As Victor Crane and Master Pat stepped out of their car, they followed the gatekeeper closely, flanked by two guards whose sharp, predatory movements marked them as far from ordinary. Their eyes glinted with vigilance, trailing the visitors to counter any sudden moves. The air within the Ayeaxemen Moon Sect’s compound was heavy, charged with an otherworldly presence that spoke volumes of its ancient, secretive power. The stone walls, etched with glowing runes, seemed to pulse with the sect’s mystique. They were led down a winding pathway, its cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of silent footsteps. Victor’s pulse quickened, and even Master Pat’s serene composure flickered with caution. A trap wasn’t unthinkable, but their confidence stemmed from their own strength and the scroll’s authenticity. Victor, now surging with otherworldly strength, and Pat, an ex God of war, a master of unmatched skill, were no ordinary men. Still, the uncertainty gnawed at them as they pressed forward.

Derrick stood frozen, his clothes shredded from the desperate dive, his knee throbbing with a sharp, biting pain. Blood seeped through the torn fabric, staining the asphalt beneath him, but he barely noticed. His mind was a storm, spiraling with a single, relentless thought: Milo’s face. The four-year-old boy, now safe in his mother’s arms, bore an uncanny resemblance to Derrick—those sharp cheekbones, the piercing eyes, a mirror of his own youth. How could this be possible? His thoughts roared like a tempest, questions colliding without answers, each one heavier than the last. His heart pounded, not from the exertion of the rescue but from the weight of this impossible mystery. Absently, almost instinctively, Derrick reached up and tore off his nose mask. The black fabric fluttered to the ground, exposing his face to the crisp morning air. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Eyes widened, mouths dropped, and whispers erupted like wildfire. “Seven-Star General Derrick?” a vo

Five years ago, Serena Vox’s world crumbled in a single night, a memory so vivid it felt like it happened moments ago. The sting of betrayal, the weight of humiliation, and the loss of everything she held dear haunted her every day. It began with a desperate phone call from Anamika, her supposed friend, pleading for help. Serena, trusting and naive, rushed to the hotel room, her heart pounding with worry. But there was no emergency—only a trap. A gigolo, hired to ruin her, pounced on her with a ferocity that left her shattered, physically and emotionally. The violation was a calculated blow, orchestrated by Anamika and her mother to destroy Serena’s life. When Serena stumbled back to the Crane estate, her home with her husband Victor, she found her belongings packed and discarded outside like trash. Divorce papers awaited her, cold and final. Victor stood there, his face a mask of disgust, as he spat venomous words that cut deeper than any blade. “I’ve been told you’ve been secretly

The city’s pulse thrummed through the streets as Warren sped toward where he wanted to make a quick stop, his mind a blade honed for the task ahead. The hum of his car’s engine was a low growl, cutting through the urban sprawl, the horizon tinged with the amber glow of late afternoon. His detour from the Blackthorn had been calculated, a thread he needed to pull before facing Don Marco and the King of the Matrix. But as he swung his car onto a narrow side street, the world shifted.A sleek black sedan screeched into view, tires screaming against asphalt, blocking his path with brutal precision. Before he could react, three more cars materialized behind him, their engines roaring like predators cornering prey. Warren’s instincts flared, the Crown of the Abyss pulsing on his finger, a silent alarm ringing through his veins. He gripped the wheel, ready to slam into reverse and escape—these were likely small-time players, not worth the Shadow King’s time. But as his eyes flicked to the re

Warren wasn’t a healer who rushed to save every soul teetering on the edge of death, no matter his unparalleled medicinal prowess. Only fate’s decree moved him to act, a rare alignment of purpose and providence. Yet, this encounter—the kneeling men in their blood-red suits, the woman’s enigmatic aura, the tattoo that stirred half-forgotten memories—had snared his curiosity like a trap. The summons to Blackrock loomed, a meeting set for evening, but he had hours to spare. “Alright,” he said, his voice steady, eyes piercing the woman before him. “I’ll assess him. No promises I can save him. But first—who are you?”Her gaze slid away, a fleeting shadow crossing her features. “I’m Seraphina,” she replied, her tone smooth but guarded, “the only surviving daughter of the Raymond family.”The Crown of the Abyss pulsed on Warren’s finger, its silent voice sharp: *She’s lying.* His instincts echoed the warning, a prickle of unease coiling in his chest. “Seraphina?” he repeated, his tone dece