《Prince of hell.》 The Road to Duskwatch Chapter 1: The Road to Duskwatch The mountain road twisted like a serpent in the dark. Faint patches of mist slithered across the cracked asphalt, glowing under the pale gaze of the moon. Far below, the restless ocean roared against jagged rocks, its voice swallowed by the midnight wind. From the distance, **Duskwatch** flickered to life. Towering skyscrapers pierced the sky, their lights glowing dimly like embers refusing to die. A crown of smog clung to the city¡¯s edge, tainted orange by the restless hum of industry. Billboards flashed images of synthetic beauty, neon smiles hiding cracks beneath the surface. It was a city built on shadows¡ªand for those who lived there, the darkness was simply home. A distant growl echoed through the night. Blackthorn roared across the mountain pass, spitting embers as it devoured the road. Its matte black frame gleamed under the moonlight, the remnants of crimson paint clawing through rust. The engine¡¯s guttural snarl left a lingering echo, like the growl of something ancient and hungry. The rider was a shadow of his machine. A leather jacket clung to his frame, weathered and torn. Dark hair lashed against his face, untouched by the helmet dangling carelessly from the bike¡¯s side. He didn¡¯t care. Fear had no place here. His hands gripped the handlebars, steady despite the biting cold. The mountain wind clawed at him, but the rush of the ride drowned it out. Blackthorn responded like a loyal beast, thrumming beneath him. Each curve of the road demanded surrender, but he never slowed. The world blurred¡ªan endless stream of shadows and headlights. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. But something felt off. The headlights of an approaching truck flared, illuminating the cracks on the asphalt. Its horn howled, a low mechanical scream. The biker tensed. He shifted, preparing to swerve. Then another truck. From the opposite side, blinding white lights emerged. Two metal behemoths bearing down, the space between them collapsing. No way out. The biker''s chest tightened. Every instinct screamed¡ªbrake, turn, anything¡ªbut the trucks thundered forward. Time slowed. The world twisted. He saw the reflection of his own wide eyes in the chrome grill. And then¡ªnothing. The roar of the trucks vanished. The hum of Blackthorn fell silent. Even the ocean¡¯s cries ceased. The biker blinked. The road remained, but the world around it had unraveled. A stagnant, unearthly darkness clung to the sky. The trucks were gone. Yet¡­ the biker still felt the weight of the moment. The trembling echo of imminent death. A shadow moved. The air thickened. Black smoke curled from the cracks in the pavement, tendrils twisting like serpents. The temperature plummeted. And then, from the haze, a figure emerged. Towering, cloaked in shifting dark mist. Its form barely human, more like a suggestion of limbs and dread. The biker couldn¡¯t breathe. He couldn¡¯t scream. A massive, clawed hand reached out. Not rushed. Not violent. It moved with the certainty of something inevitable. As its fingers grazed the biker¡¯s shoulder, the darkness pulsed. The world shattered. And he was back. Blackthorn¡¯s engine roared once more. The trucks were gone. The road lay empty beneath the night sky, as if nothing had changed. But the biker¡¯s trembling hands told a different story. "What the hell was that?" he whispered, the words lost beneath the hum of the engine. He didn¡¯t wait for an answer. With a rev, the bike tore down the mountain road, leaving the darkness behind. What the devil gives, he always takes back --- The City of Duskwatch Blackthorn¡¯s engine roared through the mountain¡¯s narrow pass, an obstinate growl against the silence. The city emerged ahead, Duskwatch laid in the middle of the island, sprawling like a wounded beast beneath the pale moon. Its skyscrapers pointing at the sky like claws, glowling enough to be noticed in the polluted smog. The streets below filled with neon in the dead of the night. Billboards flickered with pixel-perfect smiles, masking the emptiness beneath. The air reeked of oil and ash. Duskwatch was where hope came to die, replaced by despair and regret. But for the biker, it was only home, a city that clung to him like the smoke in the air. Every crack on the roads and every flickering light, a reflection of what he couldn¡¯t escape from even if he wished to. He navigated through the outskirts of the city, filled with half collapsed building, graffiti stained walls and the poverty of the residents within. Then came the old port, its rusting cranes and boats and ships along with the decayed cargo, a graveyard of what was once. Yet, the crowded streets continued to be filled with neon lights, people¡¯s voices and a faint hope of a different future. