2025-11-20 23:20:41The world burned around him.
Adrian pushed himself off the shattered floor as another explosion rolled somewhere in the distance, sending a shockwave of heat through the ruined corridor. Smoke curled upward like black ghosts, swallowing the ceiling and turning the entire compound into a furnace of crumbling steel and screaming alarms.
His ears rang. His vision blurred. But his instincts—those strange, sharp instincts he didn’t remember earning—pulled him to his feet.
Move.
He stumbled forward, shoving aside chunks of fallen concrete. Every breath tasted of ash. His palms were raw from crawling through debris. Each heartbeat felt like it might split his skull open.
But behind him, the killers came.
“Target confirmed alive.”
“Move in. Orders are to terminate.”
Adrian froze.
That voice. Cold, emotionless. Professional killers.
A red dot—small as a burning insect—flickered on a broken pillar ahead of him. His pulse jumped.
Sniper. Watching him. Tracking him.
The shot didn’t come immediately, and that was worse. It meant the shooter was waiting for a clear kill. Watching him like prey.
Adrian dropped low as quietly as he could, listening. His hearing sharpened unnaturally, cutting through the fire roar and collapsing beams.
Boots. Five—maybe six—approaching fast from the west hall.
He didn’t know how he knew that. He just did.
Who am I?
A fresh explosion ripped through the southern wing, making the entire hallway tremble. Fire sprayed out of a doorway like a living creature hungry for air.
Adrian ducked behind a fallen metal panel. A bullet punched through it instantly, the impact vibrating through his bones.
“They have a sniper set at east tower,” he muttered under his breath, unsure why he knew the exact location without ever looking. “High angle. Suppressed rifle. Professional grade.”
Another bullet struck, missing his head by inches.
He ran.
Not clumsy or panicked—his body moved sharply, efficiently, dodging rubble, slipping through falling steel as if he’d done it a thousand times. Instinct took over where memory failed.
The corridor twisted into a darker passageway, lit only by the fire pouring in from behind. Adrian vaulted a collapsed beam and skidded into what had once been a war-room—now a storm of shattered glass, overturned tables, and fractured screens.
That’s when he saw them.
Symbols.
Painted across the far wall.
Dark ink twisted into shapes that felt older than language—sharp-edged marks forming circles, crowns, serpents. Some symbols were smeared with soot, but their outline remained clear.
Adrian stared, breath catching. His chest tightened.
He knew these markings.
But how?
And why did they stir something cold and violent deep inside him… something he couldn’t name?
He stepped closer, fingertips hovering over the ink.
What are you trying to tell me?
A soft crack echoed.
The sniper had found him again.
A red dot slid across the wall, passing over the symbols… then settling right on his back.
Time slowed.
His heart thumped once—loud.
He didn’t turn. He didn’t think.
His muscles moved on their own, dropping him to the floor just as—
BANG!
The bullet split the air where his skull had been. It hit a metal table behind him and ricocheted into the wall with a violent spark.
Adrian rolled behind cover as more boots thundered into the adjoining corridor.
“Section C breached—target cornered!”
“Sniper Alpha, take the shot when he rises!”
Adrian’s lungs burned. His mind screamed. But his instincts whispered one impossible truth:
He is not supposed to be alive.
He gritted his teeth, grabbed a broken pipe from the floor, and smashed the emergency vent panel. Smoke swallowed him as air rushed upward.
He climbed into the vent just as soldiers stormed the room below.
“He vanished—again? How th
e hell—”
A single shot fired from the sniper tower, so sharp it cut through fire and metal alike.
