The night clung to Blackrock Chamber like a shroud, its darkness deepening as Warren slipped out into the shadows. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the faint metallic tang of anticipation. In a dimly lit alley nearby, a bearded, bald man stood beneath a flickering streetlamp, his face half-hidden by the brim of his cap. His thick fingers danced across the screen of his phone, tapping out a single message to Victor Crane: *He’s gone. Move now.*Miles away, in a derelict warehouse on the edge of Dragon Island, Victor Crane’s crew was a coiled spring, ready to snap. The Ayeaxemen, a ruthless sect cloaked in secrecy, buzzed with barely contained energy. Their cars—sleek, black beasts with tinted windows—idled in the gravel lot, engines growling like predators awaiting the hunt. Weapons gleamed under the pale glow of sodium lights: pistols, rifles, knives strapped to thighs and hidden in boots. The air crackled with the promise of violence, a war brewing in the s

The Calabrese residence was a battlefield, its once-pristine halls now scarred with bullet holes and streaked with blood. The air reeked of gunpowder and fear, the sharp *crack* of gunfire mingling with the guttural cries of the wounded. In the private suite where Warren’s parents had been savoring a fleeting moment of peace, chaos erupted like a thunderclap. Four guards burst through the door, their faces taut with urgency, their rifles gleaming under the chandelier’s amber glow.“We’re under attack!” barked the lead guard, a burly man with a jagged scar across his cheek. His voice was a raw edge of panic, barely restrained. “Ayeaxemen—they’ve breached the gates!”Another guard, wiry and quick, darted to the heavy oak doors, slamming them shut and twisting the lock with a metallic *clunk*. The remaining three fanned out, their rifles trained on the entrance, fingers hovering over triggers. Their eyes were hard, but the faint tremble in their hands betrayed the truth: the Ayeaxemen we

Meanwhile, a convoy of armored vehicles roared through the gates of the Trump estate, their engines a low growl against the eerie silence of the night.Mr. Trump, the patriarch of the Trump empire and a titan among Ironspire’s elite, sat rigid in the back of his reinforced limousine. His mind was a storm of strategies and contingencies, fresh from Blackrocks clandestine meeting with the city’s regiment leaders and sect masters. The looming war with Coastal City had grown into a deafening clamor, and Ironspire was mobilizing—every soldier, every mercenary, every blade sharpened for the conflict to come. But as the estate came into view, lit by floodlights that cast long shadows across the manicured lawns, a different kind of dread seized him.The gates were ajar, the guard posts empty. His driver slowed, and Trump’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the first body—a loyal guard, sprawled lifeless on the cobblestones, his rifle useless beside him. Then another, and another, their unif

A sharp knock shattered the haze of pleasure, cutting through the jazz drifting from hidden speakers. Victor’s eyes narrowed, irritation flashing across his face. He’d given strict orders: no interruptions unless the matter was critical. Grabbing a silk towel to cover himself, he left Rachel pouting, her smug expression tinged with frustration. She leaned back on the bed, her fingers tracing the sheets, her mind still savoring their victory. Victor strode to the heavy oak door and yanked it open, his scowl softening into surprise. “Anamika?” he said, his voice low. His sister stood in the hallway, her sharp features framed by dark hair, her eyes gleaming with purpose. She wore a tailored coat, her presence as commanding as his own. “What? I can’t check on my brother?” Anamika teased, her lips twitching into a half-smile. But her tone carried an edge, one Victor knew well. His sister never appeared without reason, especially not now, with Warren’s downfall imminent. “Not like that,”

The annual festival, a garish display of the monarch’s wealth, filled the air with music and laughter, broadcast across the globe to dazzle and intimidate. Yet, beneath the spectacle, a darker truth simmered. The true might of the monarch lay not in the palace’s grandeur or the festival’s excess but in his sacred order, and his twelve disciples, a cadre of assassins whose very existence was a whispered legend.These twelve were no ordinary warriors. Forged in a secret temple atop a remote mountain, they were the monarch’s most lethal instruments. The temple, shrouded in perpetual mist and guarded by ancient rituals, was a place of shadow and sacrifice, where only the strongest survived. Discovered by the monarch in a hidden sanctuary, these warriors were molded through trials that broke the body and reshaped the soul. They trained in the shadow arts—techniques of stealth, precision, and death that made them more phantom than human. Their loyalty was absolute, sealed through blood oat