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Beneath the crumbling highways and tunnels roared the engines. It was the very dwelling of the underground and the many street race bikes the biker had grown tired of. The biker accelerated through the night, Blackthorn growled like a beast, its frame covered by embers beneath. But beneath it all, something shifted. A lingering sense of unease and something new. The memory of the pass crunched on him, the smoke, the touch and the voice, it had all felt real. Cold memory stuck to him like frost refusing to melt He shook it off. Dwelling on what couldn¡¯t be changed was fool¡¯s play. And in Duskwatch fools didn¡¯t last long. Ahead him, the blackened towers of the Obsidian Sprawl stood high. Power and corruption pulsating within the walls, corporate and criminal kings ruled from the shadows there. But the biker hadn¡¯t had any business there, not yet. The dark streets narrowed, twisting like veins through the city¡¯s heart. Sirens wailed, swallowed by the dark, Pawnshops and convenience stores lined the way, the flickering signs reflecting the deals whispered in the shadows within. Credits and promises made and broken. A place where no law thrived. The biked moved on untouched by all these, Duskwatch¡¯s shadows embracing him like one of its own. His thoughts lingered on the mountain, something had reached out to him, ancient and it had left its mark on him. Even as Duskwatch swallowed him whole, one truth remained. Whatever the devil gave, it had just begun to take. The Voice Within. Chapter 3: The Voice Within. Duskwatch woke before the sun did. A restless hum beneath the concrete waste. Grim lay in his tiny apartment, not asleep, just staring at the dim light entering through the cracks. His alarm rang, his phone read 6 AM, dust hovered above in the dry air. The bed beneath him creaked as he got up. A new day, but the same old weight on him. The alarm continued to buzz, but it didn¡¯t matter. Sleep had come in pieces like a puzzle, the pieces chased by shadows that lingered longer than they needed to. Dreams. Memories. Perhaps the future. It didn¡¯t matter. The faucet spat out the cold water, Grim leaned over the cracked sink, letting the cold bite into his skin. The mirror fractured, splitting him into two images. He held his gaze at it, something stared back, something he didn¡¯t recognize. He put on his black leather jacket, then his gloves, and stepped out into Duskwatch¡¯s streets. The streets welcomed him with its usual damp atmosphere. The underground whispered in the corners, a world built on debts and betrayals. Grim navigated through the darkness without a thought. A folded envelope passing from his hands to another¡¯s. No words exchanged. But today, something felt off. The man¡¯s hands hesitant, his eyes glancing at Grim¡¯s before darting away. No words, an invisible force between them, clenching at Grim¡¯s heart. They know. The thought clung to him like a cold blade, slowly piercing deeper. The garage, his refuge. Dim lights and sparks filled the vast room, Grim sat at the back of it, A fluorescent tube of light in one of his hands, illuminating the skeletal frame of Blackthorn. Grease stained his hands, Tools clinked and scraped. The familiar rhythm of maintenance calming his nerves. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. But as he tightened a bolt, the engine hummed. It didn¡¯t feel like his blackthorn. He traced through the frame, but nothing seemed off. Break it. A whisper, an urge, almost commanding him. His hand jerked up, the wrench slipping from his grip. The clang spread throughout the room; it rang unusually loud. Grim¡¯s heart began to pound harder. He swallowed hard, resisting the devil¡¯s voice in his head. He returned to the bike, but the voice lingered. Dusk bled into the city, but it never darkened, in fact it got brighter. Grim rode through it like the wind, the hum of the streets should have been soothing, but it wasn¡¯t. The streets twisted, Grim felt the