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Ch. 22 — The Broken Rules
The crowd was already trembling with electric hunger by the time Adrian stepped back into the neon-lit pit. Blue lights pulsed against the steel railings; cigarette smoke curled under the purple lamps; cameras hidden behind tinted glass lenses recorded every angle of the underground spectacle.Tonight, the air felt heavier.Charged.Expectant.As Adrian walked under the flickering lights, the announcer’s voice boomed like thunder:“BACK FROM THE DEAD—THE GHOST RETURNS!”The crowd erupted. A wave of sound crashed over him, wild and carnivorous.Adrian didn’t raise his hands.Didn’t smile.Didn’t acknowledge them.His ribs ached from the previous night’s fights, blood still crusted beneath the bandages hidden under his shirt. But his mind… it was sharper than ever. Focused. Cold.And somewhere behind all of that, the whisper—his instinct—felt louder tonight. Almost alive.---THE FIRST FIGHT — THE MAN WITH THE SILVER FISTSThree metal gates clanged shut, sealing the circular pit.Across
Ch. 21 — The Arena Beneath the City
---THE UNDERGROUND CITY BREATHES FIRENight in the lower districts had a pulse; a heartbeat made of rattling pipes, distant sirens, and the muffled bass of illegal clubs buried under the concrete. Adrian moved through it like a ghost—hood low, steps silent, body bruised from battles he couldn’t remember clearly.The explosion.The ruined compound.The black throne tattoo.The assassins.The mysterious messages.None of it made sense.But he needed money.He needed anonymity.He needed a place where danger didn’t chase him—it welcomed him.And there was only one place like that:The Arena Beneath the City.A labyrinth of tunnels converted into a neon-lit colosseum where broken men fought for bills, drugs, reputation, and survival. Here, death was entertainment and life was a bet.The entrance was hidden behind a shuttered noodle shop. Adrian slipped through a metal grate, down rusted stairs, and into a dripping corridor painted with ultraviolet graffiti.The deeper he walked, the loud
CHAPTER 20 — THE LAST SURVIVOR SPEAKS
Adrian dragged the last surviving assassin into the shade of an overhang, away from the open square. The man was young—maybe twenty-two—his armor cracked, leg mangled, eyes glazed with terror not of dying but of what Adrian represented.Adrian pinned him to the wall with a forearm. “Talk.”The young man trembled. “I—I can’t.”“You can,” Adrian growled, pressing harder. “Because you’re the only one left who can.”“I swore—”“Your oath won’t matter when you bleed out in five minutes.”The man winced. Adrian could feel his pulse weakening.“You don’t understand,” the assassin whispered. “I wasn’t supposed to face you. Not like this.”“Too late.” Adrian leaned closer. “Tell me why you were here. What were you testing?”The young man flinched at the word.Testing.Adrian caught it—like a shard of memory stabbing through fog.“I saw the way you fought,” Adrian said. “You weren’t attacking. You were watching. Measuring. Observing my reactions.”The young man shut his eyes tightly.“Who sent
CHAPTER 19 — BLOOD ON THE COBBLESTONE
The storm had slowed, but the streets of the Old District still glistened like wet obsidian. Rainwater crept between the ancient cobblestones—tiny winding rivers under the dim glow of failing streetlamps. Adrian stood in the middle of the square, chest heaving, soaked in blood that wasn’t entirely his.The bodies of the assassins lay scattered around him, their black-throne rings glinting like curses abandoned in the mud.But something was wrong.Terribly wrong.He replayed the fight in his mind. They’d moved well. Their formations were tight. Their aim was deadly. Their techniques refined.But they weren't fighting to win.They were fighting to lose.Their blades hesitated by inches. Their bullets missed by fractions that felt too deliberate. Their strikes were strong—but not lethal.Like they expected him to survive.Like they needed him to.Adrian knelt beside one fallen assassin. A woman—cold, pale, eyes still open to the storm. Her hand was curled not toward a weapon, but toward
CH. 18 — THE LAST STAND IN OLD DISTRICT
---Adrian ran until the city changed.The sleek towers vanished behind him, swallowed by the fog of memory. The streets narrowed, cracked, and twisted in familiar ways he didn’t want to remember. Broken lantern poles leaned like tired bones. Crumbling row houses sagged under the weight of decades. Rain puddled in potholes that had existed since he was a boy running barefoot after stray dogs and stolen kites.He slowed.Not because he wanted to—But because his body remembered the place before his mind did.He turned down a narrow alley where an old mural still clung to the bricks—his mother’s favorite painting of golden birds taking flight. Faded. Peeling. Forgotten.Like he was.Adrian Vale… a name that still didn’t feel like skin he could wear.His lungs burned. His shoulders throbbed. His wrist still pulsed where the black-throne mark hid beneath the blood and rain.He reached the old district square—the center of his childhood world. Rusted playground swings creaked in the storm.
CH. 17 — THE FORGOTTEN MARK
The night air slaps Adrian’s face as he stumbles out of the ruined warehouse, lungs heaving, ribs screaming. The metallic tang of blood clings to his tongue. His shirt is torn, sticky, and barely holding onto his shoulder. Behind him, the warehouse burns slowly—embers crackling, shadows licking the shattered windows like hungry beasts.He doesn’t know how he’s still alive.Twenty trained killers. Twenty rings with the black-throne insignia. Twenty men and women who moved with identical precision, identical focus, identical intent.And somehow he walked out while they stayed behind, broken on steel floors, bleeding from fractured throats, twisted limbs, or gunshots deflected by sheer instinct and luck that never felt like luck at all.It felt like memory.Or something deeper.Adrian staggers across the empty yard, boots crunching broken glass and gravel. Every muscle in his body trembles. He reaches the shadowed corner of a collapsed fence and leans against it, sliding down until he’s
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