All Chapters of Reversal Of Fate: From A Pawn To A Mafia Billionaire: Chapter 151
- Chapter 160
200 chapters
The Shard Of Self
The silence was not content with names.It wanted the man behind them.***The Breaking DreamThat night Damian dreamed of a hall of mirrors.Each reflection wore his face. Some younger. Some older. Some crowned, some bleeding. One wore Mara’s smile. Another held Eryn’s eyes. All whispered the same word:“Damian.”The hammer pulsed in his grip, but when he swung it, the glass only multiplied—every shatter making more of him. More names. More faces.Until the silence itself stood behind him, hand pressed to his shoulder.> “You cannot break them all,” it murmured.“But you can break the one that matters.”Damian turned—only to see himself smiling back, lips stitched with silver thread.He woke gasping, the fire burned to coals. Mara dozed against her blade. Eryn sat awake, eyes on him, as though she had been waiting.“You dreamed it again,” she said flatly.Damian rubbed his brow. “Not dream. Warning.”***The Choice Spoken AloudAt dawn, Mara found him on the battlements, the hammer a
The Nameless Legion
The silence was no longer whisper.It had become an army.***The First SightThe Wing reached the ridge at dawn. Mist clung to the valley below, but through the gray rolled the thunder of countless boots. When the veil lifted, Mara cursed under her breath.An army. Tens of thousands. But no banners, no colors, no heraldry. Every soldier wore plain armor, stripped of insignia. Their shields bore only one word, painted in ash:Damian.The sound carried too—chanting, like waves crashing against stone.“Damian. Damian. Damian.”Eryn’s knuckles whitened on her bow. “They march under your name.”Damian stood at the ridge’s edge, the shard burning in his palm. His chest tightened as if every voice below was torn from his lungs. “No,” he whispered. “They march because they have no names left.”Mara spat into the dust. “Names or not, they’ll cut us down the same.”***The Legion’s GeneralFrom the mass stepped a figure in black mail. His face was covered by a helm wrought like a mirror, refle
The General Of Mirrors
The silence had always spoken through mouths.Now it wore his face.***The StandoffThe field was torn to shreds, the ground split where the hammer had struck. Smoke and dust still curled from the fissures, but the legion had steadied. They formed ranks again, a wall of ash-painted shields.At their head, the general stood unmoved. His helm, polished like a mirror, gleamed with Damian’s reflection—smeared with blood, lined with exhaustion, eyes hollow with rage.The general’s voice rang, neither human nor hollow, but something between. “You resist the silence, yet you carry it. You deny the crown, yet you wear its shadow. Look at me, Damian. I am what you will become when the denial ends.”Mara growled, blade dripping. “He’s a lie wrapped in steel.”But Damian knew better. Lies only worked when they carried a sliver of truth.***The Mirror UnmaskedDamian stepped forward, hammer in one hand, shard in the other. “Show yourself. If you are me, then cast off the steel.”The general lau
The Shardstorm
The battlefield was quiet—too quiet. Not the calm of victory, but the pause before collapse.Ash drifted through the air where the general’s body had shattered, fine as powdered glass. The legion, once a wall of shields and screams, lay scattered in heaps. Some were unconscious, some clawed at their own throats as though choking on unseen threads, and some simply rocked where they sat, weeping without sound.But the shard…It still pulsed in the ground.Black light throbbed with each beat, like the slow drag of a war-drum beneath the earth. The fissure Damian had torn open when he hurled it shuddered wider, spiderweb cracks lacing outward, carrying the glow with them.Mara tightened her grip around Damian’s waist to steady him. “It’s not dead. Whatever you did—it’s not over.”“I know.” Damian’s voice was raw, every word scraped across the wound in his side. “It never ends.”Eryn crouched near the fissure, her bow still drawn though her arrows had proven useless. The light reflected in
The Thousand Hunts
The battlefield still smoked.Where the storm had raged, only silence remained. A silence too heavy, too knowing—like breath held before a scream. The shattered legion sprawled across the ground, unmoving now, their chant finally silenced.But in the sky, the scars remained.Black streaks arced across the horizon in every direction, fading slowly into night. Each was a shard’s path. Each was a seed of him.Damian forced himself upright, every bone aching. His hammer sagged against the earth, its glow dim. Blood seeped from his side, warm and constant. He hadn’t the strength to bind it. Not yet.Mara crouched before him, gripping his chin hard enough to drag his eyes to hers. Her face was a map of cuts and grime, but her stare was unbroken steel. “Stay with me. Don’t drift.”“I’m here,” Damian rasped.“No,” she snarled. “You’re slipping. Look at me and say it.”“I’m here.” Louder this time. A lie made into defiance.Only then did she let go.Eryn had her bow across her knees, but her h