unfamiliarity in the familiar. Faster. An urge, alien to him. It wasn¡¯t him, it was something else. His gloved hand gripped harder onto the throttle. The wind tearing past him, and then for a moment he felt the tension loosen. But then he saw the boy. A child, not a day over twelve, crossed the dimly lit street. His head down, and oblivious. Kill him! The words flew through his head, not through his ear but from within the inside of his skull. A force commanding his fingers to twitch, the bike surged forward. The boy¡¯s form blurred. A mere heartbeat had passed. The tires screeched, skidding as the bike flew itself aside. The boy never looked up. Just another passing shadow. The street once again in silence. Grim sat frozen, the engine growled beneath him. His hands shook, his chest tightened. The street was but empty, yet the voice remained. You wanted to. The engines roared from within the underground. The crowd cheered and leaned. The fire was shot. The bikes, once lined up, now raced past each other, deciding the victor and loser before anything began. And in the foremost, was Blackthorn and its loyal companion on top of it. The crowd¡¯s murmurs twisted. Words tangled and slipped through the dry air, but their intent clung onto him. They see you. A voice passed through his head like a cold wind. Biting onto his skin, his hair standing at the edge. A biker edged closer to him. Closer still. Push him. The voice commanded, an urge within him he never knew of erupted within him. Blackthorn roared, his hands tightened onto the handlebar. The thought pulsed through him. A simple nudge. Metal clashing with metal. Bone and flesh ground beneath wheels and heat. The rider got closer. The urge grew stronger. The feeling of being a stranger to himself grew within. Grim held firmly. And then the finish line came and went. First place. The crowd chanted his name, but the sound was muffled to him, like the distant waves that died out before meeting the shore. The exhilarating feeling of victory he used to have, no more there. The bike growled a last time before it fell silent. Grim got up and leaned against the cold brick wall of the narrow alley. His breath rushed and trembled. The city loomed above, vast and indifferent. The voice didn¡¯t speak, but it was there. He flexed his fingers. The lingering terror mocked him from within. Not because he heard the voice, but because, for once, he wanted to listen to it. The Days That Followed. Chapter 4: The Days That Followed The sun rose. Duskwatch stirred. And Grim woke just the same. The restless hum beneath the concrete continued, like a beast too tired to rest. His phone flashed 6 AM, and the dust still lingered in the air. The bed creaked the same. A new day, but the same old weight on him. The faucet spat cold water. The mirror split his reflection into fragments. The reflection stared back, but it didn¡¯t feel like his own. He pulled on his usual black jacket, slipping his fingers into the same old gloves. The routine played on. The same dry air. The same twisting shadows. The same whispers from the underground. The same old envelope passed from his hands to another¡¯s, just like before. Everything the same. The same glancing eyes, the same hesitation, and then¡ª The same voice. They know. But the voice never felt familiar.
He retreated to the garage. The fluorescent light painted shadows across Blackthorn¡¯s frame. The same clinking tools, the same old grease. But the engine¡¯s hum felt foreign. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. And the whisper lingered. Break it. His fingers tensed. The wrench slipped. The metallic clang shattered the silence, louder than it should have been. His chest tightened. He stayed seated, staring down at the tool on the ground. The voice didn¡¯t speak. It didn¡¯t need to.
Day 2 The sun rose. Duskwatch stirred. And Grim woke once again. The cracks in the mirror were the same. The air too. But Grim wasn¡¯t. Another envelope. Another silent exchange. The man¡¯s gaze lingered longer than it needed to. The suspicion sank deeper. The engine roared again that night. The underground crowd screamed. The fire was shot. He raced. Faster than before. The streets blurred, and the voice returned. Push him. The rider drew closer. Grim¡¯s fingers twitched. The whisper clawed through his thoughts. A simple nudge. Bone against steel. Flesh beneath wheels. The voice called for it. He crossed the line first, but no satisfaction followed.
