Chapter 5 : The Devil Walks Among the Flames

Three days later, the horror spreads beyond the walls of the slaughterhouse. Rome awakens not to the sound of church bells, but to the endless wail of police sirens and the chaos of journalists flooding the streets.

The newspapers carry a single, haunting headline:

“THE BUTCHER STRIKES AGAIN — NO ONE IS SAFE.”

Television channels replay shaky footage of the crime scene—body bags carried out one after another, officers covering their mouths as they retch while passing by. Blurred images of blood dripping from the ceiling, leaking through broken windows, fill every screen. Panic spreads like wildfire. Citizens lock their doors, whispers fill every bar, and parents pull their children closer, as if his shadow could slip through their homes at any moment.

But it is not only the public who trembles. In the hidden corners of Rome, the underworld descends into chaos. Mafia dons, drug lords, and human traffickers gather in smoke-filled basements, their eyes bloodshot, their hands shaking. The Devil Butcher is no longer a rumor—he is real, and he is hunting them.

“He’s hunting us like animals,” one whispers, his voice breaking. “If he can butcher them, then none of us are safe.”

Another slams the table, though his trembling fist betrays his fear. “We need to fight back—or we’ll end up hanging from the ceiling like pigs in a slaughterhouse.”

But deep down, they all know the truth. No amount of guns, no number of guards, can stop him. The Devil Butcher is more than a man. He is terror given form—an executioner with no mercy. And somewhere, in the shadows of the city, he watches already, sharpening his blades, waiting for the next symphony of screams.

A haze of cigarette smoke fills the underground chamber, the dim light flickering as if reluctant to illuminate the pale faces seated around the round table. Gathered there are the dark rulers of Rome: Vittorio Albrizzi, the old mafia lord who controls the shadowy ports for decades; Gregor Stein, the German human trafficking king who trades lives as if they are mere commodities; and Lucien Marveau, the French drug lord with hands stained in more than just the white powder he spreads. All of them stare nervously at the door as heavy footsteps echo, accompanied by a strange whistle that makes their skin crawl.

It is not The Devil Butcher who enters, but five shinobi clad in black, their faces hidden beneath crimson cloth. Among them, one man steps forward—their leader, Kozama, the head of the Red Ghost Clan. Burn scars darken half his face, and his eyes burn with a fury that never fades.

Kozama stands before the gathered mafia bosses, human trafficking syndicates, and drug lords. The flickering torchlight of the underground chamber dances across the half-burned ruin of his face. Behind him, five Red Ghost Shinobi stand in silence, their crimson masks gleaming like specters from hell.

For a moment, silence rules the chamber, until Kozama’s deep, rasping voice carves through the air.

“We know what you fear. We know the name you don’t dare to speak aloud—The Devil Butcher. You want him dead. So do we.”

One mafia boss lets out a shaky laugh, though his voice betrays his terror. “Dead? You’re insane. He’s not a man. He slaughters hundreds of guards as if they are children. And you think you can kill him?”

Kozama’s eyes narrow. He grabs the man by the collar and yanks him close. “I don’t think,” he hisses. “I know. My vengeance runs deeper than your fear. Two of my brothers… he butchers them alive, their bodies torn apart and hung from a tree. Every night, I still hear their screams.”

The chamber falls into silence. No one dares to respond. Kozama releases his grip and steps back.

“We don’t offer this out of greed,” he continues. “This is personal. But we need support—resources, weapons, access, and yes… payment. Five hundred million euros.”

A drug lord drums his fingers against the table, his eyes narrowing. “Half a billion for a fantasy? No one can lure the Butcher out, let alone kill him.”

Kozama tilts his head, eyes gleaming with menace. “Wrong. I know how to lure him. I know the scent of blood that calls him. I know the song that drags him from the shadows.” A cruel smile twists across his scarred face. “And this time, we hunt the hunter.”

The bosses exchange uneasy glances. Fear, doubt, and the faintest spark of hope flicker in their eyes. Finally, one of them whispers, “If you’re right… if you truly can… then maybe we still have a chance to live.”

Kozama merely nods. “You will see. The Devil Butcher is not invincible. He bleeds like us. And I will be the one to drive the final blade into his heart.”

