All Chapters of Underworld's Chosen Like None Other: Chapter 221 
				
					- Chapter 230
				
293 chapters
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Cassandra’s heart stopped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Warren!” she cried, tears welling anew. She wanted to run to him, to hold him, but Trump’s arm held her back, his face grim. The Master stepped forward, her voice calm but resonant. “We’re taking him to the Temple of the Abyss for cleansing and training,” she said, addressing Trump. “The Crown has consumed him. It may take months, years, depending on his progress. Protect his parents. Spread the word he’s missing—perhaps dead. His identity must remain hidden, or forces from every corner of the earth will come for him and all he holds dear.”She spoke with precision, her words heavy with authority. The elders bowed to Trump, a gesture of respect, recognizing his power in Ironspire. Cassandra stood frozen, her mind reeling. Warren, her love, was gone—taken by forces she couldn’t comprehend. The child within her, a secret sparked by the Crown, pulsed faintly, a bond she didn’t yet understand. Her father nodded, his jaw tight. He d
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Three years had passed since Warren was torn from his world, ensnared by the dark, pulsating power of the ring—the Crown of the Abyss. Now, he stood on a training ground carved into the peak of a towering mountain, one of many floating islands suspended in a sea of mist. The islands hovered like ancient sentinels, their jagged edges cloaked in vines that glowed faintly with bioluminescent pulses, as if the very air thrummed with life. Below, a dense forest sprawled, its trees rising like titans, their bark shimmering with iridescent hues of emerald and sapphire. Massive roots twisted through the earth, some as wide as rivers, pulsing with faint light that mirrored the heartbeat of the land itself.This was no ordinary forest. It was a realm of the surreal, where the natural and the supernatural intertwined. Rivers flowed upward, defying gravity, their waters sparkling with flecks of starlight. Strange creatures roamed the undergrowth—hulking beasts with scales that shifted colors like
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Warren stepped out of the desolate Trump estate, his heart a storm of dread and disbelief. The once-opulent mansion, now cloaked in weeds and decay, stood as a grim omen of what awaited him. His indigo training robes, woven from the luminescent vines of the Saffron Veil Order’s floating islands, fluttered in the chill wind, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword—a blade that hummed with lethal potential in his grip alone. Three years had passed since he was torn from Ironspire, ensnared by the Crown of the Abyss. Now, as the Shadow King, he had returned, only to find his world in ruins.He spotted a group of strangers lingering near the estate’s rusted gates, their clothes tattered but their faces alive with cruel amusement. Bearded and clad in his strange, otherworldly garb, Warren was unrecognizable to them—a ghost from a forgotten era. He approached, his voice low but steady. “Where is the Trump family?” he asked, his eyes searching theirs for answers.The group erupted in mo
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Suddenly, eleven men swaggered into the desolate cemetery, their heavy boots grinding against the gravel path. Each clutched a bottle of beer, cigarettes or rolled backwoods dangling from their lips. Piercings glinted under the dim streetlights, and tattoos snaked across their skin, proclaiming their allegiance to a life of defiance. These were the Cranes’ enforcers, the self-proclaimed "realest of gangsters," their presence a stain on the sacred ground. Laughter and coarse shouts filled the air as they moved with the arrogance of men who believed they owned the world. And in this corner of the cemetery, they did. Their lair, a den of unspeakable acts—where they preyed on the vulnerable and conducted their illicit dealings—lay just meters away, hidden behind crumbling tombstones.“Hey! You blind or just stupid?” one of them barked, his voice slicing through the silence. His eyes locked onto Warren, a lone figure standing solemnly before a pair of neglected graves. The man’s lip curle
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The eleven men formed a menacing semicircle around Warren, their boots scuffing the gravel as they brandished daggers and knives that gleamed with malicious intent under the cemetery’s fading light. Their eyes glinted with the thrill of violence, each man a cog in the Cranes’ ruthless machine. The air grew thick with tension, the scent of cigarette smoke and stale beer mingling with the damp earth.“Move it,” one of them snarled, his blade catching the last rays of dusk. “Today’s the third anniversary of that so-called almighty Trump kicking the bucket. Mr. Crane wants the tomb redone—second time today. ‘Scapegoat,’ carved nice and big.” His grin was a twisted promise of desecration.Warren stood motionless, his silence a wall against their taunts. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his eyes fixed on the defiled graves of Trump and Eliza, their etched insults a fresh wound in his heart.Another thug stepped forward, cracking his knuckles with a deliberate slowness. “We’re talking