Day 3 The phone buzzed. 6 AM. But something was different. Not the weight, not the shadows. But the call. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Then silence. Grim stared at the screen. A number. No name. It rang again. He answered. "Morning work. We need to talk." The voice was low. Grave. Not one he recognized. ¡®Morning work¡¯ wasn¡¯t something discussed over a phone call. It was a whisper, a glance, an envelope passed with no words. But not this. Grim¡¯s pulse quickened. He could just hang up. Act like it never happened. "Where?" he said instead. A pause. His pulse quickened. A setup? "Redgate. Warehouse 12." The line died. Grim¡¯s grip tightened around the phone. The air felt heavier. Something waited at Redgate. And for reasons he didn¡¯t want to understand, he would go.
End of Chapter 4 Redgate Chapter 5 ¨C Redgate Redgate was a corpse of a place. Buildings with hollowed-out walls slumped against one another, their skeletal remains tangled in dead ivy. The concrete beneath Grim''s boots crumbled with every hesitant step, as if the earth itself rejected him. The air was thick¡ªnot with fog, but something heavier. Stagnant. Silent. Warehouse 12. That was where the call had led him. The voice on the phone had been low, barely above a whisper, the words distorted like a faint echo. Nothing about this felt right. But curiosity, that damned ember, kept him moving. A rusted chain-link gate towered ahead. The sign above was long gone, leaving behind only rusted fragments. It stood ajar, creaking softly as the wind slipped through. Beyond it, the remnants of the industrial yard stretched into the gloom. No footsteps but his own. No sound but his own heartbeat. Grim''s breath hung in the air. His hand dipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the cold metal of his lighter. Just a comfort. The small weight reminded him that he was still here, still in control. They see you. A whisper. Faint. Unwelcome. He shook the thought away. The warehouse loomed ahead, barely held together by rusted beams and cracked concrete walls. Its doors, once mighty, now sagged on weakened hinges. Grim stepped inside, his footfalls swallowed by the stillness. Dark. Silent. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. He moved forward, eyes darting. Shadows shifted at the edges of his vision. Something watched. The hum beneath the concrete waste whispered louder now, like a distant pulse. Grim''s hand tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to run¡ª ¡°Boo.¡± The voice rang out, sweet and playful, like a child¡¯s prank. Grim jolted, his heart hammering as he spun around, fists clenched. But there she stood. A woman. No¡ªsomething else. She leaned lazily against a rusted crate, smiling softly, but there was something ancient in her presence. Her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the filth-streaked walls behind her. Eyes like molten gold gleamed with amusement. A single, delicate finger curled through the air as if tasting the tension she had conjured. ¡°You lost, lady?¡± Grim growled, masking the unease in his voice. She giggled, the sound as unsettling as it was melodic. ¡°Oh? And here I thought I was exactly where I needed to be, Grim.¡± He took a step back, instinct pushing him to put distance between them. But she didn¡¯t follow. Just stood there, too comfortable. Too pleased. ¡°Redgate, huh?¡± She tilted her head, her grin sharp and knowing. ¡°What a charming little graveyard you¡¯ve stumbled into.¡± The air thickened. The shadows around her deepened, as if leaning closer. Yet her presence¡ªbright, teasing¡ªremained untouched. ¡°Who the hell are you?¡± ¡°Asmodeus.¡± She spoke the name like a promise, like something inevitable. ¡°But you can call me Ash.¡± Another giggle. ¡°It suits the mood, don¡¯t you think?¡± Grim''s jaw clenched. The weight of her name pressed against him, ancient and dangerous. But she didn¡¯t move. She only watched, like a predator curious about its prey. ¡°Now then,¡± Ash purred, her golden eyes glowing. ¡°Shall we get started?¡± Fifty Grand. Chapter 6: Fifty Grand. "Shall we get started?" The words hung in the air, laced with unsettling ease. Grim narrowed his eyes. The woman¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter. It wasn¡¯t shallow yet. ¡°Started with what?