Chapter 63
Kendo Street. The most infamous landmark here was the Brothers Nightclub, a place run by the Brotherhood. It was infamous for its overwhelming number of dancers, blazing neon lights, cheap booze, and the rampant trade of drugs, human trafficking, and prostitution—all orchestrated by the Brotherhood.
This area was also part of the suicide slum. Compared to other parts of the city, the streets here were marginally cleaner, without the pervasive stench of feces and urine so common elsewhere.
The Brotherhood was a local gang, distinct from the other four major crime syndicates in the area. Unlike them, the Brotherhood was composed entirely of locals, each member as ruthless as the next. There was no question of abolishing this gang; it was entrenched in the fabric of the slum.
The people here were maddeningly poor, desperate to the point of insanity. Their only means of survival was the little money they could scrape together to protect themselves. Anyone who dared to provoke them was guaranteed to face their relentless vengeance. For these poor and crazed individuals, their desperation was their greatest weapon, their bottom line. No other organization dared to encroach on their territory, for the Brotherhood's ferocity and tenacity made them a force to be reckoned with. Under the leadership of three brothers, they built their gang and thrived in this forsaken slum.
Mike winked, casually stepped forward, handed over their tickets, and pushed open the glass door framed in gaudy, cheap gold plating.
A wave of heat and noise hit them like a wall. Despite the late autumn air turning crisp with winter's chill, the nightclub's oppressive heat seemed to fill the air, making their hair damp and their blood quicken to the beat of the deafening music. Multicolored laser lights flashed chaotically across the ceiling.
Below, the crowd was a frenzy of writhing bodies. People twisted their waists wildly, arms raised high, their voices hoarse from screaming. Some reached out toward the feet of dancers high on the stage.
The dancers swayed and sidestepped the hands of those without money. The wealthier ones, however, crouched down, grinding their hips while offering bills. They slipped cash into the dancers' underwear, letting their fingers linger, deliberately brushing against their skin. This left the patrons flushed, their excitement boiling over as they roared in wild abandon.
Bardi walked into Brothers Nightclub without hesitation. This was not a place that restricted entry. However, his refined demeanor and well-groomed appearance immediately made him stand out as someone who clearly didn't belong in a slum. The sight of him, accompanied by two bodyguards, caught the attention of the two gatekeepers.
"Does the boss have a guest today?" one of them asked.
"Haven't heard anything. Looks like an outsider," the other replied.
"Think he's just here to party?"
"Not sure. Better let Boss Jetery know."
The two gatekeepers exchanged suspicious glances. One of them eventually walked off to report to the boss.
The Brotherhood had three leaders—the three brothers. Among them, Jetery, the youngest, was the brains of the operation. It was largely thanks to his cunning and strategic mind that the Brotherhood had managed to establish its dominance in the slum. Seventy percent of the credit for their success was his.
Bardi's brow furrowed slightly as he stepped further into the nightclub. The air inside was thick and stifling, a cocktail of sweat, alcohol, and unidentifiable filth. Even with his sense of smell muted, it felt as though the grime in the air was seeping into his very pores. The heat, oppressive and unrelenting, weighed on him.
Behind him, Mike and Leon followed closely.
Leon, a little more wide-eyed, stole glances at the scantily clad dancers. His gaze lingered for a moment before he forced himself to look away, turning instead to the tall, commanding figure of Bardi leading the way. His emotions were a mix of exhilaration and apprehension. He and his companions had just pledged their allegiance to this enigmatic new boss, and he had no idea what awaited them.
Mike had been the one to recruit Leon and his group to join Bardi's operation. For Leon, who had been left penniless after being conned, the offer came at just the right time. Joining a gang had seemed like the only option for survival, and so they had quickly agreed to work under Bardi.
What Leon hadn't expected was the immediate payout. Upon joining, each member of his group received a $1,000 settling fee, a fortune in the 1980s, where the dollar's value carried significant weight.
