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

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

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

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

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