The False King
The fortress breathed silence.Its broken towers leaned like teeth in a giant’s mouth, their edges gleaming with the glow of embedded shards. Each pulse was a heartbeat, steady, patient, feeding the storm that roiled overhead. The air smelled of scorched stone and wet iron.Damian felt it in his bones. Not just the shards. Not just the silence. Himself.Because standing at the heart of the ruined court was him.The False King.He looked whole where Damian felt broken. No bandages, no blood, no tremor in his grip. His hammer burned with black fire, alive with hunger. Glass shards crowned his brow, woven into his hair like jewels. His face—Damian’s face—was untouched by exhaustion. And his smile held no warmth, no pain. Only certainty.“You stumble,” the False King said, voice carrying with unnatural clarity. “I stride.”Mara shifted her stance, blade angled low. “He bleeds like you?”Damian shook his head slowly. “No. He doesn’t bleed at all.”Eryn swallowed, eyes never leaving the fig
The War Of Kings
The fortress groaned as it split.Walls cracked open, towers crumbled into dust, shards burst from stone like veins of living glass. The ground tilted beneath Damian’s boots, dragging blood and rubble into the widening fault that cut the courtyard in two.And at its center—standing tall amid collapse—the False King.Shards circled him like a crown of knives. His black-flame hammer burned brighter now, as though the world itself poured strength into his hands. His smile stretched wide, cruel and calm.“You thought this was a duel,” he said, voice carrying through falling stone. “It is war.”The soldiers of silence roared as one, slamming shields and spears in rhythm. The sound echoed like a heartbeat, filling the ruin with thunder.Mara pulled Damian back from the crumbling edge. Her face was streaked with blood, one eye swelling shut, but her grip was iron. “You stand or we’re done.”Eryn staggered up beside them, bowstring trembling, three arrows already nocked despite the raw skin o
The Hammer Divided
The clash rang like the cracking of the world.When Damian’s hammer met the False King’s, the fortress shook, towers collapsing in cascades of stone. Shards screamed from the walls, rising into a storm that blackened the sky. The ground yawned open, swallowing the bodies of soldiers—both flesh and silence-born—into an abyss that glowed with black fire.Damian felt the hammer in his grip shudder, not with weakness but with choice. A fissure ran down its length, splitting light from shadow. For a heartbeat, he saw two weapons where there should have been one—two paths radiating out from his hands.The False King’s smile widened. “At last. The fracture made flesh.”The hammer groaned louder, its weight shifting. Half pulled toward silence, burning with the hunger of the shards. Half throbbed with his blood, heavy, imperfect, alive.And Damian knew: whichever half he chose would decide the war.***Dual VisionsThe silence whispered first.He saw himself standing tall, whole, crowned in b
The Shardstorm’s Crown
The sky did not mend.It tore wider.When Damian’s hammers collided with the False King’s blow, the world broke into layers—like glass cracking but refusing to shatter fully. He staggered to his knees as a storm of shards poured from the wound in the sky, each fragment glowing with twisted memories. They fell not as simple glass but as blades, each one screaming a name, a choice, a path abandoned.And above the battlefield, two crowns of jagged light spiraled into being. One black as voidfire. One red as blood made flame. Both hovered, both waiting.The False King tilted his head back, laughter echoing across both worlds at once. “The storm has crowned us both. You cannot run from what you are.”Damian’s vision blurred. The ground beneath him split—not into ruin, but into two realities. One half was smooth stone, neat and ordered, silent soldiers kneeling before him. The other was chaos—broken walls, wraiths screaming, Mara clutching his arm, Eryn loosing arrows into a storm that neve
The Third Path
The world did not mend.It did not stay broken in two.It broke again.The shardstorm screamed as the two crowns collided, and reality itself cracked like a mirror struck from every angle at once. Damian was thrown into the air, the divided hammers dragging him down like anchors. When he struck the ground, the stone beneath him rippled—not solid, not liquid, something in between.The battlefield twisted.Three layers now.Three wars.Three selves.In one, the silence-world stretched out, pristine and ordered, armies of shards kneeling.In another, the blood-world burned, chaos and ruin alive with screams.And between them—something new.The third reality shimmered like smoke, half-seen, half-born. The fortress was gone here, replaced by a landscape of jagged glass plains, rivers of fire running backward, and a sky stitched with wounds. From those wounds crawled creatures that made even shard-wraiths recoil—things with too many faces, too many voices, whispering all choices at once.Da