Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov

[ImperatorXCV]

December 27, 1906

Snow fell steadily as the night wore on toward midnight, thick flakes drifting down from a dull gray sky. The snow quieted the streets and softened everything it touched, turning the eastern district into a stretch of white and dark shadows. Footprints and carriage marks vanished almost as soon as they were made, as if the city itself were trying to erase what had passed through it.

Nikolai walked beside the carriage at an unhurried pace, his boots crunching softly against the snow-packed road. His breath came out in slow, even clouds, his coat pulled tight against the cold. He looked like any other man escorting a delivery through the district, nothing about him drew attention.

Still, they couldn't avoid the ratcatchers on duty that night.

"Halt. What's inside the carriage?"

The voice came from the side of the road. A man stepped forward, with two others lingering a few steps behind him. Nikolai stopped at once and signaled for Oskar to do the same. The carriage rolled to a halt as the horses snorted softly.

"Good evening, my good man," Nikolai said evenly. "We're delivering barrels of vodka to the Bolkagov tavern."

He reached into his coat and produced a cigarette, offering it without hesitation. The man took it immediately and placed it between his lips, then jerked his chin toward Nikolai in silent command.

Nikolai clenched his jaw. He reached into his coat again and took out a match. For a brief moment, he imagined driving the matchstick into the man's eye, but he forced the thought down. He struck the match and lit the cigarette without a word.

The man took a long drag, exhaled slowly, and spoke. "Open the back. Let me see what you're hauling. Who knows what you people are up to."

Nikolai nodded once, already expecting the order, and moved to the rear of the carriage. He unlatched the door and pulled it open, revealing the neatly stacked wooden barrels inside.

The man stepped closer, peering in, while his companions flanked him, one on either side, their hands resting near their belts.

"Hm," the man muttered. "Vodka, you say?"

"Yes," Nikolai replied calmly. "Fresh delivery."

The man's eyes narrowed. "We'll see about that." He pointed at one of the barrels. "Open one of the barrels. Your destination requires us to check everything before arriving there."

Nikolai acted as if he hesitated. When he saw the man about to spit something unpleasant from his mouth, he turned to Oskar, who had been watching from the front. "Open it."

The man smiled widely at that.

Oskar only nodded wordlessly. He climbed down from the driver's seat, grabbed a small tool from beneath the bench, and pried open the lid of the nearest barrel. The sharp scent of alcohol spilled into the cold air almost immediately.

The man leaned forward, dipped his hand into the liquid, scooped up a handful, and tasted it.

After a strong, "Ah…" he whistled.

"It's got a kick," he said with a grin. "Strong stuff you've got there."

He straightened and waved a hand dismissively. "Leave this one here. Just call it a toll for passing through."

Nikolai frowned, acting like a merchant about to bargain for his goods. But before he could say anything, the man stepped closer and spoke again.

"Think before you speak, boy. Don't you know we're already being lenient with you? If it were someone else, I'd have asked for half of what you're carrying. Now, what is it?"

As he finished speaking, he flexed his arms threateningly. His companions behind him did the same.

Seeing this, Nikolai deflated at once. "Of course, of course, sir. Please wait a moment while we get the barrel out of the carriage."

The man laughed and patted Nikolai on the shoulder. "Hahaha. That's more like it. Now move."

Together, he and Oskar lifted the opened barrel down and set it beside the street. The man's companions laughed quietly, already eyeing it with interest.

"Go on, boy," the man said, nodding at them approvingly as he stepped back. "You're clear."

Nikolai gave a brief nod, walked beside the carriage, and signaled for Oskar to move on.

As the wheels began to turn and the carriage pulled away, Nikolai didn't look back. He walked in silence beside it as they continued toward their destination. After they turned onto another street, Oskar finally spoke.

"I'm surprised," he said. "You managed to control yourself back there. I thought you were going to kill those men on the spot. I was waiting for an appetizer before the big event, you know."

Nikolai shook his head, "It's not worth it. I'm not a worthy leader if I busted the plan before we even started. Still, I hope our men will leave those three for me to finish before the poison kicks in."

Oskar smiled at his friend, then turned his attention back to the road as he spoke. "I doubt that. We won't even know what will happen in the streets once the time to strike comes. We just have to focus on the tavern. The rest will be up to your Jackals. And don't forget to report what happened here when we arrived."

Nikolai nodded. "You're right."

After checking their surroundings, he added, "Ivan and the rest should be there by now. We have to make haste."

"Got it." Oskar urged the horses to pick up the pace while Nikolai matched the carriage's speed. He would have preferred to ride inside and rest before the fight, but he needed the warmth that came from walking in this cold weather.

They arrived at the back of the tavern not long after. Voices and singing spilled out as the back door opened. Oskar climbed down from the carriage while Nikolai approached the men guarding the door.

"Good evening, gentlemen. As ordered, fourteen barrels of vodka from Mr. Belov."

The two guards stared at him as if he were an insect, and Nikolai played the part, shifting uneasily under their gaze.

The one who spoke was a member of the kitchen staff who had opened the door.

"Why only fourteen?" he demanded. "We ordered fifteen barrels of vodka!"

Nikolai bowed his head slightly. "I'm sorry, sir. We were stopped not far from here, and one barrel was taken as a toll for letting us through."

The kitchen staff ground his teeth. "Tsk… tsk… Those men are really asking for trouble once I report this. Come on, bring half of the barrels into the counter and the rest into the storage room. Faster. We're already running out of drinks inside."

"Yes, yes. Don't worry, sir. It won't take long."

Nikolai and Oskar each lifted a barrel onto their shoulders. As they carried them into the tavern and unloaded them at the counter, they made a point of watching the faces around them. They quietly noted those they recognized, those marked as priorities, before returning for the remaining barrels.

They repeated the process until half of the barrels were delivered to the counter and the rest stacked neatly in the storage room.

Once the delivery was complete and they were paid, they wasted no time. Nikolai thanked the kitchen staff repeatedly, flashed a polite smile at the guards by the back door, and left with Oskar at once.

Once the heavily guarded tavern was out of sight, the carriage made a slow turn into a narrow alley and came to a stop, blocking the entrance completely. Nikolai climbed down from the carriage to check if anyone had noticed them. He glanced left and right repeatedly, staying alert. Only after nearly five minutes passed without anyone approaching did he finally relax.

