All Chapters of Underworld's Chosen Like None Other: Chapter 241 
				
					- Chapter 250
				
293 chapters
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On their way out, plying towards the Military capital of the city, something tugged at Derrick—a quiet instinct, a whisper of responsibility for the boy now in his care. Milo’s wide, curious eyes had a way of unraveling Derrick’s resolve, and before he could second-guess himself, he ordered the convoy to turn around. The office could wait. Today, he felt like spending it with Milo. He couldn't remember being this happy until he met milo, thus he wanted to savour it. Back at home, Derrick made it his mission to ensure Milo felt at ease. The modest living room, with its worn leather couch and scattered game controllers, became their playground. Derrick powered up the gaming console, the one he hadn’t touched in months, and handed Milo a controller. The boy’s face lit up as the screen flickered to life, pixelated characters darting across a vibrant digital landscape. Laughter filled the air as they battled virtual enemies, Milo’s infectious giggles pulling Derrick into a lightness he ha
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In less than half an hour later, the afternoon sun casted long shadows across the God of War’s fortified residence, its iron gates glinting under the vigilant watch of stationed soldiers. Inside, Milo, normally sharp-witted, sat cross-legged on the plush living room carpet, his small fingers dancing over a video game controller. The vibrant colors of the screen held his attention, his toy General Derrick tucked beside him, a constant reminder of his hero. Upstairs, Anamika paced her private study, her black gown trailing like a shadow. Her plan was in motion, a flawless web spun with precision to tighten her grip on the narrative surrounding Milo’s paternity. Every move was calculated, every detail accounted for—she was, after all, the wife of the seven-star general, untouchable and cunning.The phone on her desk buzzed, connecting to the downstairs line. Anamika’s lips curled into a faint smile as she dialed, her voice syrupy when Milo answered. “Hello, Milo, sweetheart,” she purred.
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The SUV roared through Ironspire City’s streets, Derrick’s hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Milo sat in the back, curled against him, his small arms wrapped tightly around Derrick’s waist, seeking solace in his hero’s embrace. The boy’s tear-streaked face, still shaken from the kidnapping attempt, found peace in Derrick’s steady presence.In the passenger seat, Anamika seethed, her venomous words slicing through the tense silence. “Can’t believe that bitch actually had her own son kidnapped,” she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. “Just two days into the court’s ruling—my brother gets a week with his son, and Serena’s so desperate she hires thugs to snatch him?”Derrick’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the road. Her words didn’t add up. Serena, orchestrating a kidnapping? The woman he’d met didn’t strike him as capable of such a reckless act. Yet the thugs had named her, their confession ringing in his ears. Doubt gnawed at him but well, he can't really kn
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 Serena’s heart pounded as Victor drove in with his lawyer and the police, but she refused to crumble.  She dialed her own lawyer, her voice steady despite the chaos unfolding. Victor’s face was a mask of smug triumph, his eyes glinting as he stepped out, ready to bury her with legal firepower.   Derrick stood back, his jaw tight, his anger at Serena simmering but tempered by doubt. Anamika’s venomous accusations had painted Serena as a desperate criminal, but her raw emotion—her fierce grip on Milo, her tear-streaked face—gnawed at him. Something wasn’t right.As Victor and his lawyers began hurling accusations, citing the police report they’d filed over the kidnapping attempt, Serena’s voice cut through, sharp and unwavering. “I’m innocent!” she insisted, clutching Milo, who clung to her with equal ferocity. “I’d never put my son in danger! You’re framing me, just like you did before!” Her lawyer arrived, a harried man in a rumpled suit, scrambling to counter Victor’s claims. The 
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The sun sliced through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the opulent bedroom where Anamika lounged on silk sheets, her body still humming from the night’s fervor. The news of Derrick, the God of War, taking a second wife had scorched through Ironspire’s elite circles like a rogue ember, despite his whispered assurances to Anamika that it was a mere formality, a paper marriage. She’d nodded then, her lips curling into a practiced smile, but her heart churned with betrayal—not because of Derrick’s new bride, but because of her own secrets. She’d been stepping out, seeking satisfaction where Derrick’s touch fell short, her body craving what he couldn’t provide.In the bathroom, water hissed against marble as Derrick showered, oblivious to the storm brewing in the next room. Anamika’s fingers traced the edge of the bed, her mind replaying last night’s heated negotiations. Derrick had knelt before her, his voice low and earnest, swearing the marriage to Amelia was a facade. She’d
