2025-04-05 03:53:48Inside the back seat of a custom black Mercedes Maybach 4MATIC, Nolan Rhys sat, dressed in a sleek tailored suit, with his face half-hidden beneath dark sunglasses.
The city skyline blurred behind the tinted bulletproof glass as the car cruised down the highway toward Rhys Tech Global headquarters. The luxury ride purred with a whisper, while the man inside prepared himself for the evening’s grand affair—The Rhys Tech Ascendancy Gala. The gala was less about innovation, but more about image—a glittering spectacle celebrating the company’s meteoric rise, attended by dignitaries, celebrities, and the elite of high society. Hosted under Evelyn’s dazzling banner, it was the kind of event where champagne flowed, cameras flashed, and quiet power plays unfolded behind velvet smiles. And though Nolan had overseen much of the groundwork that made the night possible, he was not its star. His wife was. Meanwhile back in the vehicle, his phone rang—it was a direct encrypted line. The caller ID flashed the words: Amir Kadirian, a billionaire oil mogul and politician. Nolan answered with a calm voice. “Your Excellency.” The deep voice of Amir Kadirian cracked through the speakers, laced with urgency and his thick Arabian accent. “Ah, Amir... Thank the heavens you answer quick, yes?” “I’m always available for you, Amir,” Nolan replied smoothly. “Listen, listen, my friend... I need those, ah... what you call... those tech drilling beasts. The—eh—what you named them again?” Nolan’s lips curved slightly. “The Rhys Drillex Titans. The most advanced oil-drilling machines in the market.” “Yes, yes! Correct, that's the one! I need them for my new oil well in Dahman Wadi... It’s bursting with oil, ya akhi, like river from Jannah! But I need the Titans. How many you have now? Ready to go?” Nolan glanced at the digital tablet on his lap and replied, “Only three Titans are ready for immediate shipping.” A brief silence came. Then a loud sigh. “Yaa Khaliq... Only three? I am needing three, ya Nolan! Not less, not more... three! Full power, yaani! I want to drill the ground like I drill my enemies, fahimt?” Nolan chuckled lightly. “Mr Kadirian three are all we have, Amir. But... I can do something.” “Naam? Tell me fast, brother.” Amir Kadirian sounded eager. “I can have three more Titans produced instantly—no delay. But for that, I’ll need to activate our emergency production channel. That will cost extra. Specialized manpower. Overnight logistics. Priority scheduling.” “Aiwa, aiwa... how much we talking about, ya Nolan? Speak to me straight. I no like the snake tongue, you know this.” Nolan’s eyes gleamed beneath the shades. “Each Titan is valued at $9.5 million USD. But for instant production, it comes with an additional $2.5 million per unit. That’s $12 million each. Three units. Total $36 million. No compromise on quality. No delay.” There was a low grunt from the other end of the line, followed by a chuckle. “La mushkila... no problem at all, akhi! I send the money today. Just make the Titans strong like lions, and fast like falcons. My ships will come for them in seven days, insha’Allah.” Nolan nodded. “You have my word. I’ll see to it personally.” “Barakallahu feek, Nolan Rhys... May Allah bless your brain. You’re not like these foolish men in suits.” The call ended. As the vehicle pulled into the underground parking of Rhys Tech Global headquarters, Nolan leaned back with a calm smile. Inside the sleek, custom black Mercedes Maybach 4MATIC, the car came to a smooth stop. Nolan Rhys, still calm and composed, adjusted his dark sunglasses as he prepared for the evening ahead. The driver, a tall, professional-looking man in a black suit, stepped out of his seat. He moved around the car, opened the back door, and held it open for Nolan. Without a word, Nolan stepped out of the vehicle, his polished shoes clicked against the asphalt as he exited. He took a brief moment to look around before his gaze settled on the man who now stood at his side. Michael Walters, Nolan’s trusted assistant, had been waiting for this very moment. With one hand, Michael held a bouquet of flowers—vibrant, beautiful blooms that spoke of elegance. In his other hand, he carefully held an expensive diamond necklace, the diamonds gleamed with a brilliance that could catch the eye of even the most discerning observer. Worth three million dollars, it was a gift Nolan had planned for his wife. Nolan nodded at Michael. "The necklace is beautiful." Nelson said. Michael closed the necklace case and handed it over along with the flowers with a respectful smile. Nolan accepted them, and his heart was filled with anticipation. “Thank you, Michael,” Nolan said