Alasla: The New Age

Chapter One- The Ling City

The head of the city's gangsters, the most powerful ruffian, one of the Four Rulers, sat at the table in the middle of a noisily crowded room one could've easily described as frayed and shabby. In front of him, with his figured outlined by the fang-white light was a young teenager, about sixteen of age with a long, flat nose and dark pupils that nearly filled up his slanted, squinting sclera. He barely gets exposed under the sun, resulting in his skin turning unusually lighter than most other people, although that did not stop his hair from being as black as the darkest coal could ever be, anyway.

His full concentration was on the cards he held in his hand, not daring to let a single breath slip as he plays against the head of the gangsters. He calculated which cards Jerron might have in hand whilst trying to predict what card he might lay out and what cards he had to save for them.

He scans Jerron sharply from within the shade cast through his fringe. The gangster's lipless mouth smugly thinned into a line as he grinned, with two last cards in his hands while the boy counted six in his.

He bit his lips and placed down a three. The smallest card.

Jerron slowly laid a joker on top of the three with a smile flashing across his face. The boy picked out all of the four fives and laid them down.

Jerron laughed. Four of the same cards were the largest ones. No single card could overpower them, only four of the same cards whose numbers were larger than the four the opponent placed could win over it. But now he had only one card left.

Ralph Ling, his expression blank, revealed his last card. A nine.

"I won," he croaked. "Sir."

"Of course," Jerron acknowledged lightly, sliding a hundred-dollar Rora note to him. "You always do."

Ralph tucked the note into his velvet suit and sighed, finally allowing himself to breathe freely again.

"When will my metal and blacksmiths be ready?" He asked. "I finished the design of the new foldable knife ages ago."

"A week," Jerron replied. He held out his hand and one of the servants dressed in black placed a box of cigarettes on it. "Smoke?"

"No, thank you." Ralph shook his head. "I'd like to live for a few more years."

"I do believe you have much more years left in your life than me," Jerron said, raising his brows as an uproar emitted from a table somewhere behind him. But he didn't look around, nor did Ralph. "You're still keeping that pet of yours?"

Ralph ran his fingers along his collar. "He's Forrest, sir. And he's a friend. But he's leaving soon."

"For where?" He asked casually, lighting his cigarette with a golden lighter. The flickering flame mirrored into his shadowy black eyes. The reflection was again replaced by the cold ceiling light as the fire went back out.

Ralph stood up and picked up his suitcase, patting his trousers, he bowed lightly. "Somewhere," Ralph replied. "Somewhere safer. Goodnight, sir. It was a nice game."

He then turned and left as fast as he could without acting suspicious, his polished boots clanking on the metal staircase. He pulled open a wooden door at the top of the stairs and walked out into Ling.

The Ling City's lights never faded. Glowing neon ads, flashing restaurant doors, lights coming from every window of large apartment buildings as he walks through the rows of street lamps that lit up the car-filled road which kindles the city day and night. In bars and inns across the street, people sat, slamming tables, dancing with mugs of beer, making the air thick with the scent of alcohol and cigars. Under the glorious surface of the city, within the basements of deserted storages, large gambling areas spread across the rooms lit by cold, white lights.