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Right then, one of the thugs, a wiry man with a sneer that curled like smoke, stepped forward, his voice dripping with contempt. “You hear that? Our boss is in a foul mood. So here’s your only chance—get on your knees, apologize for trespassing, and maybe we’ll let you walk.” His words sliced through Warren’s spiraling thoughts, a whirlwind of questions about Cassandra, Nicolas, and the Cranes’ latest twisted scheme. The thug leaned closer, his breath sour. “Otherwise, you’re leaving here in pieces.”Warren didn’t move. His jaw clenched, his heart a furnace of rage. The Cranes had taken everything —Trump’s legacy, Eliza’s memory, his peace and still owned the most people dear to him......Enough was enough.The thug, emboldened by Warren’s silence, spat on Eliza’s grave with a wet, deliberate *biam*. The desecration was a spark to Warren’s powder keg. “Nice shot,” Scarface, the leader of this brutal pack, barked with a laugh, his scarred face twisting into a grin. The others joined in,
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The thug who’d spat on Eliza’s grave lay crumpled, blood pouring from his mouth, teeth scattered in the dirt after Warren’s thunderous strike. Warren’s eyes blazed, his voice a low growl of fury. “You!” he snarled, caging the injured thug under his grip. “Lick the spit off the spot you defiled. Now!”The thug, trembling, didn’t dare resist. He leaned forward, tongue scraping the desecrated stone, but as Warren’s iron grip loosened slightly, he screamed, “Scarface! Help me! Please!” His voice was a desperate wail, his body shaking with pain and fear.Warren’s response was swift and merciless. He stomped down hard on the thug’s ankle, the sickening *snap* of bone echoing through the cemetery. Another howl of agony tore through the night, the sound raw and piercing.“You crazy bastard!” Scarface roared, his composure cracking. His scarred face twisted with rage, the cigarette falling forgotten to the ground. “Do you know who I am?” His voice was a venomous promise of retribution, backed 
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He stood, fists clenching, his sorrow hardening into resolve. “But I’m not too late for revenge.” His voice turned to steel, each word a vow carved in blood. “Victor Crane. I’ll drag him to this grave. He’ll kneel here. He’ll cry for forgiveness. And I’ll make him pay for every damn thing he’s done to me. His whole lineage, anyone associated with him—friends, allies, family—they’ll all answer for this.”His gaze dropped to the unconscious men sprawled across the dirt, their bodies a testament to his wrath. Then, his eyes locked onto Scarface, narrowing to slits. “What were you just saying?” His voice was a low growl, each syllable dripping with menace. The air seemed to tighten, the weight of his presence suffocating.Scarface dropped to his knees, trembling uncontrollably. “P-Please! Spare us!” he stammered, his voice a desperate plea. “We were just hired help—I swear! Master Pat gave us the order! He’s from the Cranes’ family, trains their private military… He’s also Mrs. Rachel’s p
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Meanwhile, in a corner of the world, A balcony of a luxurious mansion overlooked a sea of lush greenery, the air crisp and pure, carrying the scent of pine and earth. Derrick stood on the fifth-floor terrace, gazing at the serene expanse below, his heart swelling with a rare calm. This haven, nestled within dense vegetation, felt like a sanctuary from the chaos of his past. His thoughts were interrupted by the patter of small feet and a bright voice calling, “Daddy!”Derrick turned, a smile breaking across his face as Milo, his son, barreled toward him. Scooping the boy into his arms, he felt a surge of warmth. “Mummy’s made dinner,” Milo announced, his grin infectious. Derrick’s smile deepened, marveling at the life he’d built. To think Anamika had nearly stolen this from him—Serena, revealed to be Nanny Fatima’s daughter, and Derrick, the man from that fateful night, the father of their son, Milo.---Three years earlier, Serena Vox’s world was smaller, confined to the cozy apartme
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Serena Vox’s bitter laugh then echoed in the small apartment, sharp and hollow, as if it could shatter the weight of Victor Crane’s words. “Milo’s father?” she scoffed, her voice trembling with disbelief and scorn. Was he drunk? Delusional? The audacity of this man, this vile shadow from her past, standing in her doorway, claiming her son—her Milo—sent a surge of rage through her. But beneath it, fear coiled like a snake, tightening around her heart.“You mocked me for being barren!” she spat, her voice rising, edged with years of pent-up pain. “You and your family humiliated me, tore me apart, and now you stand here, pretending you have a right to my son? Milo is not yours, you evil man. He never will be!” Her hands shook, her pulse hammering in her ears as she moved to slam the door, desperate to shut out the nightmare threatening to invade her world.Victor’s hand shot out, blocking the door with a force that made her flinch. His face remained calm, infuriatingly smug, as if her in