¡± he finally asked, the shadows of Redgate lingering behind him. Ash leaned against the rusted wall, her fingers lazily tracing the edges of her coat. ¡°A job. Easy money. All you have to do, is deliver a package.¡± Grim didn¡¯t respond. The underground wasn¡¯t exactly a charitable place. Easy didn¡¯t exist. ¡°And you think I¡¯m interested?¡± His voice remained cold. Ash¡¯s smile widened. ¡°It¡¯s a simple gig. Pick it up. Drop it off. No questions.¡± This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ¡°No thanks.¡± He turned away, the distant hum of the underground echoing through the dim corridors. ¡°Fifty grand.¡± Grim froze. ¡°Excuse me?!¡± ¡°Fifty grand,¡± she repeated, her voice nonchalant, as if tossing around numbers like that was a hobby of hers. Grim¡¯s jaw tightened. He wasn¡¯t naive. Money like that for a delivery? The strings attached were wrapped in chains. But the weight in his chest shifted. Fifty grand could change things. For once, the relentless pressure of the underground might just ease. ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡± he asked, his voice barely above a growl. Ash shrugged. ¡°No catch. Just a place people tend to avoid.¡± ¡°Where?¡± ¡°Warehouse 12. The old tunnels. You know the spot.¡± Grim did. The abandoned parts of the underground had long since rotted away, swallowed by silence. Rumors whispered of syndicates using those ruins for their business, but they were called abandoned for a reason. ¡°And if I say no?¡± Ash chuckles softly. ¡°Then you can walk away. But something tells me you won¡¯t.¡± Grim hated how right she sounded. ¡°Fine.¡± He spat the word like poison. ¡°But I work alone.¡± ¡°Of course,¡± Ash replied, the glint in her eyes lingering a little too long. He turned around walked away. The sound of his footsteps echoed as he disappeared into the shadows. Voice was quite. Atleast for now. The Courier. Chapter 7: The Courier. "Shall we get started?" Ash''s voice rang out, as if the absurdity of the situation was lost on her. She laid on a worn-out leather couch. The dim glow of a single bulb casting her shadow along the old concrete wall of her base. Grim stood by the metal table, its surface cluttered with empty bottles and ashtrays. The package lay at its center ¡ª small, inconspicuous, bound in black tape. It was innocent in appearance, but the weight it carried was far heavier. "You didn''t call me here for this," Grim''s voice was low, flat. "You''re wasting my time." "Fifty grand," Ash said, her grin widening. "Just a simple delivery." Grim''s jaw tightened. The number alone was enough to make him tremble. People in Duskwatch bled for a fraction of that. It wasn''t a question of why the job paid so much. It was why he was the one chosen. "And if I say no?" he asked, though they both knew the answer. Ash tilted her head back, feigning thoughtfulness. "Then you''ll walk out that door, pretend this conversation never happened, and spend the rest of your days regretting it" He hated how easy she made it sound. Like he had a choice. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. "Warehouse 12. Underground sector. Deliver it to a guy in a brown coat. Simple, right?" She pushed the package forward with her fingers towards him. Grim''s hands curled around the rough tape. "Too simple." Ash''s grin didn''t waver. "Might as well be the best fifty grand you¡¯ll ever make."
The underground was a beast of its own. A labyrinth of forgotten tunnels and rusted railways. Dimly lit by dying fluorescents. The air was damp, thick with the scent of oil and decay. Echoes of distant machinery pulsed like a heartbeat beneath the city. Grim moved through the shadows, the weight of the package pulling at his thoughts. Every step resounded in the hollow silence. The path led him deeper. Faint murmurs of unseen voices ebbed and flowed, but none were close. Only the hum of the underground remained. He passed hollow train cars, their steel frames twisted and abandoned. No guards. No prying eyes. Only him and the pack in his hands. The warehouse loomed ahead, its massive frame barely holding together. The metal doors groaned as Grim pushed them open. Inside, the air thick with dust, shafts of pale light slipped through ceiling cracks, illuminating the skeletal remains of machines long dead. A figure waited in the shadows. The man was clad in a brown coat, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a hat. No words. Only a slight nod as Grim