All Chapters of Underworld's Chosen Like None Other: Chapter 261
- Chapter 270
293 chapters
261
An interstate cab rattled along the cracked highway, its engine groaning as it cut through the dusk toward Ironspire. Warren sat in the back, his cloak damp with sweat, his predatory eyes scanning the horizon where the city’s jagged skyline loomed. Cassandra clutched Logan, their two-year-old son, his small body curled against her chest, his soft breaths steady despite the jolting ride. Her torn ivory gown, a remnant of the wedding that never was, clung to her frame, streaked with dust from the chaos they’d left behind. The cab’s worn leather seats creaked as Warren shifted, his hand resting on the her lap, sending a jolt through them. Three years of being away..... The driver, a grizzled man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, kept his eyes forward, sensing the weight of his passengers’ silence.The cab screeched to a stop at Ironspire’s edge, where Derrick, the God of War, waited near a rusted streetlamp, its light buzzing faintly. His broad frame, scarred from countless bat
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Across the city, in the Crane family’s fortified compound. Victor Crane sat in a high-backed leather chair in the living room, his sharp features illuminated by the glow of a massive television screen mounted on the wall. His sister, Anamika, stood beside him, her arms crossed, her dark eyes narrowed as the news broadcast blared. The anchor’s voice, clipped and urgent, filled the room, recounting the fall of Monarch City, the mob tearing through the square, the monarch and his heir devoured by the citizens’ rage. But it was the name that followed that made Victor’s fingers tighten around the armrests, his knuckles whitening. “The Shadow King, Warren, has returned,” the anchor declared, a grainy image of Warren’s silhouette flashing across the screen.Victor’s jaw clenched, his breath hissing through his teeth. “Warren? Back?” His voice was a low growl, disbelief warring with dread. Anamika’s lips pursed, her manicured nails tapping rhythmically against her sleeve. Three years ago, the
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A forest loomed dense and ancient around one of the many hideout, Derrick had, its towering trees cloaking the sprawling mansion in shadow. Vines clung to the stone walls, and the air carried the damp scent of moss and earth. Derrick, the God of War, had gifted Warren this sanctuary, one of his secret hideouts, tucked deep in the wilderness beyond Ironspire’s neon-lit chaos. A squad of mercenaries, their faces hardened by years of battle, patrolled the perimeter, their rifles glinting under the moonlight, their boots silent on the forest floor. Warren’s truck rumbled to a stop at the iron gates, the engine’s growl fading into the night’s quiet. Cassandra stepped out, clutching Logan, his small body nestled against her shoulder. Amos, Warren’s father, followed, his steps slow, his frame still frail from three years of slavery under the Cranes’ brutal hand.Inside, the mansion’s oak-paneled halls were a stark contrast to the wild exterior, warmed by flickering firelight. Cassandra settl
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Warren leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders tense, while Cassandra sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her cotton nightgown. Their two-year-old son, Logan, slept fitfully in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling under a blanket stitched with little yellow stars. The two had been discussing silently, trying not to wake him, when a piercing wail shattered the quiet.Logan’s cry wasn’t the usual fussy whimper of a toddler. It was raw, guttural, like something ancient and wild had clawed its way out of his throat. The sound jolted Warren and Cassandra, their heads snapping toward the crib. Cassandra’s heart leapt into her throat as she sprang to her feet, her bare toes curling against the cold wooden floor. Warren followed close behind, his boots thudding softly, his face a mask of concern.“Logan!” Cassandra gasped, rushing to the crib. Her hands reached for her son, desperate to scoop him up and soothe him, but what she saw froze her
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Warren stood near the crib, his broad frame rigid, his eyes still haunted by the sight of his two-year-old son, Logan, speaking with a voice too clear, too knowing for a child. Cassandra clutched Logan tightly to her chest, her knuckles white, her heart hammering so loud she could feel it in her throat. The boy’s tiny body was warm against her, but his earlier display—those ink-black eyes, that impossible strength—clung to her mind like a nightmare she couldn’t shake.“I think he inherited my powers,” Warren said, his voice low, almost a growl, as he turned to her. His face was a mix of guilt and dread, the kind of look you’d see on someone who’d just unearthed a terrible secret. “The ones the Crown of the Abyss gave me.”Cassandra’s breath hitched, her green eyes wide with panic. “Does that mean the darkness will consume him too?” Her voice cracked, tears brimming as she rocked Logan gently, as if holding him tighter could protect him from whatever lurked inside. “Is there a way to
