The road was dead.
Not abandoned—dead.Cracked asphalt stretched into the horizon like a dried wound, its surface layered with ash, oil stains, and old blood that no rain ever washed away. The wind dragged dust across it in long, whispering waves, carrying the smell of rust and burned fuel.
Raven rode alone.
His motorcycle growled beneath him, a low mechanical snarl that cut through the silence. Every part of the machine was scavenged, welded, and reforged by hand. Nothing on it was original anymore. Nothing in this world was.
He slowed as the road curved between two hills of collapsed concrete and twisted metal—remnants of a city that had died screaming decades ago. Raven lifted his goggles slightly, scanning the horizon.
Tracks.
Fresh. Heavy vehicles.
A convoy.
Barons.
He killed the engine and let the bike roll behind a broken overpass. The silence rushed back in, thick and heavy. Raven crouched, touching the ground. The tire marks were deep. Armored trucks. At least five. Maybe more.
Barons never traveled light.
He checked his weapons.
The shotgun hung across his back, short-barreled and brutal. Three shells left. His pistol sat snug at his hip, magazine half full. The knife—long, narrow, and perfectly balanced—was strapped to his thigh.
Not enough for a fair fight.
Fair fights were for dead men.
Raven climbed the rubble and lay flat, peering through a gap in the concrete. The convoy appeared minutes later, crawling through the narrow road like a steel animal.
Six vehicles.
Two heavy transports in the center, flanked by armored cars with mounted machine guns. Slaves clung to the sides of the trucks, chained together, faces hidden behind rags and masks. Guards rode high, rifles ready, eyes scanning for threats.
They didn't see Raven.
They never did.
He pulled a small metal cylinder from his pack and rolled it into the road just ahead of the convoy. The device settled quietly, almost politely.
The lead vehicle passed over it.
Then the world exploded.
The blast tore through the front axle, flipping the armored car sideways in a storm of fire and screaming metal. The second vehicle slammed into it, crushing bodies and steel together. The convoy erupted into chaos—shouts, gunfire, engines roaring.
Raven moved.
He sprinted downhill, shotgun already in his hands. The first guard saw him and raised his rifle.
Too slow.
The shotgun thundered once. The guard disappeared in a red mist.
Raven pumped the weapon and fired again. Another body fell from the truck, hitting the ground hard and still. Bullets ripped through the air around him, chewing into concrete and stone.
He slid behind the wreckage of the first vehicle as machine-gun fire shredded the space he'd just occupied.
Smart.
The Barons had trained men.
Raven leaned out and fired his last shell into the gunner nest. The machine gun went silent, its operator slumping forward.
Empty.
He dropped the shotgun and drew his pistol, moving fast. He vaulted onto the side of the transport, boots finding grip on rusted metal. A guard lunged at him with a machete.
Raven caught the wrist, twisted hard, and drove the knife up under the man's ribs. He pulled it free before the body even hit the ground.
Another guard fired point-blank. Raven ducked, felt the heat of the shot pass over his head, and smashed the man's face against the truck's side. Bone cracked. The guard fell without another sound.
Inside the convoy, panic spread.
Slaves screamed. Guards shouted orders no one followed.
Raven dropped to the ground, rolling as bullets chased him. His pistol barked twice. Two clean shots. Two bodies.
Then the magazine clicked empty.
He cursed under his breath and threw the pistol aside, sprinting toward the rear vehicle. A Baron enforcer stepped out—big, armored, confident. He carried a heavy revolver and a grin beneath his mask.
"Thought you were a myth," the man said. "The Raven."
Raven didn't answer.
The revolver roared. Raven dove, felt the shockwave punch the air beside his head. He came up low, knife in hand.
The enforcer laughed and swung the revolver like a club.
Raven let it connect.
Pain exploded through his shoulder, but he stayed upright. He stepped inside the man's reach and drove the knife into his thigh, then up into his chest.
The enforcer gurgled, surprised.
Raven twisted the blade and pulled free.
Silence fell slowly.
The wind returned first, sweeping ash across the wreckage. Bodies lay scattered. Fuel burned in low, flickering pools. The slaves huddled together, chains rattling as they watched him with wide, terrified eyes.
Raven breathed heavily.
He walked to the transports and forced the doors open.
Water.
Fuel.
Ammunition.
Enough to survive another week.
Maybe two.
He began unloading supplies, moving quickly. The Barons would send scouts. They always did.
A small voice stopped him.
"Please."
Raven turned.
A boy stood apart from the others, no older than fifteen. Dirt streaked his face. His hands shook as he held out a broken chain.
"They'll come back," the boy said. "They always do."
Raven looked at the horizon.
He knew.
He knelt and cut the chain with his knife. The metal snapped free. The boy stared, confused.
"Go east," Raven said. His voice was rough, unused. "Follow the salt road. Don't stop."
"What about you?"
Raven stood.
"I don't get followed."
He mounted his bike as the freed slaves scattered into the ruins. The engine roared back to life.
As he rode away, smoke rising behind him, Raven felt the familiar weight settle in his chest.
He had survived.
Again.
In this world, that was the only victory that mattered.
The road stretched ahead—empty, endless, and waiting for blood.
And Raven rode on.