Chapter 6: The Code of Succession
501 Words
The silence that followed the gunfight was heavier than the explosion.
The remaining Syndicate guards gathered around us in a wide circle. Dust settled over Marcus's body. Blood seeped into the cracked pavement, mixing with the gray soot.
I sat on the ground, my hands coated in my uncle's warm blood.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with heavy tactical armor and a scarred jaw stepped out of the crowd. It was Captain Jax, Marcus’s second-in-command—a veteran who looked like he had been carved out of granite. He carried a heavy assault rifle slung across his back and wore a belt lined with extra magazines.
Jax looked down at Marcus's corpse, then shifted his gaze to me. His expression was unreadable, cold as ice.
"The Boss is dead," Jax announced, his voice carrying down the silent street.
The guards muttered among themselves, rifles held low, eyes full of anxiety and rising aggression.
"Vance turned traitor," a guard shouted. "The Scrappers are going to hit the water station next! Who's leading us?!"
Jax stepped closer to me. He unclipped a silver medallion from Marcus's neck—the heavy, iron-engraved crest of the Syndicate—and held it in his fist.
"According to the Iron Code written when the bombs fell," Jax said loudly, "the leadership of this faction passes to the founder's bloodline. If the Boss dies in battle, his kin inherits the Iron Crest."
He held the bloody medallion out toward me.
Immediately, a chorus of angry shouts erupted from the crowd of guards.
"He's a civilian!" a scarred lieutenant spat, stepping forward. "He just woke up from a five-year coma three days ago! He doesn't even carry steel!"
"He'll get us all killed in a week!" another shouted. "Jax, you should take the crest! We need a soldier, not a sleeping prince!"
Jax raised a hand, silencing the men, though his own eyes burned with deep doubt as he looked at me.
"The Code is the Code," Jax said coldly. "Without the Code, we are no different than the Scrappers. But..." He turned his sharp gaze back to me. "...a leader who cannot defend his crest will not last until sunset."
He dropped the heavy iron medallion into my palm. It was wet with my uncle's blood.
I looked at the medallion, then at the circle of armed, battle-hardened survivors staring at me with contempt, distrust, and hunger. Behind them, smoke rose from the ruined horizon of a world where expired food was a feast and water was bought with lives.
I had survived five hundred terrifying deaths in the nightmare abyss. I had fought shadow beasts, lava pits, and lightless oceans.
But as I stood up, clutching my dead uncle's crest in front of twenty armed killers who wanted me dead, I realized something terrifying:
The nightmare in my head was over.
The real nightmare was just beginning.
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