Underworld's Chosen Like None Other

The Crown Of The Abyss

Warren dropped the bags, heart hammering. The yard was a chaos of movement, but no one would intervene. He backed toward the fence, scanning for an out. “I don’t want trouble,” he said, voice steady despite the fear clawing his gut.

“Trouble wants you,” Dax growled, lunging. Warren dodged, his mill-worker reflexes saving him from the first swing, but the others were on him fast. A fist caught his jaw, another his ribs. He stumbled, tasting blood, and hit the ground. Boots slammed into his side, each kick a reminder of his powerlessness. The yard spun, inmates cheering like it was a sport. Hargrove watched from a tower, lighting a cigarette.

Warren curled up, shielding his head, but something snapped inside. Not fear—rage. He grabbed a loose rock from the dirt, small but heavy, and swung it hard, catching one attacker’s knee.

The man howled, collapsing. Warren scrambled up, swinging wildly, but he was no fighter. Another blow sent him reeling, vision blurring. Then, salvation: a riot siren screamed. A brawl had erupted near the gate— the Vikings confraternity men and the eiye Brotherhood, knives flashing. Guards flooded the yard, batons swinging, and Dax’s crew scattered.

Warren didn’t wait. Blood dripping from his lip, he bolted, slipping through a gap in the chaos. The prison’s lower levels, a maze of abandoned tunnels and cellblocks, were his only shot. He’d heard whispers of the “Tombs,” a forgotten wing sealed after a fire decades ago. Inmates said it was haunted; guards avoided it. Perfect.

He stumbled down a rusted stairwell, the riot’s roar fading above. The air grew colder, thick with mold and decay. His boots echoed on cracked concrete as he navigated crumbling corridors lit by flickering bulbs. The Tombs were a labyrinth, walls scarred with graffiti and claw marks. Warren’s breath hitched, every shadow a threat, but he pressed on. He needed to hide, to think, to survive.

At the end of a narrow hall, he found a cellblock, its bars warped and rusted. The air felt wrong, heavy, like it was watching him.

"This must be it, the cell that held the most dangerous man ever liveth", Warren deduced.

He leaned against a wall to catch his breath, and the stone gave slightly under his weight. A crack, barely visible, ran through the mortar. Curiosity—or desperation—drove him to pry at it with his fingers. The wall crumbled, revealing a hollow space. Inside, glinting faintly, was a ring.

It was no ordinary trinket. Forged from a metal that seemed to drink the light, it was etched with runes that pulsed with a sickly green glow, like the neon sign above the Rusty Anchor. Warren’s hand trembled as he reached for it, drawn by some primal urge. The moment his fingers closed around it, pain seared through his flesh, as if the ring were branding him. He gasped, trying to drop it, but it clung to his finger, fusing to his skin. The cellblock spun, and his mind exploded with visions.

He saw himself moving with lethal grace, hands snapping bones with precision he’d never known. A stream of knowledge flowing into him. He felt the knowledge of ancient healers—herbs, pressure points, ways to mend or break a body.

The underworld’s currents became clear: power wasn’t just muscle or money; it was leverage, fear, control. His senses sharpened—every drip in the Tombs, every distant shout, was vivid. He stood taller, an aura settling over him, commanding, undeniable.

The ring, this Crown of the Abyss, had chosen him.

He had no idea what had just happened to him or what the ring was but he could feel and see the changes inside and around him. His aura had spiked up. His sensitivity horned like a beast. His bones and muscle flowing with immense power.

But with the power came whispers, low and insidious, curling through his thoughts like smoke. "Crush them. Take what’s yours. Victor’s blood will stain the streets",

The voice was cold, urging him toward ruthlessness. Warren’s moral core, battered but intact, recoiled. He’d been a good man once, a father, a husband, even if it was built on lies. Could he wield this power without becoming the monster life has pushed him to become?

He staggered out of the Tombs, the ring’s weight both a burden and a promise, oblivious to the fact his life is about to change for good.