Leon couldn't help but feel uneasy. The sum was too generous, almost unreal. His friends, however, had been overjoyed, reveling in their sudden windfall. But Leon, who considered himself more level-headed, remained cautious. What kind of job required this kind of upfront payment? What risks would they have to face under Bardi's command?
Bardi continued forward, his expression unreadable, heading toward the staircase at the back of the nightclub. The layout forced him to take a wide loop around the central dancefloor.
Two men stood guard near the stairs. One of them was distracted, his eyes glued to the gyrating dancers onstage. But as Bardi approached, the man snapped to attention, quickly shifting his lecherous gaze to the approaching trio. Suspicion crept into his expression as he watched Bardi close in.
Mike stepped forward and said he was looking for their boss. The gatekeeper, however, clearly didn't believe him, there had been no notification about anyone coming to see the boss. When Mike realized he couldn't talk his way through, he acted decisively. He grabbed the gatekeeper by the throat, cutting off his air supply, and stabbed a knife into his neck. The man crumpled, unconscious, and Mike dragged him into a dark corner out of sight.
The nightclub's atmosphere remained noisy and sweltering, and despite the violence, not many people noticed what had just happened.
In truth, they had no appointment and no connection whatsoever to the Brotherhood's boss.
Leon silently observed from behind as Mike went to work. Mike had warned him beforehand to stay calm and follow his lead. Leon had been startled when he saw Mike attack the gatekeeper so directly, but seeing Bardi remain motionless and indifferent, he forced himself to steady his nerves and watch quietly.
The three of them climbed the stairs, with Mike leading the way. Whenever someone crossed their path, whether it was a passerby or another guard Mike would step forward without hesitation and knock them out with brutal efficiency. His blows were swift, precise, and merciless. Leon couldn't help but flinch each time, his eyebrows twitching as fear and adrenaline surged through him.
After all, the Brotherhood was a major gang in the slums, an organization Leon had always regarded with fear and awe. He had heard countless horrifying rumors about their cruelty: tales of dismemberment, organ trafficking, and even maiming orphans to force them into begging on the streets. Their methods were so brutal and inhumane that they bordered on monstrous.
Leon had never imagined that he would find himself here, walking straight into the Brotherhood's den as if it were nothing. Watching Mike's raw strength and ruthless efficiency as he subdued each guard left Leon trembling, his heart pounding. Although he hadn't lifted a finger, the calm demeanor of both Mike and Bardi gave him a strange sense of security. At the same time, it stirred something inside him—an ambition, a yearning to possess the same strength and composure they displayed.
Just the thought of it filled him with excitement and a dangerous thrill, his body buzzing with adrenaline as he followed closely behind.
Chapter 64
'Bang' 'Bang.'
Mike raised his elbows and struck out with precision, taking down the burly Brotherhood guards stationed at the door in just a few moves. Against these untrained thugs, as long as they couldn't fire their guns, Mike had no reason to fear them.
The group reached the top floor of the Brothers Nightclub, the third floor, stopping at the entrance of a lavishly decorated room.
Mike wasn't entirely sure where they were going; Bardi had given simple hand signals—left, right, up—and Mike had followed cautiously, clearing the way with care. Bardi played with a 25-cent coin in his hand, his calm demeanor steadying Mike despite the tension. Luckily, the gangsters they encountered weren't prepared or positioned to use their guns, and Mike had handled them all without needing Bardi to lift a finger.
Mike twisted the door handle, finding it locked. He glanced back at Bardi, and with a nod from his boss, he raised his right foot and drove it into the door. The sturdy, well-decorated wooden door splintered at the lock, tearing apart the dark yellow wood. The door slammed open, crashing into the wall with a sharp crack.
"Boom!"
As the door flew open, a burly Black man behind a desk raised a Smith Wesson M39 pistol. His face contorted into a feral snarl as he roared, "You dare mess with the Brotherhood!?"
