All Chapters of Underworld's Chosen Like None Other: Chapter 271
- Chapter 280
293 chapters
271
The cave mouth yawned before Warren, Cassandra, and Logan, its darkness pulsing with an energy that made the air hum like a struck bell. The seven disciples, descendants of the Veil, stood like specters in their shimmering robes, their hooded faces unreadable, their presence a weight that pressed against Warren’s chest. The lightning-marked stone slab floated above the ground, casting jagged shadows across the summit, and the wind howled, carrying the distant snarls of the Ironspire Forest’s vampires and beasts. Cassandra clutched Logan tightly, his tiny body still limp, his face pale as bone, though his faint breaths gave her hope. Warren’s hand rested on his dagger, the Crown of the Abyss stirring in his veins, its shadows curling like smoke around his fingers. The lead disciple’s voice rumbled, deep and commanding, “Enter, bearer of the Crown. The boy’s fate—and yours—lies within.”Cassandra’s heart pounded, her legs trembling from the climb, but she nodded, her love for Logan ov
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The seven disciples of the Veil, their robes shimmering like molten starlight, stood like sentinels, their hooded gazes heavy with expectation. “The Shadow King’s coronation begins,” their leader boomed, voice like thunder shaking the chamber. “Summon the Order.”The Order of the Saffron Veil was a myth made flesh, a force that had shaped empires from the shadows for millennia, its origins whispered in tales of starlit altars and blood-soaked rites. Its Seven Regiments were its iron fists, striking with deadly precision, while its Five Sects were its soul, their philosophies weaving a global tapestry of power. Warren, as Shadow King, was its beating heart, his will poised to make the world tremble.A ripple of energy tore through the air, and Mr. Tompolo materialized, leader of the Pyrate Regiment, the Order’s dark fist. His burly frame, clad in scarred black leather, seemed to shrink as his eyes met Warren’s. Panic seized him, and he dropped to his knees, his forehead slamming agains
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The empty throne of the Thread Regiment pulsed, as if awaiting Cassandra’s claim. The disciples’ chant grew, and the air thickened, a ripple of energy coalescing around Warren. The ring on his finger—the black stone band of the Crown of the Abyss—flared, its surface glowing with runes that matched the throne’s. A disciple stepped forward, their hood casting shadows, and declared, “The Crown has chosen. The ring binds you, Warren, as Shadow King, heart of the Order, wielder of the Abyss’s will.” The chamber trembled, crystals blazing, as the leaders’ chants rose, confirming Warren’s reign. Cassandra’s heart swelled, her love for Logan and Warren anchoring her against the awe of this moment.The disciples formed a circle around the throne, their hands weaving threads of light that spiraled upward, forming a vortex above Warren. The ritual began, a binding of his will to the Order’s ancient purpose. Shadows poured from the ring, wrapping him like a cloak, and the throne’s runes flared,
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Now****Before them stretched a fifty-vehicle convoy, a sleek line of black SUVs and armored trucks, their polished surfaces gleaming under the moonlight. Men and women in dark tuxedos and mirrored sunglasses stood in perfect rows, their heads bowed in unison as Warren, Cassandra, and Logan stepped forward. “Shadow King!” they intoned, their voices a disciplined chorus that echoed down the road. Each wore a silver pin etched with the Order’s sigil—a veiled flame—marking them as the Order’s elite, lackeys trained to serve the Saffron Veil’s will. Their sunglasses hid their eyes, but their rigid postures spoke of fear and reverence, a testament to Warren’s newfound power. Warren’s gaze swept the convoy, his jaw tight, the Crown’s shadows curling faintly around him. “Who commands this?” he asked, his voice low but carrying the weight of the throne. A woman stepped forward, her tuxedo tailored sharp, her sunglasses reflecting the torchlight Cassandra still held. “I am Lysa, captain of t
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Meanwhile....Victor Crane sat in his opulent living room, orchestrating his next move with the precision of a chess grandmaster. The stakes were high, and he was pulling every string to amass a formidable force to rival the shadow king.Today, an old dealer, weathered by years in the trade, arrived with two of his finest mercenaries. These weren’t ordinary hired guns; they were towering, burly figures, their hands bound by heavy chains and mouths concealed behind metallic masks, as if their very breath could unleash chaos. Victor’s eyes gleamed with ambition as he sized them up, envisioning the power they’d bring to his cause.“Good morning, Mr. Crane,” the dealer rasped, extending a hand. Victor shook it firmly, his gaze flickering to the mercenaries and the dealer’s assistant, a wiry man hovering in the background. The air was thick with tension, the kind that precedes a deal that could shift fates.“How much for both?” Victor asked, cutting to the chase.“Ten million each,” the de
