Master Pat, his lean frame belying the ferocity of his past, scanned his warriors with the precision of a predator. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, settled on a single figure: Gibbs, a towering combat master whose reputation for brutality was matched only by his mastery of the ancient art of Iron Serpent Fist. Gibb’s exosuit hummed with latent power, its servos whispering as he stepped forward, his scarred face impassive but his eyes burning with confidence. A murmur rippled through the ranks—Gibb was a force of nature, a man who had once shattered an enemy’s ribcage with a single strike. Surely, this would be the end of Victor’s reckless gambit.But before Pat could confirm his choice, Victor’s voice cut through the Hall, calm yet resolute. “Not one, Master Pat. Pick three.”The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. A collective gasp erupted, quickly stifled by the generals’ stern glares. Three? The warriors exchanged incredulous glances, their disciplined facades cracking under

The Hall was silent, the weight of what had just occurred pressing down on every soul present. Anamika’s hands trembled, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and dread. The brother she knew—the cautious strategist, the man of words—was gone. In his place stood a warrior reborn, a force forged in the crucible of a death he had not shared with her. The warriors, from novices to generals, gawked openly, their disciplined facades shattered. The assassins, masters of reading intent, found themselves at a loss, their calculations unraveling in the face of Victor’s impossible prowess. Even the butlers, their polished exteriors masking lethal training, shifted uneasily, their hands hovering near hidden weapons.Master Pat’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of recognition crossing his weathered face. He had seen power like this before—in himself, in his prime, when he was the Lion Warrior, the Almighty God of War. But Victor’s strength was different, raw and untamed, a power that rivaled

Meanwhile, in the shadowed heart of the Calabrese mafia’s sprawling residence on Dragon Island, nestled within the industrial sprawl of Ironspire City, a different kind of power simmered. The estate, a fortress of dark stone and iron gates, stood as a silent sentinel of menace and authority. Its corridors, lined with portraits of past dons whose cold eyes seemed to judge the living, carried the faint scent of cigar smoke and aged leather, a testament to the Calabrese legacy of ruthlessness and control.In a dimly lit apothecary room, Warren, the acting don, stood over a worn wooden table, his hands steady as he ground the rare herb—procured at great expense from the auction at the Viridian Gentlemen—into a fine powder. The faint glow of a single lamp cast long shadows across his sharp features, his expression etched with unwavering determination. The herb, was transformed into a potent medicine, which he carefully poured into a bottle of gin, sealing it with a cork. This was no ordina

Cassandra’s heart still raced from her encounter with Warren as they stepped into the grand foyer of the Calabrese estate, the air heavy with the scent of polished mahogany and fresh orchids. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic rainbows across the marble floors, and the walls, adorned with gilded portraits, whispered of old money and unspoken power. Warren led her inside, his hand brushing hers just long enough to send a shiver up her spine. He was taking her to meet his parents, Amos and Eliza, a prospect that both thrilled and unnerved her.Amos, a towering man with silver-streaked hair and a gaze that could cut steel, greeted her with a warm, booming laugh that echoed through the cavernous hall. Eliza, his mother, was a vision of elegance, her sapphire eyes twinkling with mischief and maternal warmth. Her silk dress shimmered like liquid moonlight as she enveloped Cassandra in a hug that felt like coming home. “Oh, Warren, you’ve brought us a treasure!” Eliza exclaimed, her voice ri

Soon, it was midnight..The witching hour draped the world in a shroud of silence, broken only by the whisper of wind through skeletal branches. Beneath a gnarled ash tree, its bark scarred and peeling like ancient parchment, Victor Crane stood alone, the weight of destiny pressing against his ribs. In his hands was the letter—its edges brittle and yellowed, curling like the claws of some long-dead beast. His father had left it for him, was one of many inside the lacquered box his personal assistant gave to him saying "his father want him to have it when he was gone". Victor’s pulse thudded in his ears as he traced the faded ink, the elegant script glowing faintly under the moon’s cold gaze.No name adorned the letter, no crest or seal to betray its sender. Only words, sharp and deliberate, promising to unravel the Saffron Veil’s chokehold on the world— a shadowy order Victor had only heard about few days ago. The letter spoke of their fight against the saffron veil and the Shadow