THE FADE SYSTEM

CHAPTER 8: DECLARATION OF WAR

Ying City — Slums Sector, 11:08 PM

Screams tore through the night like a jagged blade through silk, sharpand unrelenting. They echoed off crumbling walls, bouncing throughthe narrow alleys and broken rooftops as if the city itself cried out inagony.

The slums was fuming in flames.

Flames roared across the twisted metal and patchwork tarps that madeup homes. Fire licked up the sides of shanties, hungry and wild.Smoke poured into the air in dark, suffocating clouds that turned themoon into a pale blur behind a veil of death. Wooden beams crackedand collapsed with groans that sounded too much like voices. Sparksrained down like cursed stars, carried by a wind that smelled ofsorrow. Children screamed beside their fallen parents, clutchinglifeless hands. The sick, too weak to flee, crawled through burning ashand broken glass, dragging themselves forward as they begged for amercy no one would give.

The stench was unbearable—burning flesh, blood, and the ever-present stink of rotting sewage. It blanketed the air like a curse,sinking into clothes, skin, and memories.

And in the heart of the chaos stood Nissa.

She looked like a war goddess sculpted from steel. Her black battlearmor shimmered beneath the firelight, every plate etched with curlinggolden patterns, regal and cruel. At her chest gleamed the crest ofHouse Varyon, proud and untarnished by the destruction around her. Acrimson cape billowed behind her, its fabric heavy and flowing likeblood pouring down royal steps. Her long silver hair caught the windand flame, glowing like molten moonlight. With each step, her bootscrushed charred toys, bones, and broken dreams.

She smiled like a queen who had already won.

“Ahh,” she sighed, her voice low and satisfied as she raised a glovedhand toward the burning district. Her fingers stretched like aconductor beginning a final, tragic symphony. “I’ve waited so long forthis moment.”

A strangled scream cut the air nearby. A man tried to crawl away butonly made it a few feet before a Royal Knight slammed a blade intohis leg, pinning him to the ground. The man howled until a swift kickto the face silenced him. Another knight hurled a glowing orb of greenmagic into a nearby home. The explosion split the building in half,hurling debris, fire, and terrified cries into the night sky.

Women shrieked. Men dropped to their knees, sobbing and shaking.Children darted between fallen bodies and fire, only to be caught bysoldiers and thrown to the ground like sacks of grain.

Nissa didn’t blink.

She stepped forward, her voice rising with unnatural strength, lacedwith magic that cracked the air. It echoed through the burning alleysand ruined courtyards like a divine curse.

“Do you all hear me?!”

The very ground seemed to vibrate.

“We, the highborns, allowed you rats to live in this corner of YingCity! Out of pity!”

Her next step landed on something soft—a small hand jutting out frombeneath a slab of wood and metal. The child whimpered in pain, thesound sharp and raw. Nissa looked down only briefly, her smirkcurling as if she enjoyed the sound.

“We gave you food,” she said, voice dripping with venom. “We gaveyou protection. Shelter. And how did you repay us?”

She turned in a slow, theatrical circle, her blade glinting in thefirelight. Her movements were precise, rehearsed. This wasn’t awarning—it was a performance.

“You sang for the Cove,” she said. “You cheered for that outlaw.Bucky Bane. A traitor!”

Behind her, the Royal Knights erupted in cheers. They raised theirweapons and slammed them against their shields. The clanging metaljoined the chorus of terror, drowning out pleas for help.

More screams followed.

Nissa lifted her blade, pointing it toward the survivors—those whohadn’t fled or fallen. Soldiers had herded them into a bloodstainedsquare, forcing them to kneel in ash and shattered glass. Some huggedeach other. Others looked up in silent fury. Most just stared, numbwith fear.

“But our Lord, Baron Varyon, is merciful,” Nissa declared, raising herchin. “He offers you one chance.”

She pointed the sword directly at them, her tone sharp and cold likethe swing of a guillotine.

“Bring me Bucky Bane. Alive. You have one hour.”

Then she turned her back on them.