He nodded toward Oskar, who was crouched atop the carriage with a knife in hand, ready to strike anyone who came too close.

They moved deeper into the alley and stopped before a rusted door. Nikolai knocked in a coded rhythm. A moment later, someone peered through a small hole, then opened the door just enough for them to slip inside. They entered quickly, and the door was shut behind them.

—-

"How was it?" Alexei asked the moment the two of them entered.

Nikolai stepped forward. "Everyone is present at the tavern, Master," he reported quietly. "All except the leader, Ilya Voronin, and his right-hand man, Kirill Frolov."

Alexei drew out his pocket watch. The faint click sounded loud in the room. "Time?"

"Fifteen minutes ago," Nikolai answered after checking his own.

"Then we have forty five minutes left before the poison takes effect," Alexei said. His voice was calm, but the room seemed to tighten around the words. "Coordinate the attack with the Jackals. I want the streets cleared before the Politsiya arrives. No mistakes. Understood?"

"Understood, Master," they replied in unison, their voices low and restrained.

"I won't be leading the assault on the tavern," Alexei continued. "Ivan has already tracked Voronin and Frolov to their headquarters. I'll move on that location at the same time you strike the tavern. I'll take only two men with me for support."

Every back straightened. Eyes lifted. A silent expectation passed through the group before Alexei spoke again.

"Sergey. Stepan. You're coming with me."

The two nodded immediately, expressions hard and focused, though they couldn't completely hide the excitement in their body.

Alexei then turned his attention back to the others. "Ivan will command the tavern assault while I'm away. His word is final. Follow it without hesitation. Understood?"

"Understood."

Nikolai had no problem with that. As it was Ivan who mostly planned this attack. Heck, he didn't even know where Ivan got the poison from.

"Just follow the plan. Timing is everything here. Make sure you all remember that."

Alexei waved his hand to dismiss them. "Disperse."

Chairs scraped softly as the men rose. Masks were pulled on in silence. One by one, they moved toward their positions without another word.

Nikolai caught Oskar's eye.

Oskar gave him a pointed look, and that was when Nikolai realized he had forgotten something. He quickly approached Alexei and Ivan.

"Master, Ivan, I forgot to report that one of the barrels was taken by a patrol during the delivery."

Alexei and Ivan frowned at that.

And Nikolai broke into a cold sweat in this already cold weather. He really forgot about it as he was hyped up by the atmosphere in the room.

After a moment. Alexei asked. "How long ago was it?"

Nikolai checked his watch, calculated the time. "About thirty minutes."

Alexei decided. "You leave first and deal with them. Make sure to do it silently. Then you should come back fast as Ivan might need you for something. Go!"

Nikolai smiled apologetically at his master and then at Ivan before he left.

Alexei let out a slow breath. Nikolai would be punished later for the oversight, but now was not the time.

He turned to Ivan, who still lingered nearby. "You remember your training?"

Ivan nodded, confidence clear in his expression. "Yes, Master. Don't worry. I can handle this. They should already be poisoned by now, so it'll just be a walk in the park."

Alexei smiled faintly behind his mask at his minion's confidence. "Problems have a habit of appearing when you least expect them. Keep that in mind."

"I understand," Ivan replied. "Thank you for your trust, master."

Alexei chuckled and patted Ivan's shoulder. "Take care of your brothers, will you?"

Ivan chuckled as well. "Of course, Master. My sister would have my hide if I didn't."

Alexei studied him for a moment, then nodded. He called for Sergey and Stepan, and the three of them departed.

Left alone, Ivan closed his eyes. He pressed a hand briefly against his chest, steadying his breathing as his heart hammered beneath his ribs.

—--

The tavern was loud.

That was the first thing Ivan noticed as he crouched atop a low building in the adjoining alley, the noise spilling out in uneven waves of laughter, shouting, and crude singing. It poured into the cold night air, thick and careless, the sound of men who believed themselves safe.

Safe. He let out a silent breath that might have been a chuckle. Months of relentless surveillance, of spying and watching from the shadows, were finally coming to an end tonight.

The plan itself was simple. Strike the tavern where most of the ratcatchers had gathered to celebrate the birthday of their leader, Ilya Voronin. It was almost ironic that the man himself wasn't present for his own celebration.

But Ivan wasn't concerned.

His master would handle that part. He just needed to focus on the responsibility his master had entrusted him to.

He shifted slightly on the rooftop, his eyes never leaving the tavern's entrance. A man stumbled out through the door and bent over near the wall. A moment later, the man heaved and vomited into the snow.

That was the first sign.

The poison they used was not meant to kill its targets outright. Instead, it weakened them first, bringing nausea, vomiting, and pain that robbed them of strength and clarity. Ivan knew this well. He had tested it on the men who he thought were not worth the life itself.

When he had presented his tactical plan, detailing the timing of the attack and how it would unfold, his master had praised him. Ivan remembered the quiet pride he felt at the time. But then his master had murmured, almost to himself, It would have been perfect if we could poison them before the attack.

Ivan hadn't thought much of those words at first. It was only later that night, when he reread his plan, that he came to the same conclusion.

His master was right.

The plan was solid, but it could be better. If the targets were weakened before the strike, the fight would be shorter, cleaner, and far less costly.

So he began looking.

Fortunately, it wasn't difficult. The black market to the west, controlled by the Steel Knuckles Syndicate, the very gang they intended to target next, had what he needed.

Ivan watched as another man stumbled out into the snow, clutching his stomach.

That was what he had been waiting for.

He reached into his coat and drew the revolver his master had left him. Instead of raising it and firing into the air as a signal to attack, Ivan leveled it calmly at one of the ratcatchers' guards, the one he judged to be the most dangerous among them.

He didn't hesitate.

He pulled the trigger.

Bang.

One by one, his brothers, who had been hiding in the snow, with their coats dyed white to blend with their surroundings, rose at once and began their attack.

Those hiding on the rooftop of the tavern pulled out their ropes and began their descent. Once they reached the third-floor windows, they didn't hesitate. Using the momentum of their swing, they crashed through the glass and forced their way inside.

