The ten bodyguards charged at Warren with the ferocity of a pack of wolves, their heavy boots pounding the creaking floorboards of the Montego Rest Inn like a war drum. Their eyes gleamed with malice, weapons raised—knives flashing, batons swinging, the lone pistol aimed with lethal intent. To them, Warren was a fool, a lamb standing defiant before a slaughter. His calm demeanor, his refusal to cower, only fueled their confidence in his imminent destruction. One of the men, a grizzled brute with a scar across his cheek, felt a fleeting pang of pity as he lunged forward, thinking Warren’s bravado was born of ignorance. If this boy knew who Nicolas Rashford was—the heir to the Coastal City, a man whose name struck fear into the hearts of Ironspire’s elite—he wouldn’t dare stand his ground. But Warren’s fate, in their minds, was sealed: complete obliteration.Yet Warren stood unmoved, his stance steady, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that seemed to bend the very air around him.

A venomous chill slithered up Nicolas Rashford’s spine, coiling around his nerves like a serpent poised to strike. The color drained from his face in an instant, leaving his skin ashen, his wide eyes reflecting abject horror. His lips quivered uncontrollably, and his legs trembled beneath him, soft as melting candle wax, threatening to buckle. His brain screamed a single, desperate command—*run!*—but his body, numb with fear, refused to obey. Warren had just obliterated ten of his finest bodyguards, men trained to crush threats with ruthless efficiency, as if they were nothing more than paper dolls. And now, this unassuming man, standing calm and untouched at the center of the chaos, had turned to Cassandra with a question that made Nicolas’s blood run cold: *“How do you want me to deal with this bastard for you?”*Nicolas’s chest heaved, panic choking him like a noose. *Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?* The arrogance that had fueled his swagger as he’d stormed into the Monte

Warren advanced toward Nicolas Rashford with an eerie, unyielding stillness, his presence a suffocating force that seemed to drain the very air from the dilapidated Montego Rest Inn. His arms were folded casually across his chest, but the coldness glinting in his eyes was a blade of ice, slicing through Nicolas’s spine with ruthless precision. The room, already heavy with the groans of defeated men and the weight of shattered pride, seemed to shrink under Warren’s aura, as if the walls themselves recoiled from his quiet menace.“If you have a problem,” Warren said, his voice cool and razor-sharp, devoid of fear or mercy, “then come find me. My name is Warren—Warren Buffet.” He didn’t shout, didn’t roar, yet his words struck harder than a thunderclap, bypassing the ears to etch themselves into the soul. It was a threat delivered with such subtle menace that it lingered like a shadow, unforgettable and chilling.Nicolas’s body convulsed involuntarily, a scream clawing at his throat but

Th grand hall of Coastal City’s penthouse boardroom was a sleek, urban cathedral of glass and steel, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering skyline of a metropolis pulsing with life. Neon lights from distant billboards bled through the tinted glass, casting jagged shadows across the polished concrete floor. Victor Crane stood at the center, his scuffed Timberlands planted firmly, his heart hammering beneath a worn leather jacket. The Order of the Tide had claimed him just hours ago, the initiation still raw in his mind: the cold sting of a switchblade grazing his palm, the oath whispered over a shot of briny mezcal, and the fresh ink on his forearm—a wave curling into a trident, still stinging under his sleeve. Before him stood Rashford, the undisputed kingpin and absolute monarch of Coastal City, his tailored blood-red suit sharp enough to cut. His presence was a tidal wave, authoritarian and unyielding, his broad shoulders filling the room with a shadow that seemed to

The sting of defeat clung to seven star General Derrick like a shadow, its weight heavier than the medals that once adorned his chest. The Seven-Star General, once the unassailable War God of Ironspire, had been humbled before a sea of onlookers at the Transcorp Imperial Hotel’s grand banquet. The Shadow King—Warren, disguised as a mere server—had not just defeated him but dismantled his pride with a display of superhuman strength that left the elite of the Saffron Order whispering of monsters. The vids had broadcast his fall, the headlines merciless: *War God Toppled by Unknown Power.* Yet, for all the public’s scorn, the loyalty of those who knew Derrick’s true mettle—his soldiers, his aide de camp, Richard—remained unshaken. They saw not a broken man, but a legend poised to rise anew.Derrick felt no anger. Rage was a young man’s vice, too reckless for the seasoned general. Instead, a quiet resolve settled in his bones, cold and unyielding as the steel he now wielded in the seclud