The cold night air bit at Elijah Langston’s skin as he walked down the empty street, but he moved with the relaxed ease of someone strolling through a warm summer park.If he hadn’t possessed the foresight to slip out of the pedestrian gate when he did, Margaret DiLaurentis looked as though she was genuinely prepared to carve him up like a holiday turkey. A hot bath and a soft bed were now nothing more than distant dreams.Just then, the blinding beams of headlights washed over him from behind. Elijah didn’t break his stride or turn around; he knew perfectly well that taxis didn’t move these streets at this ungodly hour, and he had no interest in being hassled by private security patrols. However, the vehicle didn’t pass him. The purr of a high-performance engine slowed to a stop, and a sleek, black Mercedes-Benz pulled up alongside him, its window rolling down.“Young Master… is that you?”It was Old Mr. Carrington. The patriarch of the aristocratic family had apparently parked his

Old Mr. Carrington’s sleek Mercedes-Benz came to a smooth, silent halt in front of the towering iron gates of the Langston Mansion.“Young Master, are you sure about this? The Wexlers… they…” Old Mr. Carrington stammered, his knuckles turning white as his hands shivered uncontrollably around the leather-wrapped steering wheel.The Wexlers were one of the Five Great Families in Brooklyn Heights, known for their ruthlessness and their expansive influence. As someone who was deeply embedded in the city’s underbelly, Old Mr. Carrington was well informed.He knew exactly how the Young Master had crashed the birthday party of the Wexler Patriarch just a few days ago, delivering a humiliation that demanded blood. Walking into their territory now, alone and unarmed, seemed like suicide. He knew the Young Master possessed a set of terrifying abilities that had even earned him the whispered “Insolent Expert” in Brooklyn Heights, but the Wexlers commanded a private army. They couldn’t be underes

The quiet evening surrounding the old Langston Mansion was shattered in an instant; the silence was ripped apart by the roar of high-performance engines. The fleet of armored SUVs tore out of the treeline like a pack of wolves, the lead vehicle smashing into the iron gates with a deafening screech of tearing metal. The heavy barriers buckled and flew off their hinges, crashing into the overgrown weeds as the convoy drove in roughly.They parked in a chaotic, aggressive formation, blocking every potential exit. The last to arrive was the massive transport truck with heavily tinted windows. There was no space left in the compound, so it stopped midway through the broken gate, sealing the main entrance like a cork in a bottle.The driver’s door of the lead SUV pushed open immediately, and Maxwell Doyle jumped down. Gone was the distinguished, polished police uniform that usually commanded respect in the districts of the city. Tonight, he was dressed in tactical black combat gear. A he

He had been forced to excuse his incompetence by claiming his old brain was too foggy to remember whether his men had actually confirmed the boy’s body fifteen years ago. Worse still, he had been forced to relive the excruciating shame of how Elijah Langston had crashed his extravagant birthday party, and bathed him in the foul, bloody guts of his own crocodiles.If the details of this humiliation ever leaked out to the public from the Ainsworths’ mouths, he would be looked down upon forever by his aristocratic peers. Even now, his grandson—the decided future of their Great Wexler Family, lay amputated and mentally broken in a hospital bed, all because of this Elijah Langston. His family’s legacy was hanging by a thread.“Old man, didn’t you tell Madam Eleanor you were just taking a temporary vacation with your family?” Commissioner Doyle suddenly asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He pointed the barrel of his rifle toward a massive, towering heap of expensive household furniture

The group of sect members hailed him with exaggerated praise. They all leaned forward in eager anticipation, because the Phantom Five-Strike Severance was a legendary move that only a few senior disciples of the Iron Crescent Sword, in all of Sorevia had perfected. It was said to be capable of slicing a thick bamboo stalk into five equal parts in the blink of an eye. Now, they were going to witness it used on a real human being.“Watch and learn, you inexperienced juniors! I won’t repeat myself!” Mathias warned, his gaze narrowing into focus.With a sharp exhale, Mathias leaned forward, and his body practically vanished. He tore through the air at a terrifying, explosive speed that only his fellow sect members were trained enough to track. To the gunmen in the back, he appeared to simply vanish.In one second, Mathias was standing with the group; in the next, he had arrived directly in front of the golden throne where the young man was still seated, entirely engrossed in his writing.