The three legendary foreign hitmen known across five continents as the Death Triad stood side by side near the entrance of the abandoned industrial warehouse. Their cold, calculating eyes locked onto Ethan Vance, who sat comfortably in a single wooden chair under a dusty beam of pale sunlight. To the three killers, Ethan looked completely defenseless, like a young lamb waiting foolishly inside a dark cage for the butcher blade to fall.The leader of the group, a sharp eyed veteran with a long, ugly scar running down his right jawline, stepped forward over the cracked concrete floor. His heavy leather boots made slow, arrogant tapping sounds against the dry floorboards. A cruel, wicked sneer spread slowly across his face as he reached his right hand toward the dark weapon tucked close to his chest.So you are the famous Ethan Vance, the leader sneered, his raspy voice carrying a thick foreign accent that echoed through the high ceiling beams. The Grandmaster made you sound like a gian

The massive abandoned industrial warehouse was quiet again, save for the soft sound of the dry wind blowing through the broken window frames high above. The dusty floor was littered with empty bullet casings, broken wood splinters, and scattered debris from the brief, violent clash. Near the center of the vast grey floor, a single narrow beam of pale sunlight shone down from the roof like a spotlight on a stage.Ethan Vance stood tall over the beaten leader of the Death Triad, his heavy dark leather coat hanging straight down over his broad shoulders. His right knee pressed firmly against the man chest, while his strong hand locked around his throat like an unshakeable iron vise.The leader gasped wildly for air, his face pale and covered in cold sweat. His right wrist was completely broken, hanging limply at an unnatural angle, and every single breath he took sent sharp waves of agony through his ribs. He looked up into Ethan eyes and saw only cold, absolute power. There was no ange

The fiftieth floor boardroom of the Vance Group central tower was filled with a thick, heavy wave of pure panic. The giant digital stock screen on the front wall continued to flash bright red numbers, showing millions of dollars in market value disappearing into thin air with every passing second.Older directors stood up from their leather chairs, talking over each other in loud, frantic voices. Some paced back and forth across the thick carpet, while others gripped their hair in absolute despair. They had spent decades building the Vance Group into the most powerful corporate empire in Capital City, and now, watching their stock price plunge downward like a broken elevator, they felt like helpless passengers on a sinking ship."We are bleeding out!" Director Vance shouted, his face turning bright red as he slammed his open palms against the polished mahogany table. "If this hostile sell-off continues for another thirty minutes, our shares will hit rock bottom! Lord Sterling will hav

The grand penthouse suite near the center of the Capital City financial district was quiet, heavy, and filled with a cold, suffocating tension. The bright afternoon sun shone through the tall glass windows, casting long golden beams across the expensive white carpet. But inside the luxurious room, no one cared about the sunlight or the beautiful view of the city.Lord Sterling sat frozen in his plush leather armchair. His face had turned completely pale, drained of all color like a sheet of clean white paper. His silver hair, usually combed back with absolute neatness, looked slightly messy as sweat gathered in tiny drops along his wrinkled forehead. His thin hands gripped the edges of the dark wooden coffee table so tightly that his knuckles looked like white stones.On the floor right beside his chair, the expensive crystal wine glass he had dropped a few minutes ago lay shattered into a hundred sparkling pieces. Dark red wine soaked into the expensive white carpet like a spreading

The grand private dining room of the High Society Financial Club was vast, silent, and filled with the warm, dim glow of a giant crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Soft red velvet drapes covered the tall glass windows, blocking out the cold night air of the city. In the center of the room sat a long mahogany table, set with fine white porcelain plates, sparkling crystal glasses, and polished silver cutlery that shone brightly under the lights.Sitting at the far end of the long table was Lord Sterling.The Supreme Grandmaster of the Dragon Syndicate held a heavy crystal glass filled with dark red wine in his thin, pale hand. His silver hair was combed back with strict precision, and his black silk suit was pressed without a single wrinkle. Yet beneath his neat appearance, his face was pale, his cheeks were slightly hollow, and his cold, dark eyes were shadowed with deep fatigue. Forty years of absolute, unquestioned authority across three continents rested on his lean