The muzzle flared, and a bullet shot toward the group.
Mike froze, his breath catching in his throat as his pupils shrank. Instinctively, he began to move, ready to roll sideways to dodge the shot.
But before he could react, Bardi's arm moved.
In a flash, Bardi's hand crossed in front of Mike's face. With two fingers, his index and middle finger, he caught the incoming bullet mid-air. The projectile's momentum stopped instantly, the sound of its flight fading as it was trapped between his fingers.
"Do you want power?"
Bardi's voice was calm as he held the bullet up in the air, making sure the burly man behind the desk could see it clearly.
Mike exhaled sharply, his pulse racing as he tried to suppress the fear coursing through his veins. Silently, he stepped aside, allowing Bardi to take center stage.
Behind them, Leon stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what he had just witnessed.
Catching bullets… with bare hands?
Leon had always assumed Mike was the strongest among them. Mike's physical presence, combined with his skill with guns, had made it seem like he was Bardi's bodyguard. Bardi, on the other hand, had always maintained a calm and detached demeanor, carrying himself like a composed leader rather than a fighter.
But this… this was beyond anything Leon could have imagined. Bardi had caught a speeding bullet with nothing but his fingers and then casually crushed the bullet's head. Leon's thoughts scrambled, his mind overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of the act.
The burly man's fierce expression froze. His eyes widened in disbelief as panic began to creep into his features. The idea of someone catching a bullet with their fingers was impossible, yet it had just happened right in front of him. Driven by fear and denial, his voice erupted into a roar: "Trying to do magic tricks on me!?"
'Bang bang bang bang!'
His panic took over, and he fired five more shots in quick succession. Flames burst from the muzzle as the bullets tore through the air toward Bardi.
Bardi remained composed, his hand moving with mechanical precision. His index and middle fingers opened and closed, catching each bullet as it came. The first bullet landed against the fleshy part of his fingers, the second was trapped moments later, then the third. With each opening and closing motion, a bullet fell harmlessly to the ground as another was caught.
By the time the pistol clicked empty, signaling it was out of ammo, Bardi stood there with six bullets held between his fingers.
"Do you want power?"
He repeated his question, his voice steady and unyielding. He had come here to take control of the Brotherhood, to make them his subordinates.
Bardi had hoped to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. His plan had been to quietly take over the Brotherhood, to eliminate the leaders of the other gangs, and then consolidate the territories under his control. But it seemed the Brotherhood's leader wasn't interested in listening.
The burly man's face twisted further into madness. His fear and disbelief gave way to desperation as he flung the empty Smith Wesson aside. Leaning down, he pulled a UZI 9mm submachine gun from beneath the desk and snarled through gritted teeth: "I'll kill you, you bastard!!"
His voice was filled with rage, but there was a clear edge of hysteria to it. He had already realized that the man standing in front of him was no ordinary opponent. In the suicide slums, survival belonged to lunatics and this man was undoubtedly a monster.
The burly man raised the UZI and pulled the trigger. The weapon erupted in a deafening roar, the room flashing with bursts of muzzle fire as he sprayed bullets wildly.
Bardi's expression turned icy, his patience running thin.
His initial goal had been simple: quietly subjugate the Brotherhood, turn them into an asset, and use them to dismantle the other gangs. But this leader's arrogance and refusal to listen had pushed him past the limit.
There would be no third warning.
The burly man's roar continued as the UZI spat bullets in a relentless burst of fire. His face was flushed red, his desperation fueling his madness.
And then, abruptly, the gunfire stopped.
Bardi flicked the bullet in his hand, and with terrifying force, it tore through the air and pierced straight into the man's chest. The impact shattered his sternum and left his heart in tatters, spraying blood onto the wall behind him in a gruesome splash.
A massive, gaping hole had replaced the burly man's heart. His face twisted in a grimace, his eyes filled with disbelief. He staggered, his body crumpling to the floor as the UZI submachine gun slipped from his lifeless hands.