approached. The exchange was swift ¡ª the package leaving Grim¡¯s hands with a weightless finality. "That¡¯s it?" Grim¡¯s voice broke the silence. The man didn¡¯t respond. He turned, disappearing into the dim recesses of the warehouse. It was done. Grim stepped back, his heart steady. Fifty grand. Just like that. He walked through the empty corridors, the tension in his chest beginning to ease. Ash''s face flashed in his mind ¡ª that cocky grin. Maybe she really was a goddess. Maybe his luck had changed. A laugh almost escaped him. Then it came. A voice, low and cold. It echoed through his skull, crawling beneath his skin. You''ll die. Grim froze. The words held no tone, no malice. Only certainty. His pulse quickened. The air shifted. And then, through the silence. A gunshot.
To be continued. The Shot. Chapter 8: The Shot Gunfire erupted. Sparks ignited as the bullet rebound off the rusted wall. The tunnel echoed with the sound. Grim dropped low, instincts pulled him down before his mind even caught up. Crates shattered behind him. Dust rose to the air. Run. The voice slithered through his thoughts, low and cold. He pushed it away. Not now. But there was no time. The shadows ahead already twisted. Heavy footsteps closed in. Another shot rang out, too close to him. His chest tightened. Survive. Grim didn¡¯t hesitate. He moved. The dim lights barely illuminated the tunnel, but he knew it well. Every cracked beam, every warped pipe. This place had been abandoned for decades. But not to him. A figure emerged from the haze. Gun in hand. Grim¡¯s breath steadied. No way ahead him. The walls crept too close. Fight. The voice snarled at him. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. He waited. Silent. The man¡¯s steps were slow, deliberate. A predator savoring the moment. The gun gleamed under the faint light. Closer. Grim¡¯s hand closed around a loose pipe from the ground. Cold. Familiar. His muscles coiled. Then. He moved. The man raised his weapon. Too late. Grim lunged. The pipe struck with a sickening crack. Bone gave way. The man crumpled, his weapon clattering to the floor. No scream. Just a groan before unconsciousness took him. One down. But there were more. Another shadow. Fast. Reckless. A flash of silver ¡ª a knife. Grim twisted. The blade grazed his jacket, barely missing flesh. He seized the attacker¡¯s wrist, twisting sharply. A yelp echoed. The knife fell. A knee to the ribs. A shove. The man slammed into the wall. Grim didn¡¯t wait. He kept moving. But the footsteps multiplied. Three. Four. Maybe more. The tunnel groaned as they spread out, voices snarling orders. Too many. The voice whispered. Grim¡¯s pulse raced. He bolted down the corridor. He could hear them giving chase, their footsteps pounding against the concrete. But they didn¡¯t know these tunnels. He did. A sudden left. Then right. The walls blurred. Pipes hissed. Water dripped, pooling beneath his shoes. He vaulted over debris. The darkness cloaked him. But they were gaining. Another turn. Dead end. The air grew colder. It dampened. Grim¡¯s mind screamed. Think. He spun, scanning. There. A rusted pipe barely clinging to the wall. He ripped it free. Footsteps echoed closer. The first pursuer rounded the corner. He didn¡¯t see it coming. Grim swung. Metal met flesh. The man staggered, collapsing to the ground. The pipe dropped from his grip. But there was no time. The others were near. He ran. Again. His breaths were ragged. The tunnel narrowed and so did his vision. Cracks lined the walls like veins. The dim light twisted the shadows, warping shapes he had never seen. He could almost hear them. The footsteps. The whispers. And then, just ahead ¡ª a sliver of light. The end of the tunnel. Freedom! Grim pushed harder. His chest burned. The air thickened, but he saw it. The exit. A battered metal door, cracked open just enough. He reached for it. Almost there. And then. Bang. A burst of pain. White-hot. The force propelled him forward. He stumbled, knees crashing to the floor. The world spun. His hand clutched his shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers. He couldn¡¯t breath. The voices behind him grew louder. Closer. Grim tried to move. His body screamed. The darkness crept closer. And the voice within him whispered once more, it¡¯s tone amused. This is the end. End Chapter. After The Shot. Chapter 9 ¡ª After ¡®The Shot.