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Victor Crane’s living room, once a sanctuary of power and control, now felt like a pressure cooker ready to explode. The sting of the failed mercenary deal lingered, but the frozen account was a far greater threat, a chokehold on his ambitions. He needed to act fast to untangle this mess before his enemies sensed weakness. Pacing the polished hardwood floor, Victor’s mind churned through possibilities—each more infuriating than the last.Caleb, his loyal assistant and Warren’s stepbrother, clutched his phone, redialing the bank manager who handled the Crane family’s accounts. The line rang unanswered, each unanswered call tightening the knot in Victor’s chest. “Sir,” Caleb said, his voice steady but laced with urgency, “the manager isn’t picking up. The bank’s an hour’s drive. Should we go?”Victor didn’t respond immediately, his pacing relentless, each step a drumbeat of frustration. Before he could decide, the heavy oak doors swung open, and Rachel stormed in, her face a mask of fur
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Soon, Victor Crane's convoy rolled to a stop outside the glass-and-steel fortress of First Dominion Bank, its towering facade a symbol of the financial empire Victor Crane had long manipulated from the shadows. Three black SUVs, flanked by armed drivers, formed a precise line, their engines cutting off in unison. Victor stepped out, his tailored suit impeccable, his posture radiating the arrogance of a man accustomed to bending the world to his will. Caleb, ever the shadow, followed with his tablet, eyes scanning for threats or answers. The hour-long drive had been a tense silence, Victor’s mind a whirlwind of vengeance and strategy. This bank, this manager, would undo the freeze—or face his wrath.Normally, Victor’s arrival was a spectacle. The moment his convoy appeared, security would swarm, ushering out every patron—businessmen, housewives, even the elderly—with rehearsed apologies. The lobby would transform into his personal domain, tellers frozen in deference, the manager scramb
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The bank lobby pulsed with the chaos of ordinary life—queues snaking around velvet ropes, a toddler’s wail piercing the hum of conversation, a janitor’s mop slapping wet streaks across the marble. Victor Crane stood at the teller counter, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the crowd’s casual disdain. His face burned, pulse hammering as Marisol, the teller, smirked, her “take a number” still ringing in his ears. Customers whispered, their words venomous— “Crane’s falling apart.” Caleb hovered behind, tablet clutched, eyes darting nervously.No one cleared the room. No security ushered patrons out. No one bowed to the man who owned half the city. Victor’s fist clenched, nails biting his palm. He leaned over the counter, voice a low growl. “Get the manager. Now.” Marisol’s eyes flicked up, unbothered, then back to her receipts. The crowd’s murmurs grew—louder, bolder, a chorus of contempt.Footsteps echoed from the grand staircase. The branch manager, Harold Voss, descended, his bald
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The Zoldyk assassin family’s name alone sent shivers through the underbelly of the world, a whispered legend that turned hardened criminals pale and made power brokers double-check their locks. Their crest—a snarling wolf encircled by thorns—wasn’t just a mark; it was a death sentence etched in flesh, a symbol of a lineage so lethal it seemed more myth than reality. The Zoldyks weren’t merely assassins; they were architects of annihilation, their efficiency and ruthlessness unmatched across continents. To cross them was to invite a meticulous, inescapable end, not just for the target but for entire bloodlines, erased with surgical precision.Their deadliness stemmed from a legacy honed over centuries. The Zoldyks operated like a shadow government, a clan of killers trained from birth in a fortress hidden in the jagged peaks of an uncharted mountain range. Children didn’t play; they sparred with blades before they could walk, mastering poisons, stealth, and combat forms no military cou
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Victor’s smirk was a razor’s edge, his arrogance reborn in the crowd’s terror. The Zoldyk name had worked its magic, restoring Victor’s swagger, the myth of his invincibility. He spun to Voss, yanking him to his knees by his tie. “Fix my accounts,” he snarled, “or this bank’s ash.” Voss nodded, frantic, sweat dripping onto the marble, his hands fumbling for his broken glasses.The double doors exploded inward with a deafening crash.A hundred black tuxedos stormed the lobby, a tidal wave of menace that drowned the room in shadow. The Saffron Veil enforcers, Warren’s elite, moved like a machine—batons gleaming in their gloved hands, polished shoes hammering the marble in a synchronized thunder that shook the chandeliers. Their faces were hidden behind tinted visors, eyes invisible, expressions carved from stone. Each step reverberated, a war drum that silenced the crowd’s whimpers. The air turned electric, the enforcers’ presence a cold blade against the throat of Victor’s bravado.The