2025-08-23 17:52:09
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Serena Vox's POV
Five years ago, Serena Vox’s world crumbled in a single night, a memory so vivid it felt like it happened moments ago. The sting of betrayal, the weight of humiliation, and the loss of everything she held dear haunted her every day. It began with a desperate phone call from Anamika, her supposed friend, pleading for help. Serena, trusting and naive, rushed to the hotel room, her heart pounding with worry. But there was no emergency—only a trap. A gigolo, hired to ruin her, pounced on her with a ferocity that left her shattered, physically and emotionally. The violation was a calculated blow, orchestrated by Anamika and her mother to destroy Serena’s life. When Serena stumbled back to the Crane estate, her home with her husband Victor, she found her belongings packed and discarded outside like trash. Divorce papers awaited her, cold and final. Victor stood there, his face a mask of disgust, as he spat venomous words that cut deeper than any blade. “I’ve been told you’ve been secretly
Anamika's Nightmare
The unmarked car hummed along the winding roads of Ironspire City, its tinted windows shielding General Derrick Voss from the prying eyes of the bustling metropolis outside. Inside, the air was thick with tension, though Derrick’s composed exterior betrayed none of it. His sharp jaw clenched briefly as he adjusted his posture in the back seat, his mind still reeling from the chaos from few minutes ago. He had just saved a boy—whose face lingered in his thoughts, stirring an inexplicable sense of familiarity. Shaking off the distraction, he turned to Richard, seated on the drivers wheel, who gripped the steering wheel with practiced ease. “Richard,” Derrick said, his voice low but commanding, “what’s your report on Nanny Fatima’s missing daughter?” Richard glanced briefly into the rearview mirror, his eyes catching Derrick’s intense gaze. “I was planning to brief you once we reached base, sir, but since you asked…” He reached into the passenger seat, retrieving a slim manila fol
His Sacrifice
Derrick stood frozen, his clothes shredded from the desperate dive, his knee throbbing with a sharp, biting pain. Blood seeped through the torn fabric, staining the asphalt beneath him, but he barely noticed. His mind was a storm, spiraling with a single, relentless thought: Milo’s face. The four-year-old boy, now safe in his mother’s arms, bore an uncanny resemblance to Derrick—those sharp cheekbones, the piercing eyes, a mirror of his own youth. How could this be possible? His thoughts roared like a tempest, questions colliding without answers, each one heavier than the last. His heart pounded, not from the exertion of the rescue but from the weight of this impossible mystery. Absently, almost instinctively, Derrick reached up and tore off his nose mask. The black fabric fluttered to the ground, exposing his face to the crisp morning air. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Eyes widened, mouths dropped, and whispers erupted like wildfire. “Seven-Star General Derrick?” a vo
The Masked Saviour
In the meantime.. The world seemed to have cast General Derrick Voss aside, but he didn’t flinch. Reporters swarmed like flies, their cameras flashing, voices clamoring for a quote to splash across Ironspire’s tabloids. He turned his back, retreating to his cliffside villa, where the wind howled and the city’s distant glow flickered like a dying star. Once hailed as the War God, Derrick now bore the weight of defeat from the banquet duel, a wound that stung deeper than any blade. The news cycle churned on, hungry for new prey, but Derrick’s resolve burned fiercer, a molten core of purpose that refused to cool. His aide-de-camp, Richard, was a shadow at his side, relentless in his demands. The training grounds echoed with the clash of steel as Derrick’s blade carved arcs through the air, each swing precise, deadly. Hand-to-hand combat followed, his fists slamming into pads with a force that rattled bones. Tactical simulations stretched into the night, holographic maps casting ghostly
Two Personalities
As Victor Crane and Master Pat stepped out of their car, they followed the gatekeeper closely, flanked by two guards whose sharp, predatory movements marked them as far from ordinary. Their eyes glinted with vigilance, trailing the visitors to counter any sudden moves. The air within the Ayeaxemen Moon Sect’s compound was heavy, charged with an otherworldly presence that spoke volumes of its ancient, secretive power. The stone walls, etched with glowing runes, seemed to pulse with the sect’s mystique. They were led down a winding pathway, its cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of silent footsteps. Victor’s pulse quickened, and even Master Pat’s serene composure flickered with caution. A trap wasn’t unthinkable, but their confidence stemmed from their own strength and the scroll’s authenticity. Victor, now surging with otherworldly strength, and Pat, an ex God of war, a master of unmatched skill, were no ordinary men. Still, the uncertainty gnawed at them as they pressed forward.
Ayeaxemen
********A sleek, obsidian-black car rolled to a stop before the towering, iron-wrought gates of the Ayeaxemen Moon Sect, its engine purring softly under the pale glow of a crescent moon. The gates, adorned with intricate carvings of celestial beasts, seemed to hum with ancient energy. Behind the wheel sat Victor Crane, his sharp features set in a mask of calm resolve. Beside him was Master Pat, clad in pristine white Shaolin robes, his presence radiating quiet authority, his hands resting lightly in his lap, though his eyes scanned the surroundings with a warrior’s vigilance.A hulking figure, the sect’s gatekeeper, emerged from the shadows, his dark ceremonial armor blending into the night. Scars crisscrossed his face, and his guttural voice cut through the still air as Victor lowered his tinted window. “State your name and purpose. Do you have an appointment?” His tone was sharp with suspicion, his hand gripping the hilt of a broadsword. The Ayeaxemen Moon Sect was a fortress of se
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