Tyrant? No, I am the Villain
Chapter 27: Rammstein and it’s bloody alley

Chapter 27: Rammstein and it’s bloody alley

Rammstein was never meant to fall into chaos. It was a city crafted through deliberate strategy and hard-earned victory.

Born from the ashes of war, it was built after House Angeras, once a defiant noble house outside the Kingdom’s grasp, the House won a decisive campaign after the Kingdom invaded the Angeras Estate and negotiated autonomy through a bloodstained treaty.

With that, they gained a permanent status of a duchy and became part of the Kingdom, but it retained its iron will. Rammstein was one of the two new cities constructed after the victory of Angeras as they wanted to have two major hotspots in the western side and eastern side with Luso in the middle.

The city began modestly, with a central square serving as its beating heart. Four main roads sprawled outward like veins, dividing the city into quarters. Each quadrant housed its own mix of residences, markets, and public utilities. As trade flourished and population grew, Rammstein expanded but at first in a controlled, almost architectural way. But the order soon crumbled.

Over the years, greed and desperation took over. Illegally constructed homes mushroomed along the periphery. Bribery became the new currency for property rights. A chaotic fringe formed around the organized core, and the city lost control of its own shape.

Then came Duke Simon, unlike his predecessors, Duke Simon didn’t turn away from the rot after all he was born in Rammstein so he felt the need of fixing what he believed to be his own home.

He burned it out. A large neighbourhood of shoddy, unauthorized homes were demolished, without warning. In their place, he constructed a grand palace in the northeastern quarter, as it was a testament to House Angeras’s presence in the City. It’s might cast a long shadow over the poor and the corrupt alike.

He also safeguarded the trade through Rammstein. Positioned near the western border, the city was a hub for merchants traveling in and out of the Kingdom. Inns sprang up overnight. Caravans camped in long queues.

Due to corruption, many merchants were forced to pay more to guards and were bullied by local ruffians for money. Duke Simon strengthened the City Guard and used the family Knights to make sure none are harmed while passing through.

But then Simon died, and with him, the city’s vigilant oversight.

His son, Estefan’s father, shifted attention to Luso, the capital of the Duchy where he was born. Rammstein was considered stable at that time thanks to his father so he decided to ignore it. The absence of oversight was like blood in the water.

Corruption oozed back through the cracks since it was a City where one can make a lot of money and soon criminal factions bloomed like weeds, thriving in lawless pockets of the city.

And then the city became a fractured battleground for criminals to fight around while the ones who were tasked to make sure peace isn’t hindered simply ignored it because they were paid well by the criminals.

The Zorthar family ruled the southwest, where gambling dens and inns lined every corner. Their presence was absolute, an empire of dice, coins, and broken fingers.

The Lutis family, led by the infamous Violet Matriarch, controlled the northwest. Their power lay in flesh, drugs, and blackmail. Their brothels and performance halls doubled as intelligence hubs since they had access to the locals who were their customers and dens of unspeakable depravity.

The mysterious Third Faction claimed the rest with no one knowing their true activities outside of them killing people or groups for big money while many proxies or smaller gangs controlled smaller parts of the City.

The City Guard, meanwhile, held fragments: the eastern and northern gates, the central square, and roads leading in and out. But their influence was like a decaying tooth, as it was painful and useless.

After the Knights of Angeras left, the Guard’s morale crumbled. Retaining their meager grip on the city was now a daily struggle since the criminal factions aimed to reach the central region which basically would mean the City is totally theirs.

In a dimly lit inn nestled in the heart of the Zorthar controlled southwest, the air was heavy, not with the scent of ale, but with blood.

A hand-painted sign on the front door read: "All rooms filled." But it was a lie because inside, the common room had been converted into a private chamber of interrogation. There were no guests and no laughter, just pain.

A man hung upside-down, chained from the rafters. Beneath him, a bucket half-filled with blood rippled with each fresh drop from his battered body.

His skin was a patchwork of bruises, open wounds, and punctures from rusted nails. His groans filled the room, occasionally broken by the hollow thud of wood meeting bone.

Three men stood around him, two wielding nail-covered clubs, the third watching calmly with his hands folded.

Preston Zorthar, a senior executive of the family, wore a pristine silk vest and obsidian rings. He didn’t need to speak loudly because the pain did most of the talking for him.

"So... what happened inside the councillor’s meeting room?" He asked, his voice smooth but sharp, the man didn’t answer as the only response was groans.

The clubs swung again, rusted nails ripped skin. Flesh tore and blood sprayed. The screams were loud, but not unfamiliar.

This was Zorthar territory. In this part of the city, when people heard screams, they closed their windows. Not out of fear, but out of indifference. That’s how it had always been for two decades.

Preston leaned forward. "You worked there. The day the Baron killed the Council. You must have seen something. Who was with him? How many? What weapons?"

"I... we were told to leave." The man whimpered through cracked lips. "Please... I don’t know anything..."

Another strike, then another. The clubs were now soaked and the bucket sloshed. Preston was about to press again when the door creaked open. A man slipped in, whispered something.

Preston’s demeanor shifted. He adjusted his cuffs, then turned to his torturers. "Use sharper tools. But keep it quiet... word is, the tin cans are hunting again."

He stepped outside after and a lit cigarette was already waiting for him. "What’s happening?" Preston asked, exhaling smoke.

The man who brought the message responded, "Big Boss wants all executives at the mansion... Now... Apparently, the new Baron and his dogs are making waves." Preston took another drag and looked up.

From where he stood, he could see smoke rising above the city skyline. Thick and dark. Controlled chaos.

He grinned. "Looks like the little noble’s playing war." Then he flicked the cigarette aside and turned to walk toward his carriage. Behind him, the screams resumed, but this time muffled, sharper.

Across the city, similar meetings were happening in shadowed rooms. Crime lords sharpened their blades, runners were sent to inform everyone and the streets buzzed with quiet tension.

The Baron had thrown his first stone and it had shattered the glass tower. Now, the beasts of Rammstein stirred and they were hungry for him.

[To be Continued]