Ivan joined the brothers on the ground and pushed through the entrance with them. Those assigned to watch the perimeter and intercept anyone attempting to flee remained outside, sealing off the surrounding streets.

The moment Ivan stepped inside, chaos erupted.

The tavern was no longer a place of celebration. Tables had been overturned, mugs lay shattered across the floor, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and sickness. Men staggered blindly, clutching their stomachs or collapsing where they stood. Some tried to stand and failed, slipping on spilled drink and blood.

A ratcatcher lunged at Ivan with a knife, his movements sluggish and desperate. Ivan stepped aside and struck him hard in the ribs. He felt something crack beneath his knuckles, and the man folded instantly, hitting the floor with a soft cry.

Around him, his brothers moved with purpose. They didn't shout. They didn't rush. Each strike was deliberate, aimed at those still capable of resistance. A man trying to crawl toward the back door was dragged away and silenced. Another swung a chair wildly before being tackled and pinned to the floor.

From above, glass continued to rain down as the men who had entered from the third floor pressed their advantage. Shouts echoed from the upper rooms as they cleared them one by one, forcing anyone they found down the stairs or ending the struggle where it began.

Ivan advanced deeper into the tavern, his eyes scanning constantly. He stepped over bodies, ignored the groans, and cut down anyone who tried to block his path. The poison had already done most of the work; what remained was a cleanup.

Or so he thought.

Near the bar, a small group of ratcatchers had managed to pull themselves together. They clustered behind overturned tables, faces pale but eyes burning with desperation. One of them raised a revolver, his hands shaking as he aimed past Ivan.

Ivan saw them a moment too late. He reached for his own revolver with his left hand, but he knew he wouldn't be fast enough. He dropped his weight instead.

"Down…!" he shouted.

The shot rang out.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, sharper than anything that had come before. A flash lit the tavern for a split second, followed by a cry of pain. One of Ivan's brothers staggered backward, clutching his side as blood seeped through his coat. He collapsed against a table and slid to the floor.

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

Yet Ivan didn't allow it to last.

Time was tight, and every second counted. He rose, brought up his revolver, aimed, and fired, dropping the man before he could squeeze off another shot.

Ivan aimed his weapon again, ready to deal with the others near the bar as they scrambled for their own guns. Then he saw one of his brothers leap into them, crashing across the counter and knocking two men off their feet.

Ivan swore under his breath.

He couldn't risk firing now.

He lowered his revolver and moved.

He crossed the distance in a burst of speed, kicking a fallen chair aside as he vaulted over it and threw himself into the fight. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp stink of alcohol. Someone swung at him blindly; Ivan caught the wrist mid-strike and twisted hard. The man screamed as the weapon slipped from his grip.

Ivan drove his elbow into the man's face and shoved him aside just as another ratcatcher lunged from behind the bar. They collided hard, both slipping on spilled drinks. Ivan slammed the man backward into the shelves, bottles shattering around them as glass rained down.

The ratcatcher tried to bring his head forward, desperate, but Ivan met him with a short, brutal headbutt. The man went limp, sliding down the counter and disappearing from Ivan's view.

To his left, his brother was struggling, pinned against the bar by a larger man who still had enough strength left to fight. Ivan stepped in without hesitation. He grabbed the attacker by the collar and drove a knee into his ribs. The man gasped, loosening his grip, and Ivan followed with a sharp strike to the jaw that sent him crashing to the floor.

Ivan didn't stop moving.

Another figure rushed at him, swinging a broken bottle. Ivan ducked under the wild slash and slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, driving him back across a table. Wood cracked as they went down together. Ivan came up first and brought his heel down hard. The fight left the man in a heap, unmoving.

Breathing hard now, Ivan scanned the room.

The last pockets of resistance were breaking. The poison had done its work, those still on their feet moved slowly, clumsily, their attacks desperate and unfocused. Against trained men who were still clear-headed, they didn't last long.

"Clear the bar!" Ivan shouted.

His brothers responded at once, surging forward and finishing what little resistance remained. Groans faded into silence. The last ratcatcher collapsed near the doorway, his strength finally gone.

Ivan wiped blood from his brow with the back of his hand and turned toward the brother who had been shot. The man was conscious, teeth clenched against the pain as two others pressed cloth against his side.

Ivan knelt beside him. "Good, You're still breathing."

After checking the wound with what little first aid knowledge he had, he clasped his brother's hand firmly. "You'll live."

He then turned to the two supporting the injured man. "Take him to the secret hideout. The healers are waiting there for the wounded. Make sure he's given priority."

The two nodded wordlessly, carried their wounded brother, and left.

Ivan straightened and looked around the tavern once more.

Broken glass crunched beneath his boots. Smoke drifted lazily through the air.

He let out a slow breath.

Finally, it was over.

As Ivan was about to check the rest of the tavern, Oskar came down from the upper floors.

Oskar's coat was dusted with glass and ash. "Upstairs is clear," he reported quietly. "A few tried to barricade themselves in the rooms, but we just climbed back out and smashed through their windows."

He chuckled briefly at the thought of repeating the same process over and over, but the sound died quickly as he scanned their surroundings.

Ivan simply nodded and gave his brother a brief pat on the shoulder.

A moment later, Nikolai approached, wiping his hands on his coat. "The back is secured. A couple tried to slip out through the storage exit, but they were intercepted. No one got away."

He paused, glanced around the ruined tavern, then looked back at Ivan. "What happened? We heard gunshots. I thought you were not allowed to fire more than once so as to not alert the authorities."

Ivan let out a short chuckle. "Hell happened here."

Then his expression hardened. "It's not over yet. We still have to clean up."

He thought for a moment before continuing. "Nikolai, check on your Jackals. I want full control of the surrounding areas as soon as possible. Oskar, pile up the bodies as planned. The carriages should be outside by now, and don't forget to collect everything of value inside." He paused, then added dryly, "My miser sister still needs those valuables to keep us fed."

Nikolai and Oskar smiled at those words before they nodded at once and moved off to carry out their orders.

When Oskar finished his tasks and the tavern had been stripped of its valuables, Ivan stood before the entrance. He struck a match and let the flame steady in the cold air before tossing it onto the oil-soaked door.

