CHAPTER 42: THE CREW

Chapter 81: The Crew

The moon glared down upon the South District like a silent sentinel, its cold light casting eerie glows across the open clearing where concrete had been poured but no warehouse had yet risen.

Wild grass fringed the edges of the lot, brushing up against rusted construction equipment and stacks of unused steel.

To the west, the thick outline of the forest loomed—dark and Was where Kai was fighting.

Tony stood at the center of the clearing, bat resting on his shoulder, eyes locked forward.

Behind him, ten Azura members formed a tight semi-circle, each one silent, each one burning with Ki.

The Moon Gang stepped into the open—twenty men.

Their formation perfect, their synchronization disturbing.

In their center stood a man who radiated control.

Vice Leader Orion.

He was dressed in charcoal grey, long coat swaying in the wind, a katana in his grip and madness in his eyes.

The air around him was heavier than gravity.

Tony clicked his neck and took a deep breath.

"Azura," he said. "We’re outnumbered. So what? Let them learn the cost of disrespect."

One by one, Ki flared from his team. Azure light danced across the dirt and gravel.

Three of his best stepped forward.

Zeke—slim, fast, deadly with two short daggers.

Colt—a mountain of a man with arms like tree trunks, wielding a war axe.

And Rio—the chain specialist, lean and wiry, Ki-infused chains wrapped across his torso like serpents asleep.

Tony nodded at them. "Clear your lanes. And don’t die."

A beat of silence.

Then chaos.

The two forces collided like thunder meeting steel.

Zeke vs The Crescent Shadows

Zeke shot forward first, slicing cleanly through the gap between two Moon Gang enforcers like a blade through silk.

His daggers shimmered faintly, catching only fragments of light before vanishing again into the shadows.

His body flowed with terrifying grace—less man, more liquid shadow given purpose.

Every muscle moved with intention, silent and deadly.

Three Moon Gang assassins stepped out to meet him.

Each of them wielded twin hooked blades, their stances sharp, disciplined—trained to kill, and trained to do it without a word.

They didn’t announce themselves.

They didn’t posture.

They simply attacked.

Zeke didn’t hesitate.

He dove low, barely brushing the dirt, and carved his dagger in a clean arc across the thigh of the first man.

Blood erupted like a cut water pipe, spraying crimson into the air.

The man stumbled back, groaning, his leg giving out beneath him.

But the other two were already closing in, utterly unfazed.

Their blades whistled as they carved intersecting paths through the air, aiming for Zeke’s sides and throat.

Zeke moved like smoke on the wind.

He twisted, dropping flat as the blades clashed above him, then launched himself between them.

One assassin reacted too slow—Zeke’s knee slammed into his chin with a sickening crack, snapping the man’s head back and launching him off his feet like a ragdoll.

Before he could hit the ground, Zeke surged upward, Ki exploding from his feet.

He struck the airborne man mid-chest with a two-footed kick, sending him hurtling into a pile of crates with a wooden crash.

The impact shattered something more than just boxes.

Zeke landed in a clean flip, body rotating midair like a spring uncoiled, and came down behind the last assassin—who was already turning.

Sharp.

Fast.

A spinning hook-blade sliced toward Zeke’s throat like a guillotine.

But he was already gone.

A breath too fast.

A step too fluid.

Zeke shifted behind the man, his blade slipping in with surgical precision between the ribs, angled perfectly to miss the spine by a hair but collapse the lung in an instant.

The man choked, stiffened, and then dropped.

Three bodies hit the floor in near-perfect unison.

Zeke didn’t smile.

Didn’t pause.

He was already moving—already gone—vanishing like death itself into the next cluster of enemies.

Colt vs The Iron Wall

Colt stepped forward, his breath steady—controlled.

The weight of his massive axe dragged across the ground, leaving a deep groove in the dirt as sparks flared from the friction.

Ki laced the weapon’s edge, glowing faintly like heat rising off smoldering steel.

It pulsed with every heartbeat, raw power barely contained beneath its surface.

Ahead, three Moon Gang enforcers stood in formation—towering brutes clad in reinforced riot gear.

Their weapons were just as brutal: a war hammer, a flail, and a spiked baton humming with violent intent.

They were the heavy hitters—made to break lines, crack skulls, and turn battlefields into graveyards.

Colt tilted his head, eyeing them like a butcher sizing up his next cut. A smirk tugged at his lip.

"Finally," he muttered.

They moved as one, coordinated in brutality.

The war hammer wielder charged first—faster than his size should allow—lifting the massive weapon high and bringing it down like a collapsing building.

Colt didn’t flinch.

He pivoted at the last second, sliding smoothly to the side.

His axe surged upward in a savage arc, the Ki along its edge screeching as it clashed with the enforcer’s chestplate.

The sound was like metal being torn apart by a storm.

The armor shattered.

The man’s scream was short-lived.

The axe bit deep into his shoulder, ripping through bone and plating alike.

He dropped like a tree, body twitching once before going still.

Colt ripped the weapon free with a single motion.

The second enforcer bellowed, swinging his flail like a lunatic.

The weapon howled through the air, each spike laced with Ki, spinning in chaotic rhythm.

Colt didn’t retreat.

He stepped into the strike, bracing.

The flail struck his forearm with a thunderous crack—but Colt’s Ki flared to meet it, absorbing the force. His boots held firm in the dirt.

In the same breath, his axe rose high—

Then came crashing down like a verdict.

The flail froze mid-swing.

Then dropped.

Along with its wielder.

Blood leaked from the split helmet, clean and precise.

The third enforcer paused—wiser than the others.

He kept his distance, circling, gathering Ki in his free hand.

Pulsing spheres of energy launched from his palm one after another, streaking through the air like missiles.

Colt advanced anyway.

Each blast struck the axe’s broad blade and ricocheted off harmlessly, sparking against the earth.

His steps were methodical—slow, almost casual—but unstoppable.

The enforcer’s attacks quickened, desperation bleeding into his rhythm.

Didn’t matter.

Colt was already in range.

He let out a roar that shook the ground, then slammed his axe into the earth with both hands.

The result was immediate.

A surge of Ki erupted outward.

Dirt and rock exploded upward, and the enforcer was caught in the blast, lifted off his feet like a ragdoll.

Before he could hit the ground—

Colt was already there.

Leaping with the force of a cannon.

The axe crashed into the enforcer’s chest mid-air, a meteor of force and fury.

The impact echoed like thunder, and the man crumpled beneath it, armor caved in like paper under a boot.

The battlefield went quiet around him.

Three down.