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The night air was thick with moisture, clinging to their skin as Warren, Cassandra, and little Logan stood before the Ironspire Forest. A towering barricade of barbed wire loomed ahead, crackling with electric sparks that lit up the darkness like angry fireflies. The fence hummed with a low, menacing buzz, a warning to anyone foolish enough to approach. Beyond it, the forest waited—a wall of gnarled trees with branches like twisted fingers, their leaves whispering secrets in the wind. Cassandra shifted Logan on her back, his small body strapped securely in a cloth carrier. His face was ghostly pale now, his cheeks drained of color, as if the life was seeping out of him with every passing second. Her heart twisted, fear gnawing at her insides like a hungry beast.From deep within the forest, guttural roars and eerie howls echoed, sounds no natural creature could make. They sent a shiver racing down Cassandra’s spine, her hands trembling as she adjusted Logan’s weight. She glanced at he
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The creaky door of the hut groaned as Warren pushed it open, the sound slicing through the oppressive silence of the Ironspire Forest. The air inside was warm, thick with the scent of damp wood and something sharp, like herbs boiled too long. A single lantern hung from a rusty nail in the rafter, its flame casting a sickly yellow glow across the small room. The walls were rough-hewn logs, slick with moss, and a crude table sat in the center, cluttered with chipped clay mugs and a steaming pot that smelled faintly of roots and meat. Shadows clung to the corners, shifting as if alive, and the floor creaked under Warren’s boots, each step heavy with caution. Cassandra followed close, her arms wrapped tightly around Logan in the sling on her back. The boy’s face was deathly pale now, his breathing shallow, his tiny body burning with fever despite the chill of the night. Her heart pounded, each beat a desperate plea for her son’s survival.Warren’s hand rested on the hilt of his dagger, h
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The cavern pulsed with a sickly green glow, the air thick with the stench of rot and the tribe’s guttural chants. Cassandra’s wrists burned under the coarse ropes, her tears falling freely as she watched the blind woman cradle Logan, her claw-like fingers tracing his pale cheek. Warren strained against his bonds, the wooden post creaking, his eyes black with the Crown of the Abyss’s power, but the drugged broth still dulled his strength. The tribe—pale, eyeless figures in tattered hides—circled closer, their chants rising like a storm. Torin, the old man with hollow sockets, stood before a crude stone altar draped in stained cloth, its surface etched with jagged runes that seemed to writhe in the torchlight. Bones hung from the ceiling, clattering like wind chimes, and jars of grotesque relics lined the walls, their contents glowing faintly in the dark.Logan’s whimpers echoed, each one a dagger in Cassandra’s heart. The woman placed him on the altar, her movements reverent, as if of
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The Ironspire Forest pulsed with menace, its twisted trees clawing at the sky as Warren, Cassandra, and Logan stumbled through the underbrush, their breaths ragged in the cold night air. The torch in Cassandra’s hand sputtered, its flame barely holding back the suffocating darkness. Behind them, the cavern’s horrors echoed—snarls and screeches of the vampires and beasts the blind tribe had unleashed, their hunger a living thing that stalked the shadows. Cassandra clutched Logan tightly, his small body trembling in the sling on her chest, his face paler than ever, as if the forest itself was draining the life from him. Warren led the way, his dagger drawn, the Crown of the Abyss humming in his veins, its dark power a faint shield against the chaos closing in.Each time Logan had tapped into the abyss’s power—those black-eyed moments of impossible strength—Cassandra had seen the cost. His tiny frame seemed to shrink, his skin growing colder, his breaths shallower. That acrobatic dis
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The mountain’s jagged slope loomed above the Ironspire Forest, its rocky face cutting into the starry sky like a blade. Warren led the ascent, his boots grinding against loose shale, each step a battle against the biting cold that clawed through his coat. Strapped to his chest was Logan, their two-year-old son, his tiny body limp and feverish, his face pale as moonlight. The boy’s breaths were shallow, each one a fragile thread tying him to life after the abyss’s power had drained him in their escape from the blind tribe. Cassandra followed, her legs trembling with exhaustion, her hands raw from gripping jagged rocks. Her dark hair clung to her sweat-soaked face, but her love for Logan burned brighter than her fatigue, pushing her upward despite the ache in her bones. The forest below growled with distant vampire hisses and beastly snarls, a reminder of the horrors they’d fled, but the peak promised answers.The climb took over an hour, the air growing thinner, colder, slicing throu