The fire caught at once, blooming inside and outward as the tavern began to burn.

And elsewhere in the city, at the same moment, Alexei was finishing the rest.

-----------

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[ImperatorXCV]

"You're going to regret this," Ilya Voronin muttered, his voice barely more than a rasp. "I have backers. They won't let this slide if you kill me."

He lay sprawled across the floor of his office, one hand clutching his stomach where a throwing knife had buried itself deep. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the stylish rug and creeping toward the overturned desk. Each breath came shallow and uneven, his body trembling as the pain fought with shock.

Around him, his comrades lay where they had fallen. Some slumped against the walls, others sprawled across the floor, their eyes open and unseeing. There was no movement among them, no breath, no sound, only the heavy silence left behind after the violence Alexei had rained on them.

The office itself bore the marks of the struggle. Papers were scattered everywhere, drawers torn open, a chair splintered near the window where someone had tried and failed to escape. A kerosene lamp flickered weakly on the untouched desk in the corner, casting long, warped shadows across the room.

Alexei stood amid it all, blood dripping intermittently from a shallow cut on his left wrist. He had been wounded when they rushed him all at once, forcing him to fight defensively. Fortunately, the injury was minor. Otherwise, he would have had to invent an explanation for his attendants, and worse, for his mother.

He didn't answer Voronin's threats.

Instead, he continued to survey the room, his gaze moving slowly from body to body, searching for any sign of life among the fallen members of the gang's elite guards. He watched for a twitch, a breath, the slightest hint of resistance.

There was none.

Only when he was certain did Alexei turn his attention back to Voronin.

The man was still alive, of course. Alexei had been careful when he threw the knife just so the main target couldn't run while he fought his guards.

Alexei stepped closer, his boots leaving dark prints on the blood-stained rug. He stopped just short of Voronin's reach and looked down at him, his expression unreadable behind the mask.

Voronin swallowed with effort, his fingers slick with blood as they tightened weakly against his wound.

Alexei remained silent. He knew that silence, when paired with an unbroken gaze, only deepened an enemy's fear. He had learned that much already.
He had died that way in the cultivation world, lying in his own pool of blood while his killer stood over him in silence, watching, waiting, for how long, he had never known. Even now, he could still remember it clearly, the fear of dying, the fear of pain itself, and the helpless certainty that there would be no mercy.

When he finally saw that same deep fear reflected in Voronin's eyes, the fear he had been waiting for, he spoke in a low, steady voice.

"Who is your backer?" he asked. "The SRs? The Mensheviks? Or the Bolsheviks?"

Voronin's lips parted, but no words came out. His eyes darted wildly, searching for something, anything, to cling to.

Alexei crouched down, lowering himself to Voronin's level, his gaze calm and unyielding.

"Why would you care about us," Alexei continued quietly, "when you're already dead?" He tilted his head slightly. "We could just strike the same deal you have with them and call it quits."

Voronin's pupils shrank at those words. His breathing grew frantic, each gasp sharper than the last as the truth sank in.

Alexei let out a soft, almost amused chuckle.

"We're all disposable to those above us, Voronin," he said. "Don't think too highly of yourself."

He studied Voronin for a moment longer, watching the man's fear crest, his body trembling, his heart clearly racing toward collapse.

Only then did Alexei ask, his tone calm, almost courteous.

"So," he said, "how do you want to die?"

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"Painlessly," he added, "or painfully?"

Voronin's lips trembled. It took him a moment to force the words out.

"P-painlessly," he whispered. His voice cracked halfway through. "Please."

Alexei regarded him in silence for a long moment. Then he nodded once.

"Then you'll have to pay for it," he said evenly. "With your money. Or whatever valuables your gang keeps locked away."
Voronin stiffened. His breathing quickened again, panic flaring in his eyes. The thought of his hard-earned money and the valuables he had amassed over the years being taken from him only added to the pain already tearing through his body.

Even the Okhrana hadn't found it when they had ransacked his headquarters. And he and his gang had run away and hid. Now… now… was there any other choice?

Alexei reached into his coat and drew out his knife.

He didn't rush. He wiped the blade clean against a cloth, slow and deliberate, then brought out another knife and began to sharpen the first. The quiet scrape of metal against metal filled the room, steady and unhurried.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Each sound sent a visible shiver through Voronin's body. His heartbeat hammered wildly in his chest, his gaze locked onto the blade as if it were already pressed against his body, slowly and repeatedly.

Alexei didn't look at him. He continued sharpening, testing the edge with his thumb, then repeating the motion again.

Voronin swallowed hard. He closed his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks, and when he opened them again, he had made his decision.

"I…" He stopped, breath hitching. "I don't have it on me."

Alexei kept sharpening.

"It's in the vault," Voronin said quickly. "Beneath this building. Behind the false wall in the records room. The key's in my desk, second drawer, under the ledger."

The words spilled out in a rush, desperation stripping away the last of his pride. "That's everything. Cash, valuables. All of it."

Alexei looked directly into Voronin's eyes, searching for any sign of deceit. When he found none, he straightened.

He rose to his feet, walked to the desk, and opened the drawer exactly as Voronin had said. He found the key, weighed it briefly in his palm, then slipped it into his coat.

He returned to Voronin and crouched once more.

"You chose well," Alexei said quietly.

Voronin let out a broken breath, relief flooding his face for a fleeting moment.

Alexei moved without hesitation.

The blade flashed once.

Voronin never felt it.

His eyes went unfocused almost immediately, his body slackening as the fear finally left him. The room fell silent again, broken only by the faint flicker of the kerosene lamp.

Alexei stood up, wiped the blade clean, and sheathed it.

A promise, after all, was a promise.

He hadn't needed to check the vault before killing him. He had already sent too much fear on the man and with his instinct of catching any deceit. Surely, that was enough.

And if he had been wrong?

Then it would simply be a lesson learned. Next time, he would be more thorough. He would let any man live just a little longer, long enough to confirm that their treasures were exactly where they claimed them to be.

Mistakes were costly.

But they were also instructive.

Alexei checked the room once more. He searched the bodies and gathered anything of value from their pockets, money, rings, watches, keys. He may have been the tsarevich of an empire, but wealth left behind was wealth wasted. Ideals did not fund operations and filled his minions' stomachs. Coins did.