The port of Vladivostok is cloaked in a salty mist, carried by the cold wind from the sea. Streetlights along the dock flicker, struggling against the creeping darkness. Three massive warehouses stand silent, surrounded by 120 armed guards. They are the loyal dogs of the syndicate, protecting the filthiest treasure of all: humans sold like cargo.

From the distance, a lone figure stands on top of a rusted container. His body is clad in pitch-black armor, two katanas strapped to his back, their blades catching a faint glimmer of moonlight. Chains with razor-sharp kunai swing gently from his hands, while dozens of shuriken hang from his belt. A demonic black mask conceals his face, its eyes glowing red like burning coals. He is The Devil Butcher—the angel of death feared by the underworld.

Suddenly, the dock plunges into complete darkness. The generators roar for a moment, then die. The radios crackle and hiss, then fall silent. At that moment, the guards know: they are marked for death.

A scream tears through the night from the northern sector. Gunfire rattles, short and desperate, then silence. When reinforcements rush to investigate, horror freezes their blood.

Fifty bodies hang upside down from cranes, sliced open from belly to skull, entrails dripping into the soil below. Some organs dangle loose, swinging in the wind. The sight is not a battlefield—it is a slaughterhouse.

From above, The Devil Butcher drops down like a shadow of doom. His katanas flash once, and terror erupts.

“AAARGHHH—!”

“MY HEAD! GOD NO!”

“STAY AWAY—DON’T COME NEAR!”

Steel cuts through flesh with merciless precision. Limbs fly, torsos split, blood explodes across the dock. Some guards collapse screaming as they watch their comrades carved apart. Shuriken whistle through the air, embedding in eyes, throats, and skulls. The desperate sound of gurgling blood drowns out the staccato of gunfire.

A chain kunai pierces through a man’s chest, yanking him screaming into the shadows. The Butcher pulls, drags him close, and splits his body in two. His cries end in a wet, bubbling choke. In less than minutes, the northern sector becomes a killing field. Bodies hang from cranes, blood rains on steel, and the ground is painted red. Out of 120, only 20 guards remain.

They run. Legs tremble, faces pale, eyes wide with terror. But escape is an illusion. A storm of shuriken rains upon them, pinning men to the ground like insects.

“HELP ME! AAAAAHHH—!”

“PLEASE—PLEASE, I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”

They look back—and see him walking slowly through the mist, unhurried, like a phantom born of blood. His voice hums faintly, a child’s lullaby. The soft tune chills their souls more than the screams.

“Stop… please… stop singing… I beg you…” one of them whimpers, falling to his knees. But The Devil Butcher does not stop. He hums until the melody fades, then whispers, voice calm and deadly: “It is time… to enter hell.”

Both katanas sweep, carving through the last survivors. Blood erupts, heads tumble, bodies collapse. He hoists the severed remains and hangs them on cranes, turning Vladivostok’s port into an altar of flesh. The Devil Butcher then pushes open the doors of the three warehouses—only to find them empty. His eyes narrow behind the mask. Instinct screams danger. He ducks just in time as a kunai whistles past. With lightning speed, he seizes it midair and hurls it back. The blade buries itself in the skull of a Red Ghost shinobi perched on the crane.

But that is only the beginning. The warehouses are wired with explosives, set by Kozama himself. Detonations thunder across the port, flames erupting into the night sky. The ground shakes as fire devours steel, turning the entire dock into a burning graveyard. From a distance, Kozama watches the inferno with satisfaction, lips curling into a smile. Yet unease gnaws at his gut. Too quiet. Too fast.

Then, chains whip from the fire. Two kunai shoot out, skewering his guards and dragging them screaming into the blaze. Kozama’s eyes widen.

“No… impossible… he’s still alive?”

Out of the fire, a figure emerges. His body is engulfed in flames, but he walks calmly, unfazed, as though the fire itself bows to him. The eyes of his demonic mask glow brighter, crimson like the pits of hell. The Devil Butcher speaks, voice low, steady, and cruel: “Long time no see, Kozama.”

Kozama stands frozen. Ten of his finest shinobi close ranks, but they know the truth. Tonight, they are not facing a man. They are facing something born of the Devil himself.

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