The air in the cramped farmhouse was thick with dread, the silence shattered only by the fading echo of Nico’s retreating footsteps. Crane’s lackey had dragged his battered, barely conscious body away, leaving a trail of blood and broken pride in his wake. Warren stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, knuckles still raw from the fight. His eyes, sharp as flint, scanned the room where his parents huddled, their faces pale with fear.“Mum! Dad!” Warren’s voice cracked with urgency, raw with the weight of years apart. “Are you alright? Those men are gone. They won’t touch you again. I swear it.”Amos, his father, spun toward him, his weathered face contorted with a mix of fury and despair. “Gone? You think they’re *gone*?” His voice trembled as he paced, boots scuffing the creaky floorboards. “You’ve poked a lion, Warren! You think beating Nico and his thugs means anything? Crane’s family—they’ll come for you. For *us*. They’ll burn this house to the ground before they let this slide!”

“How *dare* you insult me!” Her temper ignited, a storm brewing in her eyes. She raised a stiletto-clad foot, poised to stomp down. The heel, sharp as a blade, gleamed with malicious intent—a strike that could’ve pierced flesh and bone, leaving a wound no doctor could mend.“Sandra, enough!” A commanding voice cut through the tension, deep and authoritative, yet strained with exhaustion. From the car’s back seat stepped a middle-aged man, his presence radiating power despite his pallid complexion and labored breathing. His tailored suit hung loosely on a frame ravaged by illness, his face pale and drawn, each breath a struggle. He leaned against the vehicle for support, one hand clutching the door, his knuckles white. It was clear to anyone he was dying, his body betraying the authority he still wielded.“Dad, why did you get out?” Sandra’s arrogance dissolved in an instant, replaced by concern as she rushed to his side, steadying him with a gentleness that seemed foreign to her.“We

Cassandra, still reeling from her father’s sudden recovery, narrowed her eyes at Warren. “What’s this about a symbol? You save my father’s life and now you’re interrogating him?” Her tone was sharp, protective, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her voice. She glanced at the card in Warren’s hand, as if seeing it for the first time.Mr. Trump raised a hand to silence her. “Sandra, enough. He just saved my life” His voice was steady now, carrying the authority of a man accustomed to command. He studied Warren, his expression a mix of gratitude and wariness. “You’re no ordinary healer,” he said slowly. “That symbol… it’s not something you’d know by chance. Who are you, really?”Warren’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t here to reveal his own secrets. “I’ll ask the questions,” he said, his voice low but firm. “The symbol on your card is one of seven tied to an ancient relic. I need to know how you got it and what you know about the Crown of the Abyss.”.Mr. Trump’s eyes flickered with recog

“Warren,” she said, her voice low, laced with amusement. “You’ve got some nerve creeping into my house.”He froze, his hand still on the doorframe, but his face betrayed nothing. “Mara,” he replied, his tone even, almost warm. “Didn't expect to see you here, longest time by the way...”“Bullshit,” she shot back, leaning forward. Her dark eyes glinted in the monitor’s glow. “You knew exactly where you were going. Question is, why?”Warren stepped into the room, letting the door slide shut behind him. The air was warmer here, tinged with the faint ozone of electronics. “I need something,” he said, his voice steady but clipped. “A phone. Untraceable, unhackable. Private server, private network. You know the kind.”Mara’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the hum of her machines. “You break out of Blackthorn, become the damn Shadow King, and you waltz in here for a phone? You could’ve hit up any black-market tech dealer from here to Shanghai. Why me?”He met her gaze, unflinching. “Because

The tarmac at Ironspire International Airport shimmered under the early afternoon sun, a haze of heat rising from the asphalt. For eight hours, the airport had been frozen in a state of suspended animation—no departures, no arrivals, no movement. The terminal buzzed with frustrated travelers, their murmurs of discontent drowned out by the distant roar of a private jet slicing through the cloudless sky. The source of the disruption was about to touch down.Mr. Crane, a man whose name carried the weight of empires, was arriving in Ironspire for his son’s wedding, Victor Crane's Wedding. His influence was a currency few could match—billionaire industrialist, political kingmaker, and a figure whose mere presence could bend the will of governments. The city had practically knelt at his approach, its airspace cleared and its schedules rewritten to accommodate his arrival.On the ground, a battalion awaited him. Rows of armed security personnel stood in rigid formation, their black tactical