¡¯ The pain hit before the sound. A dull thud, followed by a burning sensation that spread like wildfire. Grim staggered, his shoulder screaming. The metallic taste of pain filled his mouth. Gunfire cracked through the tunnel. Shouts echoed. Shadows moved in the dim light. Grim forced his legs to move, stumbling across the underground. His blood dripped, painting the concrete below a dark red. Keep moving. The voice whispered, but not in fear. It was amused. Entertained. You¡¯re too slow. Grim grit his teeth. His left arm hung useless, crimson soaked through his jacket. Every nerve screamed, but the desire to live drowned out the pain. The tunnels twisted ahead ¡ª a labyrinth of shadows and stale air. Behind him, footsteps. Close. Too close. Another shot. The bullet ricocheted off the wall, sending fragments flying. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. His breath trembled. His muscles screamed for rest. But rest was death. He crashed into a corner, slamming into the wall for support. His vision blurred. You think you¡¯ll make it? The world spun, but Grim caught sight of the loose metal pip lining the wall. His good hand gripped it. The footsteps approached. Five seconds. Four. Three¡ª A man rounded the corner. Grim swung hard. The pipe cracked into his jaw with a sickening crunch. The man crumpled. But he didn¡¯t stop to watch. Another turn. Another endless stretch of tunnel. Blood loss made the shadows ahead dance. His lungs burned. His legs threatened to give. This is where you fall. The voice wouldn¡¯t leave him. But no. He wasn¡¯t done. Grim grabbed a rusted ladder, dragging himself up. His body screamed in protest, in agony. But he pulled. The grates above him rattled, light from the street seeped through. Almost there. But then. A hand. Grimy, rough, yanking him back. Grim twisted. The man¡¯s face was blurred, but the gleam of the gun was clear. He slammed his elbow into the man¡¯s ribs. The weapon clattered. Grim kicked it away. Another figure emerged from the shadows. Then another. No, not more!!!!! He screamed from within. Grim¡¯s back hit the cold wall. The blood loss sapped what strength was left in his legs. He clenched his teeth, preparing for the inevitable. But the voice only laughed. Then ¡ª BOOM. The tunnel shook. The walls groaned as debris crumbled from above. Smoke filled the air. The men staggered, coughing. And through the chaos a jeep jumping down from above, "Miss me?" Ash emerged from the dust, her grin sharp and gleaming. In one hand, a detonator. In the other, a pistol. Grim wanted to frown but could barely stand. His vision swam. But before he collapsed, she caught him. "I told you, darling." Her voice was practically a taunt. "I¡¯ve got your back." The world darkened. And the voice whispered one last time. She¡¯s not your savior. She¡¯s your downfall. Prince of Victory Chapter 10 ¨C Prince of Victory The streets blurred past as the roar of the engine echoed through the empty lanes. Grim¡¯s breathing was shallow, his hand pressed against the bleeding wound in his shoulder. His pulse dulled with each heartbeat. "Hold on, man. You aren¡¯t dying on me," Ash¡¯s voice was annoyingly cheerful, like the events of the last hour were a thrilling amusement ride. The black muscle car cut through the city¡¯s dim glow. Neon signs flickered against the cracked pavement. The air tasted of the usual rust and rain. The roads were wet. "Where are we going?" Grim¡¯s voice rasped. Ash smirked turning towards him, one hand on the wheel. "Home, obviously." "Thought I didn¡¯t have one." "That¡¯s what I¡¯m for." The car skid into a narrow alley. An old brick building stood tall, its chipped paint scarcely hiding the layers of grime beneath. A crooked sign dangled above the door ¡ª "Red Jack¡¯s" and below it in smaller letters ¡°CLOSED¡±. "The place¡¯s closed," Grim muttered. