Black Fangs—the local gang that controlled this area. They ran extortion schemes, demanding "protection money" from everyone living here. Protection? Yeah, right. They didn't protect anyone. If anything, they were the ones people needed protection from.
But no one dared to resist them. With over 100 thugs under their command, armed with guns and sheer brutality, fighting them was pure suicide.
Yet here I was—Michael—doing exactly that.
"You dare go against us, you little brat?" one of the thugs growled, his expression darkening with rage.
"I said… shut up," I repeated, my voice carrying an unnatural weight. Authority: Fear activated.
Just like that, the thug froze, his body trembling uncontrollably.
I clenched my fist, feeling frustration build up. This weak, malnourished body… I needed to fix it. If I wanted to unleash my full power, this pathetic form had to change—soon.
Just throwing a pen had made my hand ache—a painful reminder of how weak this body was. But I ignored it for now.
Instead, I focused on the bald thug in front of me, his head covered in tattoos.
"Listen… take me to your headquarters," I ordered.
The thug, still under the influence of Fear, nodded stiffly, his body trembling as he obediently turned and began leading the way.
The best way to get money? Take it from the ones who stole it.
The Black Fangs had drained almost all of the original owner's wealth. The previous Michael had been naive—thinking that paying them off and feeding their greed would somehow earn him protection. But in the end, no matter how many millions he handed over, all he got in return was mockery and betrayal.
Now, it was time to take back everything they had stolen.
The thug led me through the dimly lit alleys, his movements stiff and robotic under the lingering effects of Fear. Every time he glanced back at me, I could see the terror in his eyes—like a cornered rat being dragged toward its doom.
After a few turns, we arrived at an old warehouse—Black Fangs' headquarters.
Two guards stood by the entrance, smoking and chatting, but the moment they saw us, their eyes narrowed.
"Oi, Baldy, who the hell is this kid?" one of them sneered.
Before the thug could even attempt an answer, I took a step forward.
"Kneel."
The command was soft, yet the weight of my Authority: Fear crashed onto them like a tidal wave. Their bodies seized up—eyes wide with sheer panic—before their legs gave out, and they collapsed onto their knees, shivering violently.
I stepped past them without a second glance.
Inside, the warehouse was buzzing with activity—thugs laughing, drinking, and counting stacks of stolen cash. The stench of alcohol and sweat filled the air.
As I entered, heads turned.
"The hell?" one of them muttered.
"Who's this punk?" another scoffed.
I exhaled slowly, then activated Fear across the entire room.
Instantly, the laughter died. Glasses slipped from hands and shattered on the floor. Bodies stiffened.
Then—chaos.
Some thugs screamed. Others fell to the ground, clutching their heads in agony. A few tried to run—only to trip over themselves, paralyzed by the sheer terror flooding their minds.
"W-what the f*ck is happening?!" someone wailed.
I walked forward, completely unfazed.
Step. Step. Step.
Each step echoed in the silence, making the remaining thugs flinch. Their leader—a scar-faced man sitting on a worn-out couch—gritted his teeth, trying to resist.
I stopped in front of him and tilted my head.
"Do you know who I am?" I asked calmly.
He trembled but didn't answer.
I smirked. "You will."
And with that, the reign of the Black Fangs ended in a single night.
The Next Day
By morning, Black Fangs was no more.
The infamous gang that once terrorized the streets had been dismantled overnight—not through bloodshed, but through absolute submission.
Every thug who once called themselves a member now answered to one name: Michael Adam.
I didn't kill them. There was no need. To keep my Authority: Fear active indefinitely, I had to remain conscious, which I can't after logging in game. If I slaughtered them all, I would lose that advantage. Besides, I needed manpower.
Now, I had over 100 loyal bodyguards—a personal army that would ensure my safety and execute my plans.
Currently, I was in the gang's underground base, a massive hidden bunker beneath the warehouse. It was well-fortified, stocked with everything from stolen money to illegal weapons and drugs.
"This place is a gold mine," I muttered, scanning the crates of contraband.
However, keeping illegal goods was out of the question.
The original Michael—before I took over his body—was already under the eyes of Hyenas who took over his family asset. If authorities found this stash, they'd have the perfect excuse to throw me in jail-eliminating me from their life. That was not an option.
I exhaled, rubbing my chin as I made a decision.
"Destroy all the drugs."
The thugs flinched at my words but obeyed without hesitation. One by one, they began piling up the narcotics, gasoline in hand, ready to burn them to ash.
"What about the guns, boss?" one of them asked.
I smiled. "We keep those."
Even in a world filled with martial arts and supernatural powers, a bullet was still a bullet.
Though I am not going to leave them in plain sight, I ordered them to collect them all and then I put them all in my inventory.
I didn't stop at just taking over the gang.
I dug deep into each member's past—every crime, every record, every skeleton in their closet.
I wasn't about to leave any loose ends for the hyenas to exploit. If I was going to build something, it had to be solid. Unshakable.
By the time I was done, the once 109-strong gang had been reduced to just 11 men.
A far cry from its original numbers, but it couldn't be helped. Murderers, rapists, career criminals—every last one of them was gone. I had no use for scum.
The remaining 11 men? Just desperate souls who had joined the gang for money, not for crime. No criminal records. No blood on their hands.
"Good," I thought, leaning back in my chair. "These are men I can work with."
Now, with a clean slate, it was time to start rebuilding—on my own terms.