She didn’t glance back—not at the wounded clutching their guts in the dirt, not at the mothers screaming over their sons, not at the towers of flame that reached for the stars like dying prayers. She moved with a grace that didn't belong to a battlefield, as if her boots weren’t coated in soot and blood. Her crimson cape fluttered behind her with every step, not like a banner of war, but like a final curtain falling on a tragedy long rehearsed. The wind caught it, lifting the fabric high for a moment before letting it settle—soft and slow—as though the flames bowed before her.

To her, this wasn’t a battlefield. It wasn’t even punishment.

This was justice, dressed in fire and fed by screams.

High above the rooftops...

Cain crouched in the skeleton of what used to be a watchtower, its top floor eaten by rot and time. The stone had long since cracked, exposing rusted beams and splinters of wood that jutted like broken bones. Smoke drifted up from the burning city, curling past his hiding place, thick and bitter. He didn’t move. Not even a breath. He stayed low in the shadows, hidden in a hollow formed by crumbling stone and twisted metal.

His hands trembled.

Below him, the slums writhed in chaos. The streets he once knew—where children played with makeshift toys and vendors shouted about stale bread—had turned into a war zone. Now, those same children screamed for their mothers. The stalls were ash. The laughter was gone.

Cain’s sharp senses picked up everything. Every c***k of a collapsing roof. Every gasp of someone breathing through smoke. Every whisper of fabric as a dying body shifted in the dust. He heard bones snap beneath steel boots. Heard the distinct, horrifying sound of a baby’s wail being cut off too suddenly.

He couldn’t block it out.

His hand shot up to cover his mouth, trying to steady the shallow breaths rattling through his chest. His eyes burned, but not from the smoke. The tears came anyway, hot and angry. They traced down his cheeks and dripped onto the dusty floor beneath him.

He had seen death before.

He had fought beside rebels in back alleys and forests. He had taken wounds that nearly killed him. He had stood toe-to-toe with soldiers trained to s*******r. But this… this was different. It wasn’t battle. It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t even vengeance.

This was a purge. Cold. Calculated. Merciless.

This was what happened when the powerful decided the poor had overstayed their welcome.

A sudden noise snapped him from his thoughts. Cain ducked lower, pressing his body flat against the cracked stone. A Royal Knight marched below, armored head gleaming in the firelight. In his grip, he dragged a young girl by the hair, her feet scraping uselessly against the ground. She kicked and screamed, but her voice was hoarse, already failing her. The knight didn’t stop. He yanked her out of view, vanishing into the smoke-choked ruins.

Cain's vision blurred. His fingers curled into a fist, trembling harder than before.

He dug his nails into his palm, needing something—anything—to ground himself. Blood seeped between his fingers, warm and real. The pain was small, but it gave him something to hold on to.

“This...” he whispered through clenched teeth. “This is war…”

But even as the words left his lips, they sounded wrong. War was fought between equals. This? This was butchery under a banner. This was power used like a hammer.

He didn’t wait any longer.

Cain slid back from the edge, moving across the rooftop like a shadow clinging to stone. His body moved on instinct—quick, careful, invisible. He ducked beneath broken beams, shifted around piles of debris, and sprinted under sagging lines of laundry now turned to ash. Fires crackled all around him, but he slipped through untouched. No soldier saw him. No shout followed. His aura bent the light, warping it just enough to keep him hidden from casual glances.

Finally, he reached the outskirts of the slums.

Here, the fire hadn’t reached yet, but it would. The buildings here were mostly hollow shells, abandoned even before the purge. Between two rusted sewer grates, nearly hidden beneath a pile of old crates and garbage, sat a hatch no wider than a wagon wheel. Cain knelt and brushed away the grime. His fingers found the hidden latch with practiced ease.

With a soft grunt, he pried the hatch open.

Below, darkness waited like an old friend. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped down into it, vanishing from the surface like a ghost.

He didn’t stop moving once inside.

The tunnel stank of mold, sewage, and rot, but he didn’t care. He splashed through shallow water, boots echoing against the walls as he ran. His breath came hard now, but he didn’t slow. His legs burned. His ribs ached. He kept going.

Because Bucky needed to know.

Because the others had to prepare.

Ying City was no longer teetering on the edge.

The edge had crumbled.

And war had already begun.