Leon, watching from the side, felt his stomach churn violently. He swallowed hard, his mouth filling with bile as his cheeks puffed out like a hamster trying to hold it in. The sight made him nauseous, he was on the verge of throwing up.
"Leon, cut off his head," Bardi ordered coldly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. He turned toward the door, giving Leon an unobstructed view of the Brotherhood leader's lifeless body, as if to force him to confront the gruesome reality.
"What?!"
Leon clutched his stomach, his face pale, his eyes stinging from the urge to vomit. The unexpected order hit him like a slap in the face. For a moment, he froze in disbelief.
Cut off his head? Why?
Bardi cast a calm, indifferent glance at him. He didn't have the time to slowly nurture loyalty among his subordinates. Only violence and bloodshed could forge obedience, instilling fear and awe in those who served him.
It didn't matter to Bardi how these men turned out in the long run. As long as they followed his commands, they served their purpose.
"A minute. If Leon doesn't cut off his head, kill him," Bardi said, his voice devoid of emotion. He didn't care about Leon's potential hesitation or the young man's future.
Mike silently nodded. He turned to Leon, who stood frozen, and pulled a sharp, steel-bladed dagger from his waist. Tossing it to Leon, the knife clattered on the floor, its metal blade ringing against the ground, followed by the dull thud of the plastic handle.
Mike then retrieved a heavy Python revolver, cocked the hammer back, and pressed the cold barrel against Leon's temple without a word.
Leon's body stiffened instantly. His limbs went cold, and his sweat poured like a faucet, soaking through his clothes. The pressure of the gun against his head made him feel as though he might collapse at any moment. It was then that he realized earning that $1,000 was far from simple.
The Brotherhood had been founded by three brothers. Rumor had it their bond was unbreakable, with each willing to shield the other from bullets. Leon didn't even know which of the three this man was, but one thing was clear, cutting off his head would cross a line he could never come back from.
Sweat dripped from Leon's face as he swallowed thickly, his voice trembling as he stammered, "I… I… I'll give you the money back!"
Bardi rubbed his palms together slowly, glancing at him with a calm, assessing gaze. His tone was light but carried a weight that pressed down on Leon's chest.
"Leon, I think you have potential. I need capable people under my command."
Bardi's tone dropped, becoming icy. "How can a man be a man if he's never seen blood? You've got 40 seconds left."
With that, Bardi turned and began walking out of the room, his footsteps echoing faintly down the corridor.
"37…"
"36…"
"35…"
Mike's voice was unrelenting as he began counting down.
Leon stood trembling, his fear rising with each tick of the countdown. His entire body was drenched in sweat, his clothes sticking to his skin. His hands shook violently, and his chest heaved with labored breaths. His legs felt like they might give out at any second.
"Think about your brother," Mike said suddenly, interrupting the count. His words struck like a dagger to Leon's conscience before he resumed.
"27…"
Leon's pupils dilated, and his breathing quickened. A storm raged in his mind, the internal struggle tearing him apart. It felt like a full-blown earthquake was ripping through his thoughts, a magnitude so intense it shook his very soul.
By the time Mike reached "10," Leon's mental defenses cracked completely.
"AHHH!!"
With a desperate scream, he lunged forward, grabbing the knife.
Mike lowered the Python revolver, waiting silently.
When Leon finally stumbled out of the room, the Brotherhood leader's severed head in his trembling hands, his face was pale, and his breathing was heavy. Blood was smeared all over his clothes, his trembling arms struggling to carry the gruesome prize.
Mike clapped a heavy hand on Leon's shoulder, his tone calm but encouraging. "You've got guts. My eyes never fail when it comes to recognizing the strength in someone. Stick with the boss, and you'll get things you never even dared to imagine."
Without another word, Mike followed Bardi's trail, with Leon trailing behind. His steps were unsteady, his body weighed down by exhaustion, fear, and the sticky warmth of blood soaking his skin.