By the time he was finished, a small sack hung heavy at his side.

He stepped out of the room and found Sergey and Stepan walking hurriedly toward him. Both bore bloodstains on their coats and sleeves, dark and drying in the cold air. When they were close enough, Sergey reported, his breath still heavy from the fighting and the sweep of the base.

"Everything inside is clear, master. No survivors, as you commanded."

Alexei didn't answer at once. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Stepan.

"It's the same outside, master," Stepan also reported, a touch sheepish.

Alexei looked at them both with mild amusement. Just three months ago, during their first kills, both of them had been sick, vomiting almost immediately. Now, he could only shake his head inwardly at how far they had come. Well, he supposed he should praise himself, they had an outstanding master, after all.

"Good," Alexei said, then handed the sack to Sergey without ceremony.

"Did you go to the records room in the basement?"

Sergey thought for a moment before he answered. "It should be a room with many shelves and papers, right? I think I have.

"Lead me there. I have to check something."

Sergey nodded again, already having an idea what this was about. After all, he had been present at the planning, and Anna had been very thorough in her instructions that every valuables was to be taken.

Sergey turned at once and led the way without another word. They moved through the quiet corridors, their footsteps echoing faintly against stone and wood. The headquarters felt hollow now, emptied of life, its silence heavier than the noise that had filled it moments before.

They descended into the basement, where the air grew colder and damper. The records room lay at the end of a narrow passage, its door already ajar. Inside, shelves lined the walls, stacked with ledgers, documents, and loose papers.

Once they arrived, Alexei didn't waste any time. He moved straight to the walls, running his hand along the cold stone as he checked every section with care. Shelves that blocked his way were pulled aside or pushed over without hesitation, ledgers and papers spilling onto the floor as they hit the ground.

He paused.

Something felt wrong, or rather, different.

Alexei pressed his palm lightly against the stone.

There was a faint shift behind him.

He turned at once, his eyes narrowing. Where there had been nothing before, a narrow keyhole now revealed itself, the outline subtle enough to vanish again if one didn't know where to look.

So that was it.

Alexei reached into his coat and took out the key he had taken from Voronin. He slid it into the keyhole and turned it slowly.

A dull click echoed through the room.

The wall beside it shuddered, then gave way with a low grinding sound. Alexei stepped forward and pushed it open fully, revealing what lay beyond.

Some gold and silver glinted in the lamplight. Coins were stacked in neat piles, alongside jewelry and paper money. Small chests filled with valuables, documents, and sealed pouches lay before them, wealth gathered over years of extortion, theft, fear, and blood.

Sergey's and Stepan's breaths hitched.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Alexei exhaled quietly, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. A faint smile crossed his face.

When he finished taking in the modest hoard of wealth, Alexei turned toward Sergey and Stepan, who were still starstruck by what lay before them.

"Hello?"

Both snapped out of their daze at once and looked at him, their faces tinged red with embarrassment.

"I know it's a lot to take in," Alexei said evenly, "but we still have work to do."

They nodded quickly.

"Both of you," Alexei continued, "start cleaning up the building. I want all the valuables stripped and gathered near the entrance. The bodies should be stacked there as well, so that when Ivan and the others arrive, we can leave immediately. Understood?"

"Understood, master," they answered at once.

Satisfied, Alexei left the room.

He walked through the quiet corridors without haste. When he reached the front door, he pushed it open and stepped outside.

Cold air rushed in to meet him. Snow continued to fall in a slow, steady drift, blanketing the small courtyard of the building and the world beyond. Alexei paused just outside the entrance and drew in a deep breath, letting the cold fill his lungs.

He then exhaled slowly.

Finally, it was done.

—--

"This is the first time I've seen you wounded, you know," Anna muttered as she carefully cleaned the cut on Alexei's wrist. After washing away the blood with hot water, she poured alcohol over it, vodka, to be precise.

Alexei frowned slightly behind his mask at the sting and replied, "I'm human, Anna. I get sick and wounded if I'm not careful."

"Then you'd better be careful next time," Anna said flatly. "Next time, it might be your whole arm that gets cut." She wrapped the bandage around his wrist and secured it firmly.

"Hm. Sure," Alexei said. Then he added lightly, "Where's Ivan? He hurt his forehead, didn't he?" He chuckled at the thought of Ivan headbutting an enemy and getting hurt himself.

"Back to work," Anna replied. "They're burying the bodies as we speak."

She stood up, closed the medical kit, and set it aside. After a moment, she added more quietly, "There were too many bodies this time."

Alexei rolled his wrist, testing the bandage. When he seemed satisfied, he rose as well and let out a slow breath.

"Believe me, Anna," he said at last. "I don't like it either, but it has to be done. This is the price of order we're going to enforce in their former territory."

Anna looked at him for a moment, as if she wanted to argue, then turned away to clean her hands. The room fell quiet again, filled only with the faint sounds of movement beyond the walls.

Alexei rubbed his hands over his face, then glanced at the clock on the wall.

Three a.m.

He needed to leave soon.

He sat down in the chair in front of Anna's desk and waited for her to come back.

More than seventy men were dead tonight. He wondered how the Okhrana or the Politsiya would see it if they ever learned the truth.

But they wouldn't.

The dead would simply become like the others, missing, unaccounted for, and never seen again.

They would form their own assumptions, but they would never find the bodies. Perhaps the Okhrana would even congratulate his men instead. The thought brought a faint smile to his face.

The Jackals needed to be ready, though. Those with ties to the ratcatchers would surely react once word spread of what had happened by sunrise, perhaps in the evening. Alexei intended to treat it as a test for the jackals and his minions. They needed an enemy, something to harden them and teach them how the world they were in truly worked. And there was no better time for it than now.

Nikolai, in particular, would need to be ready.

As for Nikolai's punishment, Alexei had already considered it. Still, it would have to be postponed. There were too many matters to handle in their newly conquered territory, assuming they could hold it.

And he was confident they could.

Alexei sighed as the fatigue from the earlier battle finally sank in. He twisted his neck from side to side, trying to keep the sleepiness at bay. Then he checked the clock on the wall again and saw that more than ten minutes had passed, yet Anna still hadn't returned.

