2025-10-03 15:41:25
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260
The banquet hall’s wreckage lay behind them, a testament to Warren’s wrath. Cassandra burst through the side entrance, her gown torn and streaked with dust, clutching her two-year-old son, Logan, to her chest. His small face, streaked with grime, pressed against her shoulder, his tiny hands gripping her neck. Her eyes, still red from tears, now burned with fierce relief as she cradled him, her footsteps unsteady but determined. Warren, the Shadow King, stood amidst the fallen disciples, his presence a storm barely contained. His gaze softened briefly as it met Cassandra’s, but his purpose hardened as he turned to the monarch, Mr. Rashford, and his heir, Nicolas, both slumped in defeat.Warren moved with ruthless efficiency. He seized a length of rope from a toppled banner, its golden tassels dragging across the marble. With swift, practiced motions, he bound Rashford’s wrists, the monarch’s jeweled rings glinting uselessly as the rope bit into his flesh. Rashford’s face twisted, h
259
Mr. Rashford, the monarch, had long held Monarch City in a chokehold of fear, his decrees enforced by terror and spectacle. His citizens, once seething with resentment, had grown numb, their defiance dulled by years of his unrelenting power. Any citizen that defied his order was either crucified or sent to the gladiator fighting arena as a death sentence, we're they're slained, the gladiators bled for his amusement, and the dog cages, where dissenters’ loved ones were held, ensured compliance. His twelve disciples, cloaked in black and trained to kill without hesitation, were the embodiment of his dominance, their presence alone enough to silence any whisper of rebellion. Yet now, as Warren, the Shadow King, stood at the heart of the chaos, the monarch’s carefully constructed empire trembled.Warren’s eyes burned black, twin voids that seemed to devour the light, his body radiating the dark power of the abyss. Like a warrior from the Badlands, he moved with predatory grace, his bar
258
The banquet hall pulsed with tension, its shattered grandeur a battlefield of splintered wood and scattered glass. The monarch, Mr. Rashford, rose from his throne, his crimson robes swirling like a storm cloud. His piercing gaze locked on Warren, the Shadow King, who stood defiant with Cassandra in his arms. From the shadows, twelve figures materialized, their movements synchronized, cloaks billowing as they formed a semicircle behind their master. These were Rashford’s disciples, his deadly elite enforcers trained to kill with precision The crowd of dignitaries, their faces pale beneath their finery, stumbled back, some tripping over overturned chairs in their haste to retreat. Even the priest, his crimson vestments flapping, scrambled from the altar, clutching his holy book as if it could shield him. Only a handful of guests, their courage outweighing their fear, remained rooted, eyes darting between the monarch and the intruder.Nicolas stood alone on the altar, his tuxedo pristi
257
The banquet hall lay in chaos, shattered glass and splintered wood strewn across the marble floor. Guests, their finery now dust-streaked, scrambled to their feet, eyes darting toward the gaping wound where the grand doors once stood. The air buzzed with panic, whispers of “explosive” and “attack” rippling through the crowd. Some clutched bleeding arms, others steadied themselves against overturned tables, their faces pale as they squinted through the haze. The injured groaned, pulling themselves upright, their gazes locking on the shadowed entrance. A figure emerged, deliberate and unyielding, cutting through the settling dust like a blade.Cassandra, still at the altar, stood rooted, her ivory gown trembling with her shallow breaths. Her tear-swollen eyes widened, fixed on the silhouette. That broad frame, the unhurried stride—it was unmistakable. Her heart stuttered. *Warren?* Three years had passed since the masters dragged him away, vowing to purge the crown of his “abyssal darkn
256
The monarch’s estate sprawled like a city unto itself, a labyrinth of opulence carved from marble and gold. Its banquet hall, a cavernous expanse of crystal chandeliers and velvet drapes, buzzed with the murmurs of the world’s elite. Dignitaries in tailored suits and glittering gowns sipped champagne, their laughter echoing off frescoed walls. The palace housed its own banks, hospitals, and armories—an empire within an empire. Tonight, it hosted the wedding of the century: Nicolas, the monarch’s heir, was to marry Cassandra, a union that drew the gaze of every powerbroker in attendance.Cassandra stood at the altar, her elegant gown a cascade of ivory silk, its delicate lace clinging to her trembling frame. Her veil, a gossamer shield, did little to hide the tears streaming down her face, carving paths through the heavy makeup. Her eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, stared at the polished floor as if it might swallow her whole. Beside her, Nicolas cut a striking figure in his tailored tuxed
255- Warren's 2nd Arc
Now, the aroma of roasted chicken and garlic wafted through the dining room of Derrick’s sprawling mansion, where he sat with his wife, Serena, and their young son, Milo. The table was set with care, plates piled with steaming food, and the clink of cutlery filled the air. Serena, her dark hair pulled back, smiled warmly as she served seconds to Milo, whose small hands gripped his fork with determination. Derrick, broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, savored the rare moment of peace, his sharp eyes softening as he watched his family. The mansion, a fortress of stone and steel, stood impregnable, its guards vigilant at every gate. Yet, tonight, an unease lingered, unspoken.Milo’s sneakers squeaked as he bounded back from the hallway, his face alight with excitement. “Daddy, I called you like Mommy said!” he chirped, tugging at Derrick’s sleeve. Serena had sent him to fetch his father just as she’d laid out dinner. Derrick ruffled Milo’s hair, his limp barely noticeable as he followed
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