"Intruder!" Scarface bellowed, his shout cracking through the alley like shattered glass.
He whipped a black chain from beneath his cloak and snapped it toward Flaxseed's hiding place with the violence of a man strangling a serpent.
The links bristled with backward barbs, each joint bleeding a greasy, ink-black mist. This chain was made to drink spirit itself, a punishment far crueler than death.
Flaxseed knew better than to stand his ground. He pivoted and ran, loose robes flapping behind him.
The white-robed swordsman was faster. Golden arcs peeled from his blade and streaked after Flaxseed like falling meteors, driving the trickster into a desperate zigzag retreat.
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