Steve stood in the center of the courtyard, his silhouette sharply defined against the glare of the headlights from Paul's mini-bus. The air around the Factory suddenly turned ice-cold, and from the darkness of the distant alleys, a low, menacing rumble began to echo—a sound like the approach of a devastating storm.
— Do you hear that, Paul? — Steve didn't turn around; his gaze was fixed like iron on the main gates. — Thousands of feet. Thousands of scoundrels who think they can just walk in and take what belongs to us.
Paul stepped forward, taking his place at his brother's right hand. In his hands, he gripped a heavy steel rod he had snatched from the back of the van.
— Let them come, — Paul rumbled, his voice trembling not with fear, but with pure, unadulterated fury. — I've been fed by our girls today, and I feel the strength of our entire family pulsing in my veins. If they want to smash these machines, they'll have to go through my corpse first. And I have no intention of dying today!
— That's what brothers are for, Paul! — Steve gave him a quick, hard clap on the shoulder. — We aren't alone in this. Urban!
James Urban emerged from the thick shadows along with his fighters. He looked like a predator that had finally caught the scent of its prey.
— My boys are in position, Steve. There truly is a legion out there, — James spat on the concrete, watching as the first dark shadows of the enemy began to swarm over the Factory fence. — Two, maybe three thousand of these thieving rats. They smelled the scent of money and success, and now they want to burn it all to the ground. Но they don't know that an army is waiting for them here.
— This isn't just an army, James, — Steve's voice rang out, growing louder until it drowned out the rising noise of the crowd outside. — This is the blood of Marionis! We are the Halls, and this land submits to us!
At that moment, the first ranks of the attackers appeared in the harsh glare of the searchlights. They were filthy, ragged men armed with heavy chains and rusted rebar—the very same fraudsters and lowlifes who had sucked the life out of this district for years.
— Forward! Smash everything to pieces! — someone from the depths of the crowd roared, and a literal avalanche of people rushed the gates.
— Paul, the gates won't hold against that weight! — Steve shouted. — We meet them right here!
Paul let out a roar like a wounded bear and was the first to charge headlong into the attackers. His mini-bus served as their shield and anchor.
— You won't touch a single mannequin! — Paul thundered, swinging his heavy weapon. His blows were precise and devastating. Anyone who tried to break past him was sent flying backward, their bones cracking as they knocked down their own accomplices.
James Urban and his squad joined the fray from the flanks. A true slaughter began. The deafening clang of metal on metal, shouts of animal rage, and the agonizing groans of fallen enemies filled the night air.
Steve found himself in the very center of the storm. Four raiders lunged at him at once, but he moved with incredible, unnatural speed. The power of his ancestors pulsed in his veins. Every strike he landed was filled with a raw power that he himself didn't fully understand.
— How dare you attack us? — Steve cried out, tossing another opponent aside as if he were made of straw. — You are trash, and I will show you your place!
The shadows of the advancing horde flooded the Factory yard like a black wave of filth. The air was thick with the stench of cheap tobacco, stale alcohol, and the mindless lust for destruction. These street thugs, accustomed to robbing only the weak, howled in anticipation of easy prey—but they had no idea whose territory they had invaded.
— Steve, hold the center! — James Urban barked, throwing off his jacket to reveal steel-like muscles rippling under his tank top.
James wasn't just fighting—he was delivering cold, hard justice. For him, there were no obstacles. When a dozen men armed with chains lunged at him all at once, he didn't even flinch. His fists flew with the speed of lightning. The first attacker collapsed with a shattered jaw before he could even raise his weapon. James caught the second one mid-air, twisted his arm with a sickening pop, and used his body as a living shield to scatter the rest. He swept these street rats aside left and right, leaving a wide trail of groaning, broken bodies in his wake. His years of experience in street wars made him invincible; every lunge and every strike was lethally precise.
Steve and Paul were not far behind. Paul acted like a human battering ram. Using his mini-bus as a tactical anchor, he crushed the incoming waves of enemies with his heavy steel rod.
— Stay away from the mannequins! — he thundered, his voice booming over the horrific din of battle.
One of the bandits tried to drive a jagged knife into his side, but Paul simply caught his wrist in mid-motion and squeezed with such terrifying force that the bones snapped like dry twigs. Steve's professional guards worked in perfect sync, like a single, lethal mechanism, cutting off groups of attackers and pinning them mercilessly against the heavy factory machinery.
But the enemies were too many. It seemed there was no end to this tide of human filth. And just as the attackers, emboldened by their sheer numbers, made a second desperate attempt to break through to the main workshop, the night silence was shattered by sharp, dry cracks.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Bullets tore into the ground right at the feet of the advancing thugs, sending up sprays of concrete and dust. The crowd recoiled in absolute terror. From the darkness near the access roads, the blinding glare of powerful searchlights appeared. It was Uncle Henry, leading his heavily armed squad. His men leapt from the trucks, clutching carbines and shotguns with steady hands.
— Come here, you bastards! — Uncle Henry roared, his voice amplified by a megaphone, rolling over the Factory grounds like a clap of thunder. — I'll show you who's the boss and who's strongest in these parts! Did you think because Steve is young, he stands alone? You were wrong, you rats!
Henry walked at the very front of the line, and each step he took was accompanied by a warning shot into the air that made the enemies duck their heads in fear. His squad acted with brutal, military efficiency: they weren't just fighting, they were systematically clearing the territory.
The battle turned into a total meat grinder. Steve saw one of the fraudster bosses try to take a cowardly shot at Paul, but Steve, in a miraculous, powerful leap, tackled the man to the ground, unleashing the full, dormant fury of the Hall heir upon him. The street fight was filthy and desperate: teeth, elbows, and heavy factory tools were all used as weapons. Paul grabbed one of the attackers and literally threw him into a pile of scrap metal like a ragdoll, while James Urban was already dismantling another group of five, laying them out on the concrete one by one with surgical precision.
The fighters battled until the stroke of midnight. The air was thick and heavy with gunpowder smoke and the stinging smell of sweat. The thieves and scammers, who just an hour ago felt like the undisputed masters of the situation, now fled in a panicked frenzy, leaping over fences and abandoning their weapons in the mud.
By twelve o'clock, the chaos had subsided. The silence that followed the carnage was deafening. Steve stood there, breathing hard, his knuckles bloodied and raw, but the fire of a true victor burned in his eyes. Beside him stood Paul, covered from head to toe in dust and grime but wearing a broad, triumphant grin, and James Urban, who didn't even look winded.
Uncle Henry approached them, calmly reloading his gun.
— Well, nephews? — He looked over the battlefield, littered with abandoned chains, rebar, and the bodies of those too broken to run. — It seems the Factory remains ours tonight. Marionis can be proud of its sons.