Chapter 65
The Brotherhood was founded by three brothers.
Jetley was the youngest of the three, the most educated, and the smartest.
From the very beginning of their rise in the slums, his strategies had been indispensable. Whether it was dealing with rival gangs or developing a reputation for their fierce and ruthless resolve, "If you mess with us, we'll take you down with us", Jetley's cunning ensured their survival whenever other gangs attempted to challenge them.
The Brotherhood was also the only gang with no ties to the metropolis's central districts. Through Jetley's efforts, they had become a neutral buffer, maintaining a fragile balance between the slums and the city. The gang's ability to survive relied heavily on his careful maneuvering and strategic cooperation with other groups.
Jetley himself was a dark-skinned man, so dark that at night, he could easily blend into the shadows. His most distinguishing feature was his large, sharp eyes, brimming with intelligence, a trait that made it instantly clear to anyone that he was a thinker, a man of strategy.
When one of his men hurried to report that someone unusual had entered the Brothers Nightclub dressed all in white, exuding the aura of a high-ranking figure Jetley immediately sensed trouble.
"Describe them in detail," Jetley ordered.
The man carefully described the group: Bardi, dressed in white, emanating an air of authority; Mike, a burly Russian who looked every bit the bodyguard; and Leon, a young man who seemed inexperienced, like someone who hadn't seen much of the world.
A strange combination.
Jetley's unease grew. He couldn't pinpoint the reason, but something about this sudden and unexpected appearance felt wrong. It disrupted the order of things, and his instincts told him it wasn't right.
Logically, they had no scheduled meetings with any distinguished guests today. And even if they had, any such meeting would have been planned in advance, with his two older brothers consulting him as usual. The three of them always made decisions together, and nothing about their operations had ever deviated from this pattern.
Tonight, his eldest brother was on the nightclub's third floor, tallying up the money and preparing to distribute their earnings.
The more Jetley thought about it, the stronger his sense of foreboding became. The three brothers, being triplets, shared a subtle telepathic bond, and the anxious tremors in his chest now filled him with dread.
Acting on his instincts, Jetley quickly sought out his second brother, Miley.
Miley was a former soldier, a deserter who had killed his racist superior before fleeing. As luck would have it, Miley happened to step out of a room just as Jetley arrived.
"I've got heart palpitations," Miley said with a grim expression, clutching his chest.
The two brothers exchanged a tense glance. Without hesitation, Jetley called for the Brotherhood's men and led them in a rush toward the Brothers Nightclub.
"Ahhh!"
By the time they arrived, the nightclub was in chaos. Screams of terror filled the air as panicked patrons poured out of the doors, their faces twisted in fear. The glass door shattered under the pressure of the fleeing crowd, and several people fell to the ground in the stampede. Those who fell were trampled, never managing to stand back up.
This kind of hysteria only occurred during violent gang fights, when bystanders scrambled to escape the crossfire.
Jetley and Miley's unease deepened. Miley, impulsive by nature, wanted to rush straight through the crowd and into the building to see what was going on.
"We can't go in through the front," Jetley said, his sharp eyes scanning the scene. Remaining calm, he grabbed his brother and directed him toward the side entrance, where there were fewer people.
Jetley didn't hesitate. He shot a few unlucky individuals blocking their path and stormed through the side door, with the Brotherhood's men following close behind.
Inside the nightclub, chaos reigned.
Mike stood on the stage and casually tossed the severed head of the Brotherhood's boss onto the platform. The sight of the bloodied head sent shockwaves through the room. Screams erupted as dancers scrambled off the stage, their legs trembling so badly they could barely move.
The audience, once entranced by the spectacle of flesh onstage, was now consumed by terror. They shouted and screamed, their voices hoarse with fear, as they trampled over one another in a desperate rush to escape.