He was about to stand up and look for her when the door opened and Anna stepped inside.

"Sorry," she said. "The last carriage carrying the loot has arrived."

Alexei settled back comfortably in the chair. "Then I won't keep you long."

When Anna sat down opposite him, he continued, "The men will be under your supervision from now on. Make sure the transition in the new territory goes smoothly, and that the residents understand who controls the area now. They say first impressions last, so tell the men to be gentle when handling these matters."

"Don't worry. We've already planned for this," Anna said. "I have experience from when we took over our current territory, so this should be a breeze. Still, I'm worried the Politsiya will start asking questions later, especially about the fire."

"I already told you how to answer," Alexei replied calmly. "'We don't know anything about it. We're just taking over the area, since it seems the ratcatchers have gone into hiding once more.' Have Nikolai face them. He'll be the public face of our organization from now on."

Anna nodded. "Hm. Okay." She flipped through her files, then continued, "What about this other instruction of yours? Building more taverns. I understand you want to move toward legitimate businesses, but this feels excessive. Five taverns at once? We don't even know if we can secure permits from the St. Petersburg tavern authorities or the excise office. I've asked around, and it seems permits have been much harder to obtain since last year's revolution, especially since taverns were gathering spots for revolutionaries."

Alexei rubbed his temples at that. "Is that so?" He thought for a moment before continuing. "Focus on the transition in our new territory for now. We'll discuss the taverns again once we have clearer answers."

He paused, then added, "Speaking of taverns, did we find the permit from the one that burned down?"

"Yes." Anna searched her desk for a moment before finding it and handing it to her master. "Ivan found it in their office at the tavern."

Alexei inspected the document briefly before muttering, "At least we still have one tavern."

Anna nodded. "The permit is valid only until 1911. After that, we'll need to apply again."

"We'll deal with that when the time comes," Alexei said calmly. "For now, rebuild the tavern that burned down once the investigation is over. This time, I want it larger and cleaner, with upper floors converted into apartments."

His organization thrived on gathering information, and taverns were among the best places to collect it. People talked when they drank, when they ate, and when their guard was down.

Aside from collecting information, taverns were also the best way to funnel their money and make it legal. He wasn't satisfied with running only underground businesses; he wanted them to own legal enterprises as well.

Anna noted the instructions down in her ledger. When she finished, she looked up and asked, "Do you have any other instructions?"

Alexei thought for a moment, then shook his head. "That's all for now. Just make sure the plan is followed and have Nikolai secure and defend the territory. Have the minions assist him as well."

He stood up, stretched, and glanced at the clock once more.

Three forty-five.

It's time to leave.

"I'll go now." He patted Anna's shoulder, a habit he couldn't quite break with his subordinates.

"Mm. Be safe," Anna said, standing as well as she walked him to the door.

Alexei nodded to her and left.

 

[ImperatorXCV]

Morning light filtered through the tall windows of Captain Volkov's office, pale and cold, reflecting off the frost that clung stubbornly to the glass. He had arrived earlier than usual, as he often did, and was midway through his first cup of coffee, a small comfort he allowed himself before the weight of the day settled in.

The office was quiet.

And he liked it that way.

Volkov stood beside his desk, skimming through a stack of routine reports in the desk with one hand while holding the porcelain cup in the other. Nothing unusual so far. Minor disturbances. Petty arrests. The city, at least on paper, had survived another night.

He raised the cup and took a measured sip.

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," he said, continuing to skim through the reports.

His assistant stepped in, posture stiff and expression tight in a way Volkov immediately recognized. This was not a man bringing in good news.

His first thought was immediate and unwelcome.

Did the SRs move again?

The Socialist Revolutionaries had been a constant headache throughout his career. They were efficient, ruthless, and infuriatingly capable of assassinating imperial officials. They didn't riot like amateurs or shout slogans in the streets. They planned and waited. And when they struck, they struck cleanly.

Just more than a week ago, the prefect of St. Petersburg had been assassinated, shot down in broad daylight, within his own jurisdiction. There had been no warning. The culprit was a suicidal fanatic who knew that the moment he pulled the trigger, he would be dead. And yet he did it anyway.

There was no real way to prevent such attacks. How could one stop an enemy who was not afraid to die, so long as his mission was carried out? It wasn't as if Volkov himself, even as the head of the St. Petersburg division, could order imperial officials to stay indoors and never step outside.

Within an hour of the assassination, Volkov had been summoned to report on the hows and the whys it had happened. Yet he could offer no definite answers. Even now, he could still recall the disappointment etched on the faces of the prime minister and the tsar himself. Not even the head of the Okhrana, Colonel Mikhail Kuznetsov, had been spared from their rebuke.

When Volkov left the meeting, he knew his career was teetering on the brink of collapse. The look Colonel Kuznetsov had given him lingered in his mind, a silent warning that another high-profile assassination within his jurisdiction would cost him his position.

In the days that followed, Volkov ordered sweeping arrests and relentless crackdowns on anyone suspected of involvement. Even those without clear evidence were not spared. Some were sent to Siberia. Others were hanged, by the direct orders from the prime minister himself.

And yet, Volkov knew, he knew, that no amount of repression could truly prevent another assassination. How could it, when those willing to carry them out were not afraid of arrest, exile, or even death itself?

That's why he made his bed already, that sooner or later, he would lose his position. And he had no doubt, and he was equally certain that whoever replaced him would not fare any better.

Still, he would do his duty as long as he remained head of the division. He had ordered his agents and informants throughout the city to stay on high alert at all times and to gather as much information as possible on the revolutionaries. He needed results, any results.

And when they came, he would vent his suppressed anger on those who would cost him his hard-earned position.

"Captain?" the assistant called out.

He had been trying to get the captain's attention for some time now, but Captain Volkov seemed to have drifted off again. It had been happening more frequently in the recent days, and the assistant could only assume it was due to the mounting stress.

"I'm sorry," Volkov said at last. "I was thinking about something. What is it?" He set his teacup down and focused his gaze on his assistant. The looming threat of dismissal had clearly been weighing on his mind again.

