2025-08-01 13:37:12The riot had died down, guards barking orders as inmates were herded back to cells. Warren slipped into the crowd, unnoticed, but he felt different. His steps were surer, his gaze sharper. When Dax’s crew spotted him in the hall, they hesitated, sensing something off. Warren met Dax’s eyes, and for the first time, Warren didn't shake in fear. His eyes burning with cold murderous aura. Dax was no amateur, he could sense the aura about Warren but his ego made him dismissed it. However, he knew something was off about the Warren he just saw.
Back in his cell, Warren sat on his bunk, staring at the ring. Its runes pulsed faintly, syncing with his heartbeat. The rings obsidian surface glinting faintly. "What is this really? This can't just be a piece of jewelry or just a trinket. I can't take it off either", Warren started to connect dots. " What the hell are you doing to me? My head’s buzzing like I just downloaded a kung-fu manual and a mob boss’s playbook" He added in frustration. Crown of the Abyss: a voice resonating in Warren’s mind, deep and commanding, like a storm brewing in a cavern, "I am no mere trinket, Warren. I am the Crown of the Abyss, forged in the crucible of forgotten gods. I chose you. The knowledge, the strength, the sight—these are my gifts. You feel them, don’t you? The pulse of power in your veins? Warren looked up, glanced around the bunk and wondered whose voice he just heard. "I grant you dominion, Warren. The underworld bends to my bearer. You were a broken man, , destined to rot in this cage. Now, you are more. You sense the webs of power here—the guards’ bribes, the gangs’ alliances, the secrets whispered in the dark. Use them. Rule them. You're the underworlds chosen" The voice continued, Warren leaned forward, voice tensed, "Rule? I’m just trying to survive in here, not start a damn empire", He responded, realising it was the ring talking to him telepathically. And this…, warren taps the ring, "You’re messing with my head. I knew stuff today I shouldn’t— like I can heal anybody, like I can read moves in a combat before my enemy even makes them. Crown of the abyss responded, "From me. From the Abyss. I am a repository of eons—martial prowess, healing arts, the shadowed paths of influence. Your senses are sharper because I amplify them. You see the world as it is: raw, brutal, ripe for control. That aura you wield? It is my mark. Even now, your cellmate fears to meet your eyes. The voice continued, " The prison is a microcosm of the underworld. Master it, and you master more. You cannot unchoose me, Warren. The Abyss does not release its claim. Refuse my gifts, and you will fall—another nameless corpse in these walls. Embrace them, and you will rise. The choice is not whether to wield power, but how. Will you be a pawn or a king?" Warren starts pacing with his thoughts going into overdrive while the ring telling him about itself. "I am eternal, but I am bound to act through a bearer. You, Warren, were broken but not shattered. You have hunger, buried deep—a spark of defiance. I kindle it. As for what I gain? Your victories are mine. Every step you take toward dominion feeds the Abyss, strengthens its hold in this world. We are bound, you and I." Warren sat heavily, staring at the ring, wondering if he has gone mad. "Great. So I’m your puppet", he muttered, "Should’ve known there was a catch",
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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
254
No time to dwell on that, he need survive first. Derrick moved, instinct overriding odds. He dove behind a rusted crate, an axe whistling past, splintering wood where his head had been. He drew his pistol, firing two shots—crack, crack—dropping two thugs, their bodies hitting concrete with dull thuds. The warehouse erupted, shouts echoing, axes swinging as Derrick rolled, his movements fluid, precise. He fired again, a third thug crumpling, blood pooling under flickering lights. Richarlison shouted orders, his voice sharp, but Derrick was a blur, weaving through shadows, his bullets finding targets with deadly aim.An axe grazed his arm, blood welling, but he didn’t falter. He tackled a thug, wrenching the weapon free, its weight familiar in his hands. He swung, metal clanging against metal, carving a path through the mob. Amelia screamed, backing toward a side door, her composure cracking. Richarlison drew a gun, firing wildly, but Derrick ducked, the shot sparking off a beam. He lun
253
The air in Richarlison’s office hung heavy with the scent of polished oak and betrayal. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the desk, his eyes fixed on a framed photo from military school—him and Derrick, young, uniformed, standing side by side. His jaw tightened, lips thinning as he traced the memory of those years. Derrick, always a step ahead, his shadow swallowing Richarlison’s every achievement. Medals pinned to Derrick’s chest, promotions handed to him like gifts, while Richarlison’s sweat earned only nods. His value was only sufficient enough for commendation and not rewards, unlike Derrick. It is not enough to be valuable, you need to have your value refined, packaged and delivered in excellence. Worse, the girls—every one he’d ever wanted—turned to Derrick, their eyes lingering on the man who’d become the God of War. Resentment coiled in his gut, a snake fed by years of slights, now ready to strike. Anamika’s fall had cracked the dam; exposure loomed, and he’d
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