From Bullets To Billions Chapter 604: The Faceless Rankings

Aron felt a bitter, metallic tang coat his tongue at the casual mention of 'numbers,' a sensation that violently dredged up long-buried memories of the Black Hand—a past he had spent years attempting to stifle.

The Black Hand was far from a mere gang. They functioned as a covert, phantom organization composed entirely of stolen war orphans, forged from childhood through brutal indoctrination into the world’s most ruthless and efficient mercenaries. These operatives were ghosts-for-hire, executing any mission regardless of how blood-soaked or politically disruptive the objective might be.

Devoid of moral allegiances, they sold their loyalty strictly to the highest bidder, even if it meant betraying a former employer cold-bloodedly the very next day. Consequently, a Black Hand operative had to remain constantly vigilant against threats from every direction, including their own kin. Within that grim fraternity, there were no true allies; the organization only prioritized its own survival and accumulation of wealth.

During their agonizing training at remote facilities, the Black Hand enforced a strict, Darwinian hierarchy to ensure the survival of only the most capable: the notorious Number System.

Names were strictly prohibited for both the children and the adults, leaving no room for personal attachment, even toward those they bled beside. Once a recruit survived the initial trials, their humanity was stripped away, and they were branded with a specific number.

However, even these designations were transient, subject to violent shifts between operatives because these numbers served as more than mere identification; they represented an active, brutal ranking system.

At any hour, an operative could launch a lethal challenge against another to seize their rank. The terrifying reality was that a challenger could initiate this duel regardless of the victim's current physical state.

Even an operative returning from a grueling, suicidal mission, severely wounded or bleeding, could be ambushed by ambitious rivals. These predators would target the injured in the halls of the compound, aiming to steal their higher rank and the associated privileges.

The masters imposed only one rigid limitation: an operative was restricted to challenging a target exactly one position above their own.

This rule forced aspirants to prove their worth through a gauntlet of blood, demonstrating they could systematically defeat every individual standing between them and the summit, rather than simply lucking into a high-ranking position.

Under such a cutthroat, volatile system, numbers changed hands constantly. This instability caused the lower-ranked members to lose their grasp on identity and sanity. For most, even the concept of a stable rank was nonexistent; a 'Number 84' of today could easily be a corpse by tomorrow.

This, of course, excluded the absolute elite—the figures whispered about with dread, known as the Single Digits.

These nine individuals were the undisputed apex predators of the Black Hand. They were the most formidable killers, having successfully defended their positions at the top against hundreds of rivals. Even when exhausted after catastrophic missions, they routinely slaughtered any low-ranked challenger who dared to ambush them, maintaining their dominance.

While even those within the Single Digits occasionally engaged in earth-shattering duels amongst themselves, their numbers remained relatively static over the years, marked only by rare and vicious shifts.

Everyone in the underworld understood the insurmountable chasm in raw power and skill between the Single Digits and the expendable Black Hand grunts. It was this terrifying pedigree that Skull invoked with such confidence in the gym.

Any veteran of the Black Hand would inherently recognize the lethal caliber of a Single Digit like Skull. Daring to challenge one was widely seen as an act of suicide.

This dark history was the foundation of Skull’s confidence that Aron would drop his weapons and accept the offer to defect.

"Since I don’t recognize your face or your combat stance, I’m guessing your number was quite low on the ladder, correct?" Skull remarked, his voice reverberating off the mirrored walls as he took a measured step toward his opponent. "Be sensible, kid. Align yourself with the inevitable victor in this corporate mess. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to shed more blood today, which I’d rather avoid. My schedule is full enough as it is."

Skull tilted his head, his mask glinting under the lights. "There is a reason I walked away from the endless infighting of the Black Hand to join the Syndicate. The pay is superior, and the targets are far easier to break."

Aron did not weaken his stance. Instead, he tightened his grip on his heavy steel batons, extending one toward the assassin.

"I have sworn a blood promise to protect a specific individual," Aron replied, his voice devoid of fear and steeped in rigid resolve. "I see the Gilt Rats and your Syndicate masters attempting to eliminate him through every cowardly means available. And besides... the man I guard faces significantly darker, more powerful threats than the pathetic Gilt Rats."

Aron bent his knees, his muscles primed like tightly wound springs. "Because of that oath... I remain at his side to shield him from specters such as yourself."

Without further preamble, Aron lunged forward. He closed the distance in a blur, lashing out with his batons in a rapid, alternating flurry.

Skull met the assault with mastery, parrying each heavy strike with precision. The assassin fared significantly better now, his heavy brass knuckles allowing him to punch directly into the incoming steel weapons, transforming his offense into a near-impenetrable wall of iron.

The resounding clash of steel against brass echoed throughout the gym like a barrage of gunfire.

Amidst the chaos of the exchange, Skull’s seasoned gaze tracked a microscopic lapse in Aron’s defense. He snapped his brass-knuckled fist outward in a lethal straight punch meant to cave in Aron’s chest.

Aron, however, had anticipated the counter. At the final millisecond, he recoiled, leaving the lethal blow to only graze his suit. In a display of fluid tactical brilliance, he intentionally released his right baton.

The heavy weapon swung forward on its own, bypassing Skull’s guard and clipping the assassin across the face.

Though the blow lacked the full force of a body-weighted swing, its precision was devastating. The hard steel cracked against the bridge of Skull’s nose under the mask, rattling his vision and disrupting his concentration.

Aron didn’t let his weapon go. He snatched the leather handle back in mid-air, and utilizing his hips, drove the steel forward with both hands, slamming it squarely into the assassin. Skull stumbled backward, losing his footing on the rubber mats.

Skull let out a pained groan, gripping his bleeding nose beneath the fractured white mask. He glared at Aron, his cold eyes ignited with pure, unadulterated fury.

Aron held his ground, swirling his batons back into a ready position.

"In all your arrogance, did you ever stop to wonder why you don’t recognize my face from the camps?" Aron asked, his voice chillingly calm.