Seraphina’s smirk curled tighter, a venomous edge to her satisfaction as she gazed at Warren’s slumped form in the limousine’s plush seat. Was this the Shadow King her brother Killua had warned her about, the man he’d spoken of with grudging respect? *Don’t underestimate him,* Killua had said, his voice heavy with caution. Yet here Warren was, crumpled like a discarded puppet, the poison gas working its silent magic in mere minutes. *Mission accomplished,* she thought, her chest swelling with triumph. The Zolydyk name would reign supreme, and the Shadow King would be a footnote in their legacy.With a flick of her wrist, she shut off the gas, its invisible tendrils dissipating. The poison had no effect on her—years of Zolydyk training had rendered her immune to such toxins, her body a fortress against her own weapons. She reached for her phone, eager to snap a photo of Warren’s lifeless form, a trophy to send with the message: *Mission successful.* Her fingers hovered over the screen,

The desolate clearing in Ironspire pulsed with raw energy, a battlefield where shadows clashed under the twisted canopy of ancient trees. Warren stood at the heart of the storm, the Crown of the Abyss blazing on his finger, its electric blue glow a defiant beacon against the twenty-one Zolydyk butlers encircling him. Their red suits gleamed like fresh blood, their movements a symphony of lethal precision honed over years of merciless training. Each was a master, their mana a cold, suffocating force that pressed against Warren’s senses. Even for the Shadow King, this was no trivial fight. Their coordinated assault—low sweeps, aerial strikes, and frontal barrages—was a machine designed to break him, and though the Crown amplified his power, the butlers’ sheer numbers and skill tested his limits.*Bam!* Warren moved like lightning, his body a conduit of electricity fueled by the Crown’s arcane might. He ducked a baton aimed for his skull, countered with a crackling fist that sent a butl

Ironspire dock nearby buzzed with chaotic life, a labyrinth of vans and trucks rumbling in and out, their engines growling under the weight of cargo. The air was thick with salt and diesel, the distant cry of gulls cutting through the clamor. Warren had sprinted through the maze, his decoy buying him some time, his breath ragged, blood dripping from the gash on his thigh, staining his torn suit. The Crown of the Abyss pulsed faintly on his finger, its energy waning but still anchoring him to consciousness. Behind him, the Zolydyk butlers and Killua had realized and were now a relentless shadow, their mana a cold pressure at his back. He needed to lose them, to vanish into the city’s pulse before their knives found his heart.Spotting a weathered delivery van, Warren smeared his blood-soaked hands across its rear door, the crimson stark against the rusted metal. It was a calculated move, a decoy to buy him time. Without pausing, he darted to a nearby truck, its cargo bay half-open, a

Rachel paced her opulent living room, the crystal chandelier above casting fractured light across her furious features. Her phone buzzed with a coded message, its words searing into her mind: the Zolydyk assassins had failed their first attempt on Warren’s life. *Fuck!* The scream tore from her throat, raw and venomous, as she swept a vase off the marble table, its shards scattering like her composure. Fury surged through her veins, a wildfire fed by the audacity of Warren’s survival. The Shadow King, untouchable even by the Zolydyk elite—Seraphina, Killua, their butlers—had slipped through their grasp. Her carefully laid plans were unraveling, and the sting of it was unbearable.She stormed through the mansion, her heels clicking like gunfire on the polished floors, until she reached Victor Crane’s study. Her husband, calm as ever, sat behind his mahogany desk, a glass of whiskey in hand, his eyes scanning a tablet. Rachel didn’t knock—she burst in, the door slamming against the wall

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm amber glow across the sprawling highway, its light stretching long shadows over the asphalt. Warren pressed down on the accelerator of his sleek supercar, the engine’s roar cutting through the tranquil evening air like a blade. The raw power of the machine vibrated through him, a fleeting distraction from the storm brewing in his mind. The open road stretched endlessly before him, a ribbon of possibility and uncertainty leading toward Blackrock—the clandestine chamber where the city’s elite and leaders convened to shape its fate. Warren had been summoned there as you already know, an invitation that carried weight. His fingers tightened around the leather-wrapped steering wheel, knuckles whitening as his thoughts churned. He hadn’t spoken to Cassandra in over a day, not since their strained encounter at Montego Rest Inn. The memory of their parting lingered like a bruise—awkward silence filling the taxi as they left the inn, neither