The sterile hum of the hospital lab buzzed in Derrick’s ears as he stood, arms crossed, his broad frame looming over the technician. Serena hovered nearby, her fingers twisting a strand of Milo’s hair in a plastic bag, her face pale, eyes sunken from relentless tears. The machine whirred, spitting out another report, and the technician slid it across the counter with a neutral nod. Derrick snatched it, his eyes scanning the text: *99.9% match to Victor Crane.* His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering as he handed it to Serena. Her lips trembled, her head shaking violently, tears spilling as she clutched the paper, crumpling it in her fist. “No,” she whispered, voice cracking, “it’s tampered. Victor barely touched me. It’s not true.” They’d been to six labs now, each one echoing the same result. Derrick’s patience frayed with every sterile room, every technician’s dispassionate glance. At the seventh, as the machine beeped and another identical report slid out, he snapped. “Enough!” His

The air in Richarlison’s office hung heavy with the scent of polished oak and betrayal. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the desk, his eyes fixed on a framed photo from military school—him and Derrick, young, uniformed, standing side by side. His jaw tightened, lips thinning as he traced the memory of those years. Derrick, always a step ahead, his shadow swallowing Richarlison’s every achievement. Medals pinned to Derrick’s chest, promotions handed to him like gifts, while Richarlison’s sweat earned only nods. His value was only sufficient enough for commendation and not rewards, unlike Derrick. It is not enough to be valuable, you need to have your value refined, packaged and delivered in excellence. Worse, the girls—every one he’d ever wanted—turned to Derrick, their eyes lingering on the man who’d become the God of War. Resentment coiled in his gut, a snake fed by years of slights, now ready to strike. Anamika’s fall had cracked the dam; exposure loomed, and he’d

Now, the aroma of roasted chicken and garlic wafted through the dining room of Derrick’s sprawling mansion, where he sat with his wife, Serena, and their young son, Milo. The table was set with care, plates piled with steaming food, and the clink of cutlery filled the air. Serena, her dark hair pulled back, smiled warmly as she served seconds to Milo, whose small hands gripped his fork with determination. Derrick, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, savored the rare moment of peace, his sharp eyes softening as he watched his family. The mansion, a fortress of stone and steel, stood impregnable, its guards vigilant at every gate. Yet, tonight, an unease lingered, unspoken.Milo’s sneakers squeaked as he bounded back from the hallway, his face alight with excitement. “Daddy, I called you like Mommy said!” he chirped, tugging at Derrick’s sleeve. Serena had sent him to fetch his father just as she’d laid out dinner. Derrick ruffled Milo’s hair, his limp barely noticeable as he followed

The banquet hall lay in chaos, shattered glass and splintered wood strewn across the marble floor. Guests, their finery now dust-streaked, scrambled to their feet, eyes darting toward the gaping wound where the grand doors once stood. The air buzzed with panic, whispers of “explosive” and “attack” rippling through the crowd. Some clutched bleeding arms, others steadied themselves against overturned tables, their faces pale as they squinted through the haze. The injured groaned, pulling themselves upright, their gazes locking on the shadowed entrance. A figure emerged, deliberate and unyielding, cutting through the settling dust like a blade.Cassandra, still at the altar, stood rooted, her ivory gown trembling with her shallow breaths. Her tear-swollen eyes widened, fixed on the silhouette. That broad frame, the unhurried stride—it was unmistakable. Her heart stuttered. *Warren?* Three years had passed since the masters dragged him away, vowing to purge the crown of his “abyssal darkn

Mr. Rashford, the monarch, had long held Monarch City in a chokehold of fear, his decrees enforced by terror and spectacle. His citizens, once seething with resentment, had grown numb, their defiance dulled by years of his unrelenting power. Any citizen that defied his order was either crucified or sent to the gladiator fighting arena as a death sentence, we're they're slained, the gladiators bled for his amusement, and the dog cages, where dissenters’ loved ones were held, ensured compliance. His twelve disciples, cloaked in black and trained to kill without hesitation, were the embodiment of his dominance, their presence alone enough to silence any whisper of rebellion. Yet now, as Warren, the Shadow King, stood at the heart of the chaos, the monarch’s carefully constructed empire trembled.Warren’s eyes burned black, twin voids that seemed to devour the light, his body radiating the dark power of the abyss. Like a warrior from the Badlands, he moved with predatory grace, his bar