2025-09-18 15:51:45
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The annual festival, a garish display of the monarch’s wealth, filled the air with music and laughter, broadcast across the globe to dazzle and intimidate. Yet, beneath the spectacle, a darker truth simmered. The true might of the monarch lay not in the palace’s grandeur or the festival’s excess but in his sacred order, and his twelve disciples, a cadre of assassins whose very existence was a whispered legend.These twelve were no ordinary warriors. Forged in a secret temple atop a remote mountain, they were the monarch’s most lethal instruments. The temple, shrouded in perpetual mist and guarded by ancient rituals, was a place of shadow and sacrifice, where only the strongest survived. Discovered by the monarch in a hidden sanctuary, these warriors were molded through trials that broke the body and reshaped the soul. They trained in the shadow arts—techniques of stealth, precision, and death that made them more phantom than human. Their loyalty was absolute, sealed through blood oat
Chapter 208
Meanwhile In the opulent Royal Palace of Coastal City, where the absolute monarch and his lavish entourage resided, the air thrummed with anticipation. The grand Banquet Hall, adorned with gilded chandeliers and tapestries woven with threads of gold, hosted the elite of the realm—power brokers, nobles, and those fortunate enough to bask in the monarch’s favor. They lounged in luxurious velvet seats, their tailored suits and flowing robes shimmering under the candlelight. Crystal goblets clinked, filled with the finest vintages from distant vineyards, as laughter and murmurs filled the room. The monarch himself presided over the gathering from his towering throne, a masterpiece of carved ebony and encrusted jewels. His regal attire, a cascade of silk and gold, glinted as he raised his glass in a toast, his voice booming with authority.“To power! To loyalty! To Coastal City!” he declared, and the hall erupted in cheers.At his side sat Nicolas, the monarch’s heir, his youthful face set
His Heir
A sharp knock shattered the haze of pleasure, cutting through the jazz drifting from hidden speakers. Victor’s eyes narrowed, irritation flashing across his face. He’d given strict orders: no interruptions unless the matter was critical. Grabbing a silk towel to cover himself, he left Rachel pouting, her smug expression tinged with frustration. She leaned back on the bed, her fingers tracing the sheets, her mind still savoring their victory. Victor strode to the heavy oak door and yanked it open, his scowl softening into surprise. “Anamika?” he said, his voice low. His sister stood in the hallway, her sharp features framed by dark hair, her eyes gleaming with purpose. She wore a tailored coat, her presence as commanding as his own. “What? I can’t check on my brother?” Anamika teased, her lips twitching into a half-smile. But her tone carried an edge, one Victor knew well. His sister never appeared without reason, especially not now, with Warren’s downfall imminent. “Not like that,”
Chaos
Now, In the shadowed heart of Ironspire, a secret base belonging to the Ayeaxemen sect stood like a tomb, its walls designed to swallow sound. Amos and Eliza, Warren’s parents, were dragged into a cramped, windowless room, the air thick with damp stone and despair. The door slammed shut behind them, sealing their screams within the unyielding concrete. Bound and gagged, they exchanged a glance—fearful and confused. Outside, the sect’s enforcers stood guard, their eyes cold as they awaited orders from a higher power.Miles away, in a derelict warehouse on the city’s edge, Cassandra stirred, the fog of Killua Zoldyck’s sleeping poison lifting like a veil. Her wrists burned against the cold chains binding her to a metal chair, the links rattling as she tested them. Her vision cleared, and memories flooded back—the breached Trump estate, the fallen guards, Killua’s silver hair glinting in her room. She blinked, her heart racing as she took in her surroundings: rusted beams, flickering flu
A Father's Fury
Meanwhile, a convoy of armored vehicles roared through the gates of the Trump estate, their engines a low growl against the eerie silence of the night.Mr. Trump, the patriarch of the Trump empire and a titan among Ironspire’s elite, sat rigid in the back of his reinforced limousine. His mind was a storm of strategies and contingencies, fresh from Blackrocks clandestine meeting with the city’s regiment leaders and sect masters. The looming war with Coastal City had grown into a deafening clamor, and Ironspire was mobilizing—every soldier, every mercenary, every blade sharpened for the conflict to come. But as the estate came into view, lit by floodlights that cast long shadows across the manicured lawns, a different kind of dread seized him.The gates were ajar, the guard posts empty. His driver slowed, and Trump’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the first body—a loyal guard, sprawled lifeless on the cobblestones, his rifle useless beside him. Then another, and another, their unif
A Successful Mission
Don Marco, the lion of the Calabrese, fought with the ferocity of a man who’d stared down hell and laughed. His sword flashed in the dim light, clashing against the weapons of his enemies, but even his legend couldn’t stem the tide. The Ayeaxemen were too many, too well-coordinated. Vito, ever at his side, parried blows with his own blade, his face a mask of grim determination. But the Calabrese were faltering, their defenses crumbling under the relentless assault.“We can’t hold them!” Vito shouted over the din, blood streaking his cheek from a glancing blow. “We need to fall back!”Don Marco’s eyes blazed with defiance, but he wasn’t a fool. He’d underestimated the Ayeaxemen once before, and it had cost him years in Blackthorn’s Hell. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Retreat!” he roared, his voice carrying the weight of command. “To the safe room!”They fought their way through the chaos, cutting down Ayeaxemen as they went. The Moon Master pursued, his blades a blur, his eyes
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