GOD OF WAR: THE SYSTEM OF VENGEANCE

Chapter 2- No one to turn to

Twelve hours later, Damon stood outside Marcus Webb's penthouse, his torn tuxedo jacket draped over dried blood stains.

The doorman barely glanced at him before stepping aside—money talks, even when you're broke.

"Marcus!" Damon called out as his former roommate from Harvard opened the door.

"Thank God you're here."

Marcus's expression shifted from surprise to something like disgust. His designer robe probably cost more than most people's rent.

"Jesus, Damon. What happened to your face?"

"Family business." Damon pushed past him into the marble foyer. "Look, I need a place to crash. Just for a few days while I figure things out."

"Figure what out?" Marcus poured himself coffee from a silver service, not offering any to Damon. "The whole city's talking about last night. Embezzlement? Really?"

"It's not true." The words felt hollow even to Damon. "Marcus, you know me. We were brothers at school."

"Were." Marcus set down his cup with deliberate care. "Past tense. Look, I feel bad for you, but I can't risk my reputation. Wellington Capital doesn't associate with... your type."

"My type?"

"Thieves." The word hung in the air like a slap. "Sorry, man. Business is business."

The door closed in his face before he could respond.

Twenty minutes later, Damon sat across from James Chen at a downtown café. James had been his workout partner, his wing man, the guy who'd covered for him when they snuck out of boarding school.

"Two million dollars," James whistled low.

"That's serious money."

"I didn't steal anything." Damon's coffee had gone cold. His hands were shaking too much to drink it anyway.

James leaned back, studying him. "Your uncle Kane came by my office yesterday. Made it clear that anyone helping you would face... complications."

"So that's it? Fifteen years of friendship means nothing?"

"Fifteen years means I'm trying to save you from yourself." James stood up.

"Take the exile, Damon. Disappear. Start over somewhere else. Because if you stay here and fight this..." He shook his head. "Kane Blackwood doesn't leave loose ends."

By evening, Damon had exhausted every contact in his phone.

Childhood friends, business associates, even his old golf instructor—they all gave him the same treatment.

Polite excuses. Sudden emergencies. Doors closing in his face.

He was walking past Meridian Tower when a familiar voice stopped him cold.

"Well, well. The prodigal heir."

Adrian stepped out of a black Bentley, flanked by two bodyguards. He looked immaculate in his charcoal suit, not a hair out of place.

Everything Damon used to be.

"Adrian." Damon's jaw clenched. "Enjoying your victory?"

"Enjoying? Brother, I'm savoring it." Adrian circled him like a predator. "Do you know what Claire said after you left? She said dating you was like charity work. Pity for the family disappointment."

"You're lying."

"Am I?" Adrian pulled out his phone, swiped to a voice message. Claire's laughter bubbled through the speaker: "God, I can't believe I almost married that pathetic loser. At least now I don't have to pretend anymore."

The words cut deeper than any physical blow.

"She never loved you," Adrian continued, pocketing the phone. "None of us did. You were always the spare—the backup plan in case I screwed up. But I never screw up."

Damon's fists clenched. One punch. That's all it would take to wipe that smirk off Adrian's face.

"Go ahead," Adrian taunted, reading his expression. "Hit me. Give my security an excuse to put you in the hospital. Though honestly, you look like you belong there already."

The bodyguards shifted forward slightly. Both were twice Damon's size and probably armed.

Adrian leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You want to know the beautiful part? Claire's pregnant. Has been for six weeks. Guess whose baby it is?"

The world tilted. Six weeks ago, Damon had been planning this engagement party. Six weeks ago, Claire had been in his bed, whispering about their future together.

"That's impossible."

"DNA doesn't lie." Adrian's smile was razor-sharp. "Unlike your fiancée."

Without warning, Adrian spat directly in Damon's face. The saliva was warm, humiliating.

"That's for thinking you deserved her. Trash like you should know your place."

The bodyguards laughed.

Damon stood there, spit running down his cheek, as his cousin climbed back into the Bentley. The window rolled down one last time.

"Oh, and cousin? The police found evidence of your little Cayman Islands account. You might want to leave town. Soon."

The Bentley disappeared into traffic, leaving Damon alone under the streetlights.

By midnight, he'd found refuge in Murphy's Alley—a narrow slice of urban decay behind the financial district.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Twelve hours ago, he'd owned a corner office three blocks away.

The bottle of cheap whiskey burned his throat, but it was the only warmth he could afford. Rain dripped through the fire escape above, each drop echoing like a countdown to his complete destruction.

His phone buzzed. Another unknown number.

Account accessed. Money transferred. Your 24 hours are up.

Then another message: Police have warrant. SWAT team dispatched. Run.

Damon laughed bitterly into the night. Run where? To whom? Even the streets were turning against him.

A siren wailed in the distance, growing closer.

He took another swig of whiskey, tasting blood from his split lip. Maybe this was justice. Maybe he deserved this for all the times he'd looked down on people like—

The siren stopped.

Footsteps echoed at the alley entrance. Heavy boots. Multiple sets.

"Damon Blackwood!" The voice boomed with authority. "NYPD! You're under arrest for embezzlement and money laundering!"

He pressed deeper into the shadows between two dumpsters, heart slamming against his ribs. The whiskey bottle slipped from his fingers, shattering against concrete

Flashlight beams swept the alley.

"I know you're in there, Blackwood! Come out with your hands visible!"

This was it. Game over. He'd lost everything—family, fortune, freedom. Even his name was poison now.

Damon closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

Then it happened.

A voice. Not from the alley. Not from the police. From inside his own head.

[SUCCESSOR OF WAR DETECTED...]

The words weren't heard—they were felt. Like metal grinding like electricity crawling through his neurons.

[BLOODLINE VERIFICATION IN PROGRESS...]

"What the hell?" he whispered.

The footsteps were getting closer. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness just feet away.

[VERIFICATION COMPLETE. WELCOME, INHERITOR.]

[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: 3%... 7%... 15%...]

Power. Something was flowing through him, completely impossible.

The pain in his face began to fade. His vision sharpened. The world looked... different.

[FIRST TRIAL COMMENCING. SURVIVE.]

The flashlight beam found him.

"There! In the corner!"

But as the police raised their weapons, as Damon stared down the barrels of their guns in a filthy alley that smelled like piss, only one thought echoed through his mind

What was happening to him?