quietly, as he walked toward the entrance of the building. Without waiting for a reply, Nolan entered the grand lobby of Rhys Tech Global, heading directly to the elevator. The building was bustling with excitement—the sounds of chatter and laughter echoed through the halls. It was the night of the Rhys Tech Ascendancy Gala, an event celebrating the company’s rise to one of the top three tech companies in Bellwick. As the elevator doors closed, Nolan’s mind was fixed on one person: his wife, Evelyn. She had inherited the company from her father after his sudden death, becoming the sole heir to a vast empire. However, Nolan was always by her side. He had worked tirelessly behind the scenes to help his wife’s business boom, especially as she struggled to balance the weight of the responsibility thrust upon her. He had been the silent force, the steady hand guiding her through the challenges that came with running such a high-profile business. Tonight, however, was more than just business—it was personal. Nolan had dedicated countless hours and energy to this moment, and now, with the gala in full swing, he couldn’t wait to share the celebration with her. More so, he couldn't wait to speak about the new deal he had struck with Amir Kadirian. His heart raced as the elevator ascended. He wanted to hold her, dance with her, kiss her and feel that spark they had once shared. Tonight, he wanted to make her feel special. He wanted their love to shine as brightly as the company’s success. The doors opened, and Nolan stepped out into the grand hall. The atmosphere was electric, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and flashes of photographers capturing every moment. The long rows of tables were covered with fine linen, each corner of the room was adorned with extravagant decorations. Guests in expensive suits and glittering dresses mingled, celebrating the rise of Rhys Tech Global. But none of that mattered. Not really. Nolan’s eyes darted through the crowd, searching for his wife. He barely noticed the others around him, too consumed by the thought of her. He longed to find her, to hold her close, and share this moment of triumph. He could almost see the look on her face when she saw him—the look that always made him feel like the luckiest man alive. His heart skipped a beat when he finally spotted her. Evelyn stood near the stage, talking to a small group of people, with her laughter ringing out like music. Nolan’s chest swelled with pride, but his footsteps faltered when he saw who was standing beside her. It was Zahir Malikyan The son of Abdul Malikyan, one of the wealthiest and most influential oil tycoons in Bellwick. The man was a familiar face, one Nolan had met at several high-profile events. But what caught Nolan off guard now was the way Zahir had his arm around Evelyn’s waist, holding her so close. Nolan’s face reddened, his heart sinking as he watched them. Evelyn, his wife, in the arms of another man. The bouquet of flowers and diamond necklace felt heavier in his hands. What made him confused was the fact that she appeared to be so comfortable with the Zahir's grip on her waist.
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TUNNELS OF BLOOD
The tunnels breathed like the belly of some buried beast.Steel rails gleamed faintly in the half-light, oil dripping like tears from the pipes above. Each echo stretched too long, each drop too loud, as if the earth itself conspired to betray them.Nolan’s boots struck quietly on the tracks.Over his shoulder, Alex sagged like a dying flame, his head lolling, his breaths shallow. The Phantom King’s mask dripped with blood not his own, its black crown painted in crimson streaks. In these depths, he was not a man. He was an omen.Alex stirred, his voice was nothing more than air.“...Thorne… chains… window…”Nolan’s jaw tightened. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, pupils wide, unfocused. But there was something wrong — they dilated at every flicker of stress, like a trigger waiting to be pulled. Nolan pressed two fingers to his wrist-rig. The scans confirmed his fear.A kill switch.“They wired you,” Nolan muttered under his breath. “They turned your mind into their bomb.”Alex groaned, t
BLOOD CROWN
