All Chapters of Underworld's Chosen Like None Other: Chapter 191
- Chapter 200
290 chapters
What's Wrong With You?
Warren’s supercar purred to a stop at the Trump estate, its tinted window humming down to reveal his sharp profile. The guards at the gate didn’t dare question him—afterall they all knew he is the Shadow King, whom they whispered in awe and fear. His presence alone commanded deference. He barely acknowledged their nods, his mind clouded, his usual warmth replaced by an unfamiliar chill. The Crown of the Abyss, the ring fused to his finger, pulsed beneath the black glove he now wore to conceal the blackened veins snaking up his hand. He didn’t notice how his indifference unsettled the guards, their eyes lingering on the glove, a silent question in their gazes.The car lot gleamed with seven sleek vehicles: a customized Mercedes Maybach at the center, flanked by three FBI-esque escort vans on either side. Four burly bouncers stood by each van, their dark suits crisp, earpieces crackling with static. Beside the Maybach, Trump’s driver and personal assistant stood, obviously they were w
Internal Battle
Warren stood, silent, purposely ignoring Cassandra's question, and his gloved hand twitching as the Crown of the Abyss pulsed beneath the black leather. Its dark tendrils coiled through his veins, amplifying his natural reticence, smothering the vulnerability he rarely showed. He wanted to explain to Cassandra why he was here, why her sudden silence had driven him to her doorstep, but the words caught in his throat, choked by the ring’s insidious influence. His face, once warm and expressive, was now a pale mask, his dark eyes glinting with a coldness he didn’t recognize. The Crown’s corruption was subtle, weaving through his thoughts, making honesty feel like weakness. He wanted to tell her he didn’t understand what was happening to him—how the ring’s power, overused during his battle with the Zolydyk assassin, had tightened its grip, twisting his emotions into something foreign. But the Crown whispered, *Keep your secrets. You are the Shadow King. You need no one.* Cassandra stood
Why He Joined The Army?
As wareen entered his car and start the engine, the Crown of the Abyss was pulsing beneath the black glove on his right hand. Its dark tendrils coiled through his veins, amplifying his natural reticence into a cold, impenetrable barrier. The ring’s corruption was insidious, twisting his thoughts, making vulnerability feel like a betrayal of his title as the Shadow King. His pale face, once softened by a quiet charisma, was now a mask of indifference, his dark eyes glinting with a hardness he didn’t recognize. He wanted to unravel the mystery of the ring’s growing hold, to understand why its power, unleashed in a torrent against the Zolydyk assassin, had left him feeling like a stranger in his own skin. But the Crown whispered, *You need no answers. You are enough.* He was oblivious to its corruption, blind to how his overuse had tightened its grip, turning his resolve into arrogance.Trump’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and haunting, as if spoken moments ago but truth was sometime
Pregnant?
Cassandra’s footsteps echoed faintly as she ascended the grand staircase of the Trump estate, her heart a tangled knot of love and suspicion. Barely ten minutes had passed since Warren’s and her father's departure, his explanation still ringing in her ears—soft, yet shadowed with something she couldn’t place. Was it deceit? Had she misjudged him, or was he hiding a truth too heavy for her to bear? Her chest tightened at the thought, her love for him warring with the anger that flared when she recalled his evasive gaze earlier. Warren had been her anchor since she met him, his presence enough to set her heart racing, but tonight, he’d seemed… different. Distant. Changed. She pushed open the heavy oak doors to her chambers, the opulent room offering little comfort. The Blackrock affair—Warren's summon—gnawed at her. She whispered a silent prayer, her fingers brushing the silver pendant at her neck, a gift from her father. *Let no harm come to him,* she thought, though doubt lingered
A Small Window
Meanwhile,In the shadowed heart of the Crane residence, a clandestine assembly convened beneath the wavering glow of flickering lanterns. The air was heavy with secrecy, the kind that clung to the walls and seeped into the bones of those present. Master Pat, his voice rough as gravel scraped across stone, stood at the forefront of a group of hardened men. Their faces, half-hidden in the dim light, bore the marks of resolve—eyes narrowed, jaws set, each man a cog in a machine poised to shift the balance of power. Pat’s words, deliberate and weighty, wove a plan so intricate it seemed to hum with its own life. This was no mere scheme; it was a meticulously crafted gambit to resurrect the Crane family’s tarnished name, to claw their way back to prominence from the ashes of disgrace.The plan’s linchpin was a single, fleeting signal from an informant buried deep within the ranks of Blackrock. The Cranes had learned that Warren, was likely to confront the absolute monarch—a move they had