"Our informants and agents in the eastern district have submitted their reports, sir," the assistant said. "Something significant happened last night." He handed the documents over at once.

Volkov accepted the reports and gave a brief wave of his hand. "Thank you. You may go."

The assistant bowed and left reluctantly. He had expected questions, but it seemed the captain preferred to be alone while he read the reports.

Captain Volkov watched the door close before lowering his gaze to the folder in his hands. A faint frown settled on his face. He hoped this was nothing more than another petty dispute, just like the others he had just read.

He sat down heavily in his chair and opened the folder.

His eyebrow rose as he read the summary.

There had been a brief confrontation in the eastern district the previous night. Witnesses reported fighting between two gangs, the Ratcatchers and the Jackals. According to the timeline, the clash had been sudden and violent, but oddly contained. No large-scale riot. No prolonged street battle. Just a sharp burst of chaos that ended as quickly as it began.

So they had begun.

He had chosen not to intervene when the Jackals' plan was first reported by their informants. The Ratcatchers had long been one of the thorns he wanted torn from the city's side, yet every attempt to root them out had ended the same way, they always scattered and vanished the moment a raid began. He wanted to see if these jackals could actually cause trouble to these rats.

Volkov flipped to the next page.

The Ratcatchers' only tavern had been burned down. The fire had been fierce but localized, leaving behind little more than a charred shell. By the time the Politsiya arrived, the flames were already dying, and no one remained at the scene to question. No bodies had been found and no suspects were apprehended.

Follow-up reports noted that attempts to locate the Ratcatchers' inner circle and their more dangerous fighters after the incident had yielded almost nothing. Those who were found were men who had fled and gone into hiding the moment the fighting began, claiming they had no knowledge of what happened afterward other than the jackals claiming that they owned the territory now. Their usual gathering places were empty, and even their headquarters, previously raided by the Okhrana, had been abandoned.

Some of the Jackals who had been patrolling the area had been apprehended by the politsiya for questioning. But what they got was nothing, even after the beating, they claimed that the ratcatchers had run and gone into hiding after seeing that they were losing.

The Ratcatchers… defeated just like that?

Captain Volkov frowned deeply. He had expected at least a series of skirmishes, both sides testing each other, probing for weaknesses. What had happened instead fell well outside his expectations. He flipped to the next page with growing urgency.

What he read next made his grip tighten on the papers.

The informants embedded within the Ratcatchers' inner circle were also missing. This absence was the reason the report had been submitted late; agents had spent hours attempting to locate them, only to come up empty-handed.

Volkov's frown deepened. Those informants always left behind signs, notes, dead drops, some form of warning, before going into hiding alongside the others. This time, there had been nothing at all according to the report.

He rubbed a hand across his forehead. There were only two explanations he could think of for their sudden disappearance. Either they had been killed, or the attack had been so sudden that they hadn't had time to leave any messages.

But that didn't sit right with him.

He had warned them beforehand about the possibility of an attack. Surely, they would have prepared an escape in advance in case things turned south.

Nevertheless, he had not thought that the jackals could actually defeat the ratcatchers in a single attack. It seemed he had to reevaluate their threat level after the investigation was done.

He should have been pleased with the outcome. One less thorn in the city's side. Yet this result unsettled him more than it reassured him. If the Jackals had driven the Ratcatchers into hiding, did that mean that this gang operated on the same level as the Okhrana agents? Or worse, if they had rooted out the ratcatchers, killing them in a single attack, did that mean that this gang operated above the level of his Okhrana agents?

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Volkov reached behind him and pulled the rope. Seconds later, there was a knock at the door, and his assistant entered.

"You needed me, sir?"

"Have we received any messages from the Jackals' informants?" Volkov asked, his voice low and heavy.

The assistant noticed his superior's bad mood after hearing just that.

"I'll check again with the receivers, sir," he replied carefully. He bowed, then closed the door quietly behind him.

Captain Volkov exhaled slowly, trying to rein in the tension coiling in his chest.

Minutes passed.

Then the door opened again. The assistant returned, this time holding a folder.

"The report just came in, sir," he said, stepping forward and placing it on Volkov's desk.

Volkov snatched it at once and waved him away. The assistant complied. He bowed wordlessly and shut the door behind him.

Alone once more, Volkov opened the folder and began to read.

Volkov's eyes moved steadily across the page.

The informants reported that the operation had been successful. The Ratcatchers had not merely been pushed back; they had been broken.

According to the account, resistance collapsed quickly once the fighting began. The Jackals had coordinated their attack carefully and timed it so precisely that the Ratcatchers never had the chance to organize a proper defense. They were driven into a corner almost immediately, left with no choice but to scatter and flee. Their leaders had reportedly ordered the Jackals to let the fleeing men go, as the purpose of the attack was the territory itself, not the elimination of every member.

Volkov turned the page.

The next section was an assessment. The informants believed that the Jackals' high-ranking fighters had struck the headquarters first, followed by the tavern, which they believed was where most of the Ratcatchers' inner circle had gathered that night. The informants had heard that several of the Ratcatchers' leaders had managed to flee, while others were killed. They could not yet determine how many, as they couldn't get that kind of information with their current positions.

There were also rumors circulating among the Jackals leaders that it would take months, perhaps even years, before the Ratcatchers could recover enough to return. They had been broken too thoroughly.

Volkov leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a brief moment.

He let out a slow, quiet sigh.

At least it wasn't the worst outcome he had feared.

So these Jackals knew how to coordinate their attack and timely at that? That's why the ratcatchers had been caught off guard and got broken?

Still, he found it hard to believe they had managed it so cleanly and quickly. He needed eyes inside their ranks, informants planted deep within their higher circle, if he wanted a clear picture of how they truly operated.

Volkov reached behind him once more and pulled the rope. Seconds later, his assistant appeared.

"Sir?"

"Pass down my orders to the Field Operations Department," Volkov said. "Increase surveillance on the Jackals. Plant as many informants as possible, especially within their higher ranks. And continue the search for our missing informants on the Ratcatchers' side."

The assistant quickly wrote everything down. When he finished, he asked, "Is that all, sir?"

Volkov paused, then added, "Relay this to the Politsiya as well. Instruct them to continue arresting members of the Jackals for questioning. Extract whatever information they can. The reports said that some were killed. We need to find where they are buried or thrown."