Nolan stayed silent, circling through the machines.Four men advanced. Their boots thudded softly against the floor.The fight erupted in a storm of suppressed fire. Bullets hissed like wasps, ripping through old cloth and wood. Nolan fired back, two down in seconds. His magazine clicked empty.Now it was steel and bone.A pipe whistled toward his head. He ducked, crowbar smashing ribs, the sound cracking like kindling. Another lunged with a knife, slashing his shoulder. Nolan twisted, caught the man’s wrist, and drove the blade into his thigh before crushing his skull against iron.Hands grabbed him, tried to strangle him with wire. He slammed the crowbar backward, breaking teeth, then rammed his attacker’s head into the loom. Blood spattered the gears.By the time the dust settled, only two bodies still twitched. The rest lay broken, silent in pools of blood.Nolan’s chest heaved. His mask dripped crimson.And still, the handler had not moved.At last, the man stepped forward. His v
THE WAREHOUSE PRISON
Three Days LaterThe Phantom King vanished into the fog of Bullwick, his silhouette was swallowed by the night.In the days that followed, whispers spread like wildfire. Of the alley massacre. Of men painted into crowns of blood. Of a masked figure who killed like a ghost conductor.Lena Petrova received fragments of coded transmissions, each leading closer to DominionLink’s warehouses. Mael Vox drank himself deeper into fear, waiting for the Syndicate’s revenge.Rust-colored fog hung low over the canals, swallowing the old industrial quarter in a suffocating haze. Dead factories leaned against each other like drunkards, their windows black with soot, their roofs sagging with rust. The Phantom King walked among them as if through a graveyard, mask reflecting faint pulses of light from the small scanner in his hand.Each pulse matched the rhythm of a faint RF signal — the one he had hunted for three days. Each flicker was a heartbeat guiding him closer.And then it appeared.The wareh
VIRELLA'S WRATH IN THE MARBLE WALLS
Chapter 162: Virella’s Wrath in Marble HallsThe mansion sat on the cliffside like a crown of glass and marble, its white facades gleaming faintly under the wash of moonlight. Below, the ocean churned restlessly, waves striking against black stone as though trying to claw their way up to the fortress above. Within, all was silence and wealth—corridors lined with statues looted from fallen empires, chandeliers dripping with crystal light, walls hung with canvases worth more than most men’s lives.And at the heart of it all sat Virella.She reclined in a velvet armchair of blood-red, one long leg crossed over the other, her hand cradling a delicate crystal glass filled with a dark Burgundy vintage.The light from her massive curved television flickered across her sharp features, giving her an almost spectral glow. Onscreen, a playlet unfolded—an avant-garde performance from a secretive troupe she patronized. Masked actors twisted and bowed across a minimalist stage, their dialogue ci
THE PHANTOM KING'S DANCE OF SHADOWS
The glow of the code still lingered on Nolan’s mask when he stood at the doorway, pistol heavy in his hand, crowbar strapped across his back. Beyond the steel frame, footsteps echoed in the damp alley — steady, deliberate, the rhythm of trained killers closing in. Six, maybe seven. Possibly syndicate scouts.The Phantom King tilted his head, listening to their cadence like a conductor listening to the first stirrings of an orchestra. They thought themselves hunters, but they had already stepped onto his stage.The room behind him was silent except for the hum of his system, the unfinished Orchestra Key still pulsing in its rhythm. The glow of shifting code spilled faintly across the walls like ghostly graffiti, marking this place as more than a hideout. It was a crucible — and tonight it would be baptized in blood.The syndicate weren't tired of tracking him down, and he was not tired of killing them.He exhaled once, a slow measured breath. Then he killed the lights.Nolan moved lik
ORCHESTRA OF SHADOWS — THE GHOST ALGORITHM
The blood still clung to Nolan’s sleeves, but his mind was already elsewhere. The docks were silent, yet the binary words burned on his screen like a brand. With that message that said, "We are listening." He knew the fight had only shifted battlegrounds. Steel was finished. Now, the war moved into code.The room was silent except for the hum of machines. Rows of screens glowed with shifting light, casting Nolan’s mask in ghostly reflection. His fingers moved quickly, striking the keyboard like drumbeats. Every line of code he wrote was a blade, every command a strike against an unseen enemy.The docks were behind him now, but their echoes had not faded. Blood on steel, fog on skin, the sharp memory of Mael Vox’s blade tearing through flesh. Yet Nolan knew the Syndicate’s war was not only fought in alleys and container yards. There was another battlefield, one far colder, one made of numbers and shadows.Steel broke bones. But code—code broke empires.He leaned back for a moment, let
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