Nanny Fatima's Daughter
The sun bled crimson across the horizon as Adjutant General Richard pulled the dust-streaked military jeep to a stop before a crumbling compound. The house before them sagged under the weight of neglect, its corrugated zinc roof pockmarked with rust, curling at the edges like burnt paper. A single gust of wind, heavy with the promise of evening, seemed enough to send the whole structure crashing down. Paint peeled from the walls in long, jagged strips, revealing cracked plaster beneath, and the air carried the faint tang of mildew and decay. This was no home—it was a relic, barely clinging to existence. Richard stepped out of the jeep, his polished boots crunching against the gravel-strewn path. With practiced deference, he strode to the rear door and opened it for Seven-Star General Derrick, whose imposing frame emerged into the cooling twilight. Derrick’s sharp eyes, framed by the faint creases of a man who’d seen too many battles, scanned the dilapidated house with a mix of skepti
We're Looking For Someone
“Good evening,” the woman said, her voice warm but laced with a practiced innocence, as if she were stepping onto a stage. Her eyes flicked briefly to Richard, then away, her expression a perfect mask of polite surprise. She played the part flawlessly, as though neither man—especially Richard, who’d orchestrated this charade—had ever crossed her path before.Derrick stepped forward, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, the faint glint of his polished insignia catching the dim light. “I’m Derrick Voss, Seven-Star General,” he said, his tone steady but weighted with purpose. He flashed his badge, the embossed stars gleaming briefly before he tucked it away. “May I have a word with you?”Her gaze lingered on the badge, and for a split second, her composure wavered—a subtle widening of her eyes, a slight parting of her lips, as if the weight of Derrick’s rank had struck her like a physical blow. “Sure,” she said, her voice softer now, tinged with unease. She stepped back, gesturing th
Emotional Blackmail
The air in the small, tidy room grew heavy, the savory scent of stew now mingling with the faint musk of old wood and the tension between them. Amelia’s eyes, sharp and glistening, locked onto Derrick’s. “Why?” she asked abruptly, her voice slicing through the quiet like a blade, laced with a mix of curiosity and defiance.Derrick hesitated, his jaw tightening. The single bulb overhead flickered, casting wavering shadows across his face, accentuating the lines etched by years of command. “I can’t explain unless you’re her,” he said softly, his tone measured but firm. “Not until I’ve confirmed it.” He couldn’t risk exposing the weight of his mother’s promise to a stranger, not when so much hung in the balance.Amelia rose from her chair, her crimson gown swaying as she moved, the flour-dusted apron a stark contrast to her poised demeanor. Her lips trembled, and her eyes brimmed with tears that seemed to well up from some deep, hidden wound. “Alright,” she said, her voice breaking as sh
Death Anniversary
Meanwhile, at an abandoned cemetery.... The abandoned cemetery stretched out like a forgotten wound in the earth, its crooked headstones tilting under the weight of time and neglect. Weeds choked the cracked paths, and the air carried the damp, earthy scent of decay, mingling with the faint sweetness of wildflowers that clung stubbornly to life. The sky above was a bruise of gray, heavy with the threat of rain, casting a muted light over the desolate expanse. Among the sea of crumbling graves, one stood apart, pristine and cared for, its surface free of moss or grime. The name etched into the polished stone read *Fatima Ajibola*, flanked by her birth and death dates, a silent testament to a life cut short.Serena Vox knelt before the grave, her black gown pooling around her like spilled ink, the fabric absorbing the chill of the ground. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the carved letters of her mother’s name, the stone cold and unyielding beneath her touch. Tears welled in her
Triumph Or Ruin
The sky above Ironspire had darkened, the last hues of twilight fading as Warren arrived at Blackrock Chamber, his boots crunching on the gravel just as Trump’s convoy screeched to a halt. It was just after evening, and the air crackled with an ominous chill. The compound bristled with menace—soldiers in dark tactical gear, warriors scarred from countless battles, and lackeys clutching weapons of devastating power stood watch. These were no mere escorts; they were the iron fist of Ironspire’s elite, guarding the most influential figures in the city.Inside the Blackrock Chamber, a vast hall of polished obsidian and cold steel, the power brokers of Ironspire gathered under flickering chandeliers. Politicians in sleek suits murmured in tight clusters, their eyes sharp with calculation. Business tycoons, their wealth rivaling small nations, sat beside regiment leaders in ceremonial armor and sect masters draped in robes that pulsed with faint arcane light. The room hummed with the weight