“You… you will pay for this,” Evander rasped, his voice was thick with venom. His body convulsed in the chair, blood still streaming from his ruined wrist, dripping in crimson rivulets across the desk. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, each breath was sharp with rage and agony.Jayden Cole did not flinch. His posture remained steady, controlled, as if every line of his body was carved from stone. His eyes narrowed with icy calm, then he leaned forward ever so slightly.“Quit the blabbing, you time thief,” Jayden said, his voice was low but sharper than broken glass. “And hear what I have to say.”The words cut through the air like a blade. Evander’s jaw clenched, his pride forcing him to resist, but the lingering tug of Jayden’s telekinesis reminded him of the truth: resistance was futile. The pen embedded in his wrist twitched again, it was a muted throb of agony that made his breath hitch.For a long, taut moment, Evander said nothing. His glare was a storm contained behind hi

Evander gasped, choking back pain, his vision swimming. But through the torment, his pride clawed to the surface, a lion refusing to bow even as the hunter’s blade pressed to its throat.“You… can break me,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “But I will not bend. Pain does not frighten me, Jayden Cole. I was forged in it. I am Velcan. The power of time runs in my veins. And you… you are nothing but a pretender trying to tame what you do not understand.”Jayden’s eyes flashed with fury. The pressure inside Evander’s skull surged, sending another wave of agony that made him bite down so hard blood welled between his teeth. Still, he refused to scream again.“The Khybers are vultures,” Evander spat, his voice was trembling but it was sharp. “Weaklings who deserved their fall. And you ask me to reward weakness? To pay reparations for victory?” He shook his head, laughter rasping again, though weaker now. “Pathetic. You’ve lost your edge, Jayden Cole. The man who once carved his vengeance

The silence stretched between them like a blade, sharp and unyielding. The hum of the neon was the only sound in the room, a hollow buzz that underscored the fragility of the moment. Evander Velcan sat rigid in his chair, jaw set, knuckles white beneath the desk. Jayden’s shadow loomed over him, tall, patient, merciless.Then, slowly, Evander leaned back. His smirk returned—not as strong as before, but present. A mask hastily stitched over raw fear.“You think you can frighten me with your stories of robes and shadows?” he said, with a voice that was edged with a growl. “I am Velcan. Westwood bends to my will. The Council… they are relics. Old men clinging to old fears. This city knows only wealth, power, and the strength to seize both. And I—” he slammed a fist onto the desk, rattling the glass surface—“I am that strength.”The echo hung, but Jayden did not flinch. He simply tilted his head, the way a predator does when its prey struggles in vain. His eyes never left Evander’s, calm

Jayden told himself, as he walked away from the Velcan estate, that the worst part was not the roar finally silenced but the feeling that he had salted more than an enemy’s pride. Evander Velcan had surrendered the secret—cold, final, precise—and with the secret given, Jayden had watched the last structural pulse of the Chronosurge sputter and die. It had taken only one hour, one pry at the right memory and one confession spoken like a blade, to pull the root out of a dynasty. He did not linger over what that meant for bloodlines and ruined portraits; the city had mouths to feed and other monsters to unmask.By late afternoon five days later Jayden found himself somewhere absurdly domestic for such business: the manicured privacy of a membership course beyond the city’s electric spine, where men in suits measured their worth by swing and stoicism. Green rolled away in perfect, expensive waves. The air smelled of cut grass and greed. It was the kind of stage Westwood’s paragons use

Jayden Cole had lived long enough in the shadows to know when a knife was being sharpened behind pleasantries. The words of Mikhail Grigori and Victor Zypher still lingered in the air like the taste of iron. Alliance, peace, new balance—such words from such men could not be trusted so easily. And yet, here they were, speaking them with grave sincerity, as if they meant every syllable.Jayden sat on a chair and leaned back on his eyes narrowed into knives. Yusuf was still stiff, his fingers tight on his glass, while Tom’s posture betrayed a soldier’s readiness to spring. The terrace felt too taut, too exposed.“If you are here to speak of peace,” Jayden finally said, his voice low and measured, “then let us not do it here in the reception area. Come with me. The cafeteria will serve us better.”The suggestion was both invitation and test. If they refused, then their talk of peace was a mask. If they agreed, perhaps they truly meant to sit as equals.Mikhail’s gaze lingered on Jayden f