The death of the Brotherhood's leader meant one thing: a gang war was about to begin.
In the past, countless innocent bystanders had been caught in the crossfire of such conflicts, and no one wanted to stick around to watch this play out.
Bardi leapt onto the stage. As the severed head landed, the nightclub's lights abruptly switched to bright white, illuminating the grisly scene for all to see. The horrifying clarity of the sight only added to the panic.
Bardi scanned the crowd coldly. The fear in their eyes was palpable, they looked at him as though he were a predator and they were prey. Some cowered, others scrambled to flee, their terror almost animalistic.
Leon stood at the edge of the stage, his body trembling uncontrollably. His face was still sticky with blood, and his fear was etched into every inch of his expression.
Onstage, Bardi's presence was like that of an immovable mountain. His white coat fluttered slightly, exuding elegance, but his actions were cold and ruthless. He killed without a second thought, as if human lives were meaningless to him. He had casually ordered Leon to cut off a man's head, an order Leon could hardly comprehend even now.
Leon's hands and feet still shook uncontrollably. His body felt like it wasn't even his to command anymore.
"Wipe the blood off your face, rookie," Mike said, tossing a triangular piece of cloth at him.
Leon caught it clumsily and began wiping his face without thinking. It wasn't until later that he realized the cloth was a dancer's panties, but in his state, he didn't care. His voice trembled as he muttered, "Was it… was it really necessary to do that?"
"Necessary?" Mike sneered, his tone laced with indifference. "Maybe you need a reason, but the boss doesn't. Maybe he wanted you to mature, or maybe he didn't. Maybe he wanted you to fear him, or maybe he was just in the mood. With the boss, it doesn't matter."
Mike smirked faintly and added, "In the end, you just do what you're told."
Leon looked at Bardi, who stood at the center of the stage in his white trench coat. In the dim light, that figure seemed almost otherworldly, like an evil spirit exuding an overwhelming, suffocating aura of dread.
"Isn't this… just like a moody tyrant who only cares about himself?" Leon's voice trembled as he whispered the words. His gaze dropped, and he dared not look at Bardi any longer, his eyes filled with fear.
Mike shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe! Tyrant, huh? The boss might actually like that title. Pay attention, rookie—watch and learn."
The chaos inside the nightclub had mostly subsided by now. Nearly everyone had fled, leaving behind a few bodies trampled beyond recognition. The room was a wreck: scattered debris littered the floor—coins, clothes, and even underwear. Broken glass sparkled amidst pools of cheap liquor and blood, their mingling odors thick with sweat and grime. The stench was suffocating, an unpleasant mix that churned the stomach.
Suddenly, two anguished roars broke through the disarray.
"Sam!"
"Sam!"
Jetley and Miley, the remaining two brothers, burst into view. They froze when they saw their eldest brother's lifeless body at Bardi's feet.
Their bodies trembled with rage, and their fury erupted like a volcano. Jetley's and Miley's faces twisted in anguish and fury, their eyes bulging as if they might burst from their sockets.
Their expressions were terrifying. Miley's fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails dug deep into his palms, blood dripping from his hands. The veins on his skin bulged like writhing serpents, pulsing with his seething anger.
"I'll kill you!!!" Miley roared, his voice cracking with fury. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, glowed with murderous intent.
Without hesitation, he drew a dagger from his waist and charged toward the stage.
The bright white light illuminated his every move as his black silhouette surged forward, the cold steel of the dagger gleaming ominously. It reflected the ferocity of his anger and the intent to kill.
The blade, sharp and unforgiving, streaked through the air, aiming directly for Bardi's chest.
It stopped just three centimeters short.
Bardi didn't flinch. He didn't so much as blink.
At the same moment, a green-bladed saber pierced through the air, slashing across Miley's path.
The blade stopped him in his tracks.
"Calm down, pick up your brother's head, put it back where it belongs."
Who knows? Maybe there's still a heartbeat."
...
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