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The fluorescent lights of the Ironspire Grand Hotel flickered as Marcus slipped through the lobby, his trench coat brushing against the polished marble floor. He moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the reception desk where a nervous manager fidgeted with a pen. Marcus leaned in, his voice low and gravelly, demanding access to the guest logs and CCTV footage from a specific date he provided- the night it all happened as he flashed his Military ID card. The manager’s hands trembled as he tapped at a computer, his face paling. “The original data… it’s gone,” he stammered, avoiding Marcus’s piercing gaze. If someone of his rank was asking and demanding, she dare not keep it away from him or ask for warrant least the hotel is closed down. Marcus’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming on the counter. Nothing. Another dead end.Once he left, the manager put  a call to anamika at once which intensified Anamika's dread and desperation. Undeterred, Marcus had already swiped Milo’s water bott
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Few minutes later, Marcus’s sedan rolled to a stop outside the towering gates of Derrick Vos’s estate, the iron bars gleaming under the evening sun. The guards, recognizing the weathered investigator, waved him through without a word, their faces stoic as they manned their posts. Marcus adjusted his trench coat, the DNA report a heavy weight in his pocket, and strode toward the mansion’s oak door, his boots crunching on the gravel path. His pulse thrummed, the truth he carried burning like a fuse.He rapped sharply on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet dusk. The door swung open, revealing Anamika, her lips curling into a warm smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She’d seen him on the security footage, her hand already smoothing her silk dress as she stepped aside. “Hello,” she said, her voice honeyed, “good evening, come in.” She gestured gracefully, her nails catching the light.“Hi, good evening,” Marcus replied, his tone clipped, eyes scanning past her into the dimly lit foyer. 
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The velvet night cloaked Ironspire in a hush, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the flicker of screens in high-rise apartments. Inside the sprawling Vos estate, Derrick paced the study, his broad shoulders casting long shadows across leather-bound bookshelves. The day's earlier buzz—the whispered scandal of his paper marriage to Amelia—had evaporated like morning mist, supplanted by a seismic headline that gripped the city like a vise. Televisions blared in every corner, reporters' voices slicing through the air with the precision of daggers."Breaking: Tycoon Trump Falls," the anchor intoned, her face etched with feigned solemnity, eyes wide as if witnessing apocalypse. On screen, grainy footage looped: a man of valour, once unyielding as forged steel, now a crumpled silhouette dragged from the opulent wreckage of his empire. Trump's tower, that gleaming monolith of gold and glass, lay in smoldering ruins, flames licking the sky like vengeful tongues. Reporters swarmed th
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  Last night, unbeknownst to him, Anamika had slipped into the study while he dozed, her bare feet silent on Persian rugs. Her fingers, steady as a surgeon's, had navigated his phone, unblocking Marcus's number with a soft tap, her breath held until the screen confirmed it— a quiet unraveling of threads he hadn't yet seen.A sharp rap at the doorframe yanked him from his reverie. A soldier stood there, uniform crisp, face carved from granite, saluting with a snap. "Sir," he began, his voice gravel-low, eyes fixed on Derrick's polished shoes. "Report from the harbor patrol. Body recovered from the bay at dawn—Marcus Hale. Floated in with the tide, bloated and blue, snagged on a buoy like driftwood."Derrick's hand froze mid-air, the phone slipping from his grip to clatter on the mahogany dresser. His eyes narrowed, pupils dilating as the words sank in, a cold wave crashing over him. Marcus—retired but relentless, the man who'd shared smokes and secrets in rain-slicked alleys. Dead. He 
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The fire in Derrick’s study hissed, spitting embers that danced across the oak logs. He slumped in his leather chair, the weight of Marcus’s death pressing against his ribs like a bruise. A tumbler of whiskey rested in his hand, the amber liquid catching the firelight as he tilted it to his lips, the burn sharp and grounding. His tie hung loose, collar unbuttoned, his broad shoulders sagging under the tailored suit. The room smelled of old books and smoke, the air thick with unanswered questions. Marcus’s bloated body, fished from the ocean’s grip, flickered in his mind—those unseeing eyes, the betrayal of poison. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, as he poured another measure, the bottle clinking against the glass.A sharp rap at the door snapped his head up. Richarlison stood in the threshold, his aide-de-camp’s uniform pristine, his salute crisp as a blade. “Serena Vox is here to see you, sir,” he said, his voice steady, eyes fixed on a point above Derrick’s shoulder. Derrick’s brow