sidestepped, his blade opening the man’s throat in a spray of crimson. The enforcer collapsed, clutching at the wound uselessly. Dev was already moving to the next target.

Around him, the rest of Jason’s non-dueling team continued their brutal work.

A massive man with a shaved head swung his sledgehammer in wide arcs, and where it connected, bodies simply… broke. Bones shattered, organs ruptured, men fell and didn’t get up.

A lean figure in a gas mask moved through the chaos like a ghost, a combat knife in each hand. He didn’t make large, flashy movements—just quick, efficient strikes to kidneys, spines, arteries. Quiet death, almost gentle compared to the sledgehammer’s brutality.

Two more team members worked in tandem, back-to-back, creating a spinning vortex of blades and bullets that carved through anyone foolish enough to approach. They moved with the synchronization of people who’d trained together for years, each one covering the other’s blind spots instinctively.

Bodies piled up. Blood soaked into the earth. The Nest’s reinforcements kept coming, but they were dying faster than they could coordinate any meaningful assault.

This wasn’t warfare. This was butchery.

In the center of the clearing, Hyperion and Kendrick had stopped circling.

They stood perhaps ten feet apart, both bleeding from multiple wounds, both breathing hard. The ground around them was churned and broken, marked by the violence of their clash.

Kendrick’s savage grin had faded, replaced by cold calculation. “You’re better than I thought.”

“You’re worse than I expected,” Hyperion replied flatly.

Kendrick’s eyes flashed with rage. He charged, both axes raised high.

Hyperion met him head-on, his blade moving to intercept.

The clash of steel rang across the battlefield like a death knell.

****

To the east:

Knox ducked under a horizontal slash from the kukri blades, his tomahawk coming up to catch the follow-up strike. The impact jarred his arm, but he used the momentum to spin, his combat knife lashing out in a backhand slash that opened a line across his opponent’s ribs.

The Jaguar member hissed but didn’t slow, both kukris coming at Knox’s throat in a scissoring motion. Knox threw himself backward, the blades missing by inches, and as he hit the ground he rolled, coming up with his tomahawk already in motion.

The blade bit deep into the Jaguar member’s thigh. Blood spurted.

The man stumbled, and that moment of weakness was all Knox needed. His knife found the gap between ribs, driving upward into the heart.

The Jaguar member’s eyes went wide, then empty. He collapsed.

Knox pulled his blade free and turned immediately toward the main battle, looking for the next threat.

****

To the west:

Sam had given up trying to match the chain’s reach. Instead, he’d moved inside, accepting a glancing blow to his shoulder that sent pain radiating down his arm but allowed him to get close.

His batons hammered against the Jaguar member’s kidneys—left, right, left again. The man grunted, trying to create distance, but Sam stuck to him like a shadow.

The chain came around in a desperate backhand, but Sam ducked under it, his baton coming up to crack against the man’s elbow with bone-breaking force. The joint shattered, the chain falling from nerveless fingers.

Sam didn’t give him time to recover. Both batons came down on the man’s skull in a synchronized strike.

The Jaguar member dropped like a puppet with cut strings, dead before he hit the ground.

Sam staggered slightly, catching his breath, blood running down his arm from the chain’s earlier impact. But he was alive. The other guy wasn’t.

That was all that mattered.

****

To the south:

Max’s opponent was tiring. The short swords were impressive weapons, but they required constant movement, constant energy to wield effectively. And Max’s knives were relentless, never giving the man a moment’s rest.

Another knife lashed out, this one catching the Jaguar member’s forearm. The man jerked back, and in that moment of distraction, Max struck.

Three knives flew simultaneously from different angles—high, middle, low. The Jaguar member managed to deflect two, but the third caught him in the throat.

He dropped his swords, hands clutching at the blade embedded in his neck, eyes wide with shock. Blood poured between his fingers.

Max yanked the knife back with its invisible string, the blade pulling free in a spray of crimson. The man collapsed, drowning in his own blood.

Max’s smile widened as he began reeling in his other knives, ready for the next target.

****

To the north:

Collene’s whip cracked again, the barbs catching the naginata’s shaft and wrenching it to the side. The Jaguar member held on, but the momentary imbalance gave Collene the opening she needed.

She closed the distance in three quick steps, the whip coiling around her arm as she drew a combat knife from her thigh sheath. The blade came up fast, aimed at the woman’s exposed throat.

The Jaguar member released the naginata and twisted away, but she wasn’t quite fast enough. The knife opened a deep gash along her collarbone, blood flowing freely.

She stumbled back, one hand pressing against the wound, the other reaching for a backup weapon at her belt. But Collene gave her no chance.

The whip uncoiled in a blur of motion, wrapping around the woman’s legs and yanking. The Jaguar member crashed to the ground, and before she could recover, Collene was on her.

The knife descended once. Twice. Three times.

When Collene stood, the woman wasn’t moving anymore.

****

Four of the five Jaguar members were dead.

Only Kendrick remained, still locked in his duel with Hyperion.

And around them, the battlefield was beginning to fall silent.

The Nest’s reinforcements were breaking. Without their elite fighters, without any coordination, facing enemies who killed with such brutal efficiency… morale shattered.

Men began to flee. Some dropped their weapons and ran. Others tried to surrender, but in this kind of battle, there were no prisoners.

Jason’s team pressed their advantage, cutting down anyone still standing with weapons. The carnage continued, but the outcome was no longer in doubt.

They had won.

Now they just had to finish it.