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "Not for us." Ash stepped out, the pale light falling on her hair. She walked like she owned the world ¡ª and maybe she did. A single knock on the metal door and it creaked open. Revealing a burly man with a bored expression. "Still alive, I see," he grunted unamused. "Missed me, Jack?" The man only rolled his eyes. Inside, the bar was dimly lit, its air thick with stale smoke. The shelves lined with dusty bottles, and the cracked leather seats told stories no one dared to speak. It wasn¡¯t the kind of place for celebrations. But Ash made it feel like one nevertheless. Grim slumped into a booth. His shoulder burned. The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving only pain. Ash disappeared behind the counter, grabbing a dusty old first aid kit. "Hold still." She pulled a chair closer, fingers brushing against his skin as she ripped the sleeve away. "You¡¯re lucky. Clean shot." She said with a grin. Grim winced. "Feels worse." She laughed softly, almost amused. "Pain means you¡¯re alive." The needle glinted under the dim light. Thread and gauze. She worked quickly, stitching the torn flesh like it was nothing. Every tug and pull reminded Grim just how fragile his body was. "Why are you doing this?" he muttered. Ash grinned. "Wouldn¡¯t want my investment bleeding out." "Investment, huh?" She tossed the bloodied gauze aside, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Fifty grand, as promised. No tricks." A small envelope slid across the table. Grim eyed it. "Feels too easy," he murmured. Ash leaned forward, her face dangerously close. "And yet, you almost died. Isn¡¯t that enough?" He held her gaze. The discomfort lingered. But so did the temptation. He tucked the envelope away, the weight of it heavier than it should have been. "Drink?" she offered, standing up. "Why not?" The clink of glasses echoed through the empty bar. The burn of the whiskey was harsh, but it was a warm distraction. Ash talked, laughed, and teased, as if the past few hours never happened. For a moment, the weight on Grim¡¯s chest lifted. But deep within him, the voice remained silent. Watching. Waiting. And when the time comes, it would speak again. The Silence After. Chapter 11 ¨C The Silence After. The job was done. Blood rinsed from his hands, but not his head. Grim sat alone in a dimly lit laundromat. The hum of the dryers was the only sound. Low, steady, almost meditative. It calmed him down. He didn¡¯t need to be here. He had a place now. A penthouse with marble floors and tinted windows. But something about this place felt right. Maybe it was the flickering lights, or the quiet of the place. Or maybe it was the fact that no one ever asked questions here. A black duffel bag sat beside him, soaked at the corners. Not from rain. But blood. He stared at it. Fifty grand, maybe more. For¡­ Maybe thirty minutes of work, a bullet, and a package he didn¡¯t ask about. The kind of job, that made you rich if you didn¡¯t think. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. The kind that stayed in your bones if you did it just once. The metal bench creaked as someone sat next to him. He didn¡¯t have to look. ¡°Ash,¡± he said. She didn¡¯t answer. Just leaned back, crossed her legs, tilted her head toward the ceiling like she could read the cracks. Silence stayed in the room for a while. ¡°You ever wonder,¡± she replied, finally, ¡°what happens if we just stop?¡± Grim¡¯s jaw clenched. He wanted to answer. But the question wasn¡¯t one with answers. Not for people like him. He glanced sideways. She was dressed down today. Grey hoodie, black jeans, hair imperfectly tied back. She looked like someone who could vanish without leaving a single trace behind. ¡°You stop,¡± he muttered. ¡°You start thinking.¡± She smiled faintly. ¡°Dangerous stuff.¡± A long silence. Then she nodded at the bag. ¡°That it?¡± ¡°That¡¯s it.¡± ¡°Then what?¡± Grim didn¡¯t know. The plan had ended with the money. And money always asked for more. His hands curled into fists, nails stabbing into his skin. He thought it would feel better than this. Cleaner. Like the world would finally make space for him. Instead, everything felt... louder. ¡°I keep moving,¡± he said at last. Ash turned to him. ¡°And when do you stop?¡± Grim met her eyes. His were hollow. Tired. Like sleep was a thing for other people. ¡°When I feel something.¡± Another hum from the dryer. The smell of detergent. Ash nodded slowly, stood, and walked to the door. And before she left, she looked back. ¡°There¡¯s nothing at the end, Grim. Just quieter ghosts.¡± She left. And Grim sat alone with the bag, the flickering, and the silence. The City That Died. Chapter 12: The City That Died. 11:42 PM Bangkok, Thailand The night was thick with life. Streetlights bled gold over soaked pavements. Neon signs buzzed and flickered in Thai script. Food carts hissed with steam and spices. Tuk-tuks weaved through traffic filled roads. Monks passed by tourists, monