The banquet hall buzzed with frenzied murmurs, a storm of whispers swirling as the elite guests traded guesses about the unfolding drama. Eyes darted between Anamika’s trembling rage, Cassandra’s protective stance, and Warren’s enigmatic calm, his slow claps still echoing in their minds. The Saffron Order’s leaders stood rigid, their grandmaster bodyguards like statues of coiled menace behind them, their qi pulsing in sync with their masters’ barely restrained fury. Lucas, at Mr. Jack’s side, tightened his grip on his concealed blade, his loyalty to Jack a silent vow to act if the chaos threatened his master. Richard, behind General Derrick, shifted his weight, his military instincts screaming that this “server” was no ordinary man, his hand hovering near his sidearm, ready to defend Derrick and Anamika at a moment’s notice.Then, in a move that sucked the air from the room, Warren stepped forward. His strides were deliberate, majestic, each step radiating an authority that seemed to

The banquet hall, already electric with tension, transformed into an arena of raw anticipation as the crowd parted, clearing a wide space at one end of the gilded chamber. The chandeliers above cast stark shadows, their golden light glinting off the polished marble floor now designated for a duel that would etch itself into legend. The Saffron Order’s leaders stood at attention, their grandmaster bodyguards like silent sentinels, their qi humming in sync with their masters’ awe and reverence for the Shadow King. Lucas, at Mr. Jack’s side, gripped his concealed blade tighter, his loyalty to Jack urging him to remain vigilant as the air crackled with the promise of violence. The elite guests pressed against the edges of the cleared space, their whispers a fevered hum, their eyes wide with a mix of dread and exhilaration.Warren stepped into the makeshift arena, his white shirt and rolled-up sleeves a stark contrast to the obsidian throne he’d claimed moments before. The Crown of the Ab

The banquet hall pulsed with the lingering awe of Warren’s victory, the aroma of saffron-laced dishes mingling with the electric undercurrent of whispered speculation. The elite guests, their finery glinting under the chandeliers, couldn’t tear their eyes from the Shadow King, lounging on the obsidian throne with an effortless authority that redefined the room’s hierarchy. Then, Jack’s sharp eyes caught a blemish on Warren’s otherwise pristine white shirt. “What’s this?” he exclaimed, his voice cutting through the din as he pointed at a faint, glistening stain on Warren’s chest—a smear of saliva, stark against the fabric. The hall fell silent, the guests’ whispers dying as all eyes followed Jack’s gaze. Cassandra, seated near Warren, felt her heart skip, her burgeoning crush on the Shadow King intensifying. His calm demeanor, his unmatched power, and now this casual revelation of disrespect endured—it painted him as a figure of mythic perfection. Some guests leaned closer, their mur

Warren’s hand tightened around the two glasses of beer, the cold glass grounding him as he stood from the bartender’s counter. The absence of Cassandra still stung, a dull ache that pulsed with every sip of alcohol. He scanned the crowded bar, the air thick with smoke and the clatter of dice, searching for a quieter spot to nurse his thoughts. At the far end of The Rusty Anchor, a lone seat beckoned, tucked against the wall in a shadowy corner. Perfect. He adjusted his grip on the glasses, the amber liquid sloshing slightly, and made his way through the chaotic hum of the bar.Halfway there, his steps faltered. His gaze snagged on a woman seated at a rickety table near the center of the room. She was striking—voluptuous, with curves that drew the eye despite the dim lighting. Her face, though etched with faint lines that hinted at her late forties, was a work of art, a blend of elegance and weariness that made her seem both timeless and fragile. But it wasn’t her beauty that stopped

The Rusty Anchor had become a theater of cruelty, its patrons quick to turn away from the woman’s plight as if it were just another night’s entertainment. The laughter and jeers faded into the clink of glasses and the low hum of resumed conversations. The crowd’s fleeting attention shifted back to their dice games and drinks, as if the woman’s desperation was no more than a passing spectacle. But the air in the bar grew heavier, charged with a new kind of menace as the Black Dragon leader, whiskey still dripping from his scarred face, radiated a sinister aura. His eyes blazed with fury, the kind that promised violence without restraint.“Old bitch!” he growled, his voice a thunderclap that echoed through every corner of the bar. Heads snapped back toward the scene, the patrons’ indifference replaced by a collective wince. They shook their heads, sighs escaping their lips as they realized another soul was about to suffer. The leader’s hand rose, poised to deliver a slap that would mark