"Yes, sir." The assistant bowed slightly. "I'll pass the orders immediately."

Volkov nodded and waved him away.

Alone at last, he allowed himself to sink back into his chair.

He didn't know whether these Jackals would become a serious problem in the future, but at the very least, one major thorn had been removed.

If what the reports said was true.

—---

"Your complexion has been a bit pale these past few days, Your Highness. Are you feeling unwell?" Sednev asked as he followed the Tsarevich toward his sister's rooms.

Alexei didn't answer immediately. He walked a little farther before speaking. "I've been having dreams lately, Sednev. But don't worry, I can handle it. It'll all pass once the new year arrives."

He flashed a brief smile at his attendant, then turned his attention back to the corridor ahead.

Sednev looked at his Tsarevich's back and couldn't help but shake his head. He had noticed that every morning when he entered the Tsarevich's room, his master appeared tired and lacking sleep, even though the Tsarevich had been retiring early each evening for the past few days.

Stress, Sednev told himself. It had to be stress.

The past months had been anything but gentle. Lessons, duties, and endless hands-on training across different ministries must have placed immense pressure on his Tsarevich's shoulders. Even grown men would crack under such a load. That his Tsarevich still smiled, still reassured others, only made Sednev more uneasy. He had seen men sacrifice their health for duty before, and he did not like how those stories ended.

The thought of informing the Tsar crossed his mind, but Sednev hesitated. He had noticed that his Tsarevich disliked it when matters about him were reported to the Tsar or anyone else. There would be that look of disappointment, sometimes even dismay, that made Sednev and even Nagorny feel as though they had overstepped.

In the end, he decided to wait until after the New Year. If his Tsarevich's complexion still had not improved by then, he would report it, regardless of his reaction. He had a duty to fulfill, and part of that duty was to ensure the Tsarevich's health. On that, at least, Sednev would not compromise.

Alexei noticed the way his attendant looked at him, but he chose not to dwell on it and continued walking. He had been doing his best to hide his lack of sleep and the fatigue etched into his face, but it was impossible to conceal such things from those who accompanied him throughout the day. His attendants saw him too often and too closely, to be fooled.

They could think whatever they wished. At the very least, he had accomplished what he and his minions had spent so long preparing for, and that, to him, was enough.

He was certain he could set his health back in order with a proper night's sleep and a single session of cultivation. Because of that, he wasn't worried about them speaking to his father over something so minor.

When they reached his sister's door, Alexei slowed and nodded to the guards guarding it. He raised a hand, giving a brief knock before pushing it open. He stepped inside without hesitation, his expression settling into something calm and composed, as though the weight of the night before had never existed at all.

Inside, the room was warm and softly lit. His sisters were already gathered near the beds, nightclothes on, hair loosened, their voices low and animated as they chatted among themselves. Whatever they had been talking about paused the moment they noticed him.
"Brother!" Maria called out, her eyes bright as she ran toward him and leapt forward.

Alexei caught her easily and kissed her on the forehead before setting her down. He then walked over to Olga and did the same, followed by Tatiana. When he glanced around the room, he noticed Anastasia was not there, likely with their mother, as she had always been.

"What took you so long, brother?" Tatiana asked.

Alexei sat down at the prepared chair before he answered. "Sorry, sister. Busy with duty these days."

"Your always busy brother. You hardly told us stories anymore." Olga crossed her arms with her signatured pouted look.

Alexei sighed softly as he looked at his sisters, his expression turning complicated. Sometimes, he wondered how men could kill these innocent ladies in his first life. He didn't know if they were this sweet and innocent before it happened. But he was sure they didn't deserve it.

He thought about if it happens again in this life. Especially now that he was their brother. He wondered what he would do to the world then.

He shook the thoughts away immediately and smiled brightly at Olga.

"I was busy preparing for our future little sister," he said lightly. "I'm sorry if I haven't had much time for you lately. I'll make it up to all of you when I can."

His sisters looked puzzled. Maria tilted her head and couldn't help but ask, "What is the future, brother?"

Alexei chuckled and reached out, ruffling her freshly combed hair without hesitation.

"Sometime soon," he said warmly. "You'll understand, my little princess."

Maria laughed at that, delighted, though her attendant's expression turned complicated as she glanced at the now-mussed hair she had just finished arranging.

Alexei ignored it and clapped his hands lightly. "Now then, what do you ladies want to hear tonight?"

"We want a superwoman story tonight," Olga called out first, folding her arms with clear determination.

"No!" Tatiana shot back at once. "It was superwoman last time. We want a princess story this time." She glared at her sister as if daring her to argue further.

In the blink of an eye, the two were arguing over each other, voices rising, words overlapping, neither willing to back down. Maria watched them with wide eyes, clearly entertained, while Alexei rubbed his temple in mock distress.

"Enough," he said calmly, but firmly.

Both girls froze mid-argument and turned to him at once.

Alexei sighed softly and looked between them, pretending to think it over. "Tatiana is right," he said at last. "We had a superwoman story last time. It's only fair we switch tonight."

Olga opened her mouth to protest, but Alexei raised a finger. "That said," he added with a small smile, "this princess won't be waiting around to be rescued. She'll be clever, brave, and capable in her own way."

That seemed to placate her, somewhat. Olga huffed, but nodded reluctantly.

"Now," Alexei continued, clapping his hands lightly, "tuck yourselves in. Storytime begins once everyone is ready."

Maria scrambled into bed immediately, pulling the blankets up to her chin with impressive speed. Tatiana followed more neatly, smoothing the sheets as she settled in. Olga took her time, but eventually climbed in as well, arranging her pillows just so.

Alexei pulled the chair closer and waited until they were all still. When the room finally quieted, he leaned forward, his voice dropping into that familiar, gentle cadence they all loved.

"Once upon a time," he began, "an adventurous princess sails out on a daring mission to save her people…."

Halfway through the story, Alexei noticed the door open softly behind him, but he didn't turn. He already knew who it was from the familiar scent in the air, and he continued without breaking his rhythm.

Behind him, Nicholas and Alexandra watched the scene in silence, their expressions soft and full of affection as they took in the sight before them.