The banquet hall was a frozen tableau, the air thick with dread and disbelief. Warren’s words hung like a guillotine over the room: the monarch, Coastal City’s indomitable ruler, was bound by a curse that tethered his life to Warren’s will. The nen-like curse, born from the obsidian ring’s dark power, was no mere threat—it was a metaphysical chain, intricate and unbreakable, forged in the moment Warren’s fingers brushed the monarch’s forehead and chest. Its conditions were absolute: any act against Warren, any move to harm Ironspire, would stop the monarch’s heart. The ring, once a parasite sapping Warren’s resolve, had become his ultimate weapon, its darkness a conduit for a vow that rewrote the rules of power. The disciples, their faces unreadable but their eyes sharp with caution, knew the curse’s weight. Only one other had ever wielded such power—their master, in a ritual lost to time. To think this unassuming Warren could replicate it was unthinkable, yet the proof was in the mon

The SUV screeched to a halt outside the Trump estate, its tires biting into the gravel less than eight minutes after redirecting from Dragon Island. The estate loomed like a fortress under siege, its floodlights blazing, security amplified tenfold since Cassandra’s abduction. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, their rifles glinting, their faces taut with vigilance. Warren stepped out, his dark coat billowing in the night wind, the Crown of the Abyss’s influence pulsing at 95%, a shadow coiling tighter around his soul. His eyes, sharp and unnatural, scanned the estate, his steps swift as he strode toward the mansion’s grand entrance. Time was a luxury he didn’t have.Inside, Trump paced the marble-floored study, his polished shoes clicking in a frantic rhythm. His face was a storm of panic, fear, and incandescent fury. Cassandra, his only daughter, his legacy, was in the hands of the Zoldycks—assassins whose name was synonymous with death. The thought of her harmed, her laughter sil

The warehouse was a cavern of shadows, its rusted beams and crumbling walls lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs that buzzed like dying insects. Cassandra sat bound to a cold metal chair, her wrists and ankles chafed raw by heavy chains that clinked with every futile struggle. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and stale beer, the floor littered with shattered crates. Zoldyck butlers patrolled the perimeter, their footsteps silent, their eyes glinting with predatory focus. Atop a towering stack of expired drink cans, Killua Zoldyck perched like a vulture, his silver hair catching the dim light, his blue eyes cold and unyielding. He was a statue of patience, every trap set, every angle calculated. This was no longer just a contract for him—it was revenge. Warren had left his sister in a hospital bed, and Killua would make him pay with his life. Cassandra, too, was a price to be exacted though part of the contract.Cassandra’s vision blurred, her head swimming as a wave of nause

Killua’s silhouette loomed like a vulture waiting for its prey to weaken.“I guess you don’t know you have a life growing within you,” Killua said, his voice low and taunting, slicing through the oppressive silence. His pale eyes gleamed with malicious delight as he studied her reaction while circling her. Cassandra’s heart stuttered. Her expression, defiant just moments ago, faltered under the weight of his words. Unafraid? She had been—until now. “Pregnant?” she spat, her voice sharp with disbelief. “You must be going insane.”The idea was absurd. Impossible. She’d only been with Warren twice, and the last time was barely seventy-two hours ago. Her mind churned through the biology she’d learned in school—fertilization, implantation, none of it could happen that fast. Could it? She shook her head, trying to dispel the creeping doubt. Warren was just a man, wasn’t he? A charming, enigmatic man who’d swept into her life like a storm, but still human. There was no way.Killua’s giggle

With no time to waste, the convoy of black cars screeched to a halt outside the warehouse at Ironspire’s edge, their engines a guttural roar that shattered the night’s silence. The Ayeaxemen residence lay in ruins behind them, a graveyard of blood and broken bodies, but the cost had been heavy—several Calabrese soldiers dead, their sacrifice a grim prelude to this final stand. Warren stepped from the lead vehicle, his bare chest glistening with sweat and blood, his muscles taut with unnatural power. The Crown of the Abyss had consumed him, its influence at 100%, a dark tide that drowned his humanity, turning his eyes into twin voids of malice. His men, a battered mix of Calabrese mafia and loyal followers, fanned out, weapons drawn, their faces carved with resolve. They had no time to waste—Cassandra was inside, and the Zoldycks’ trap awaited.Inside the warehouse, Cassandra sat chained to a metal chair, her wrists raw, her body weak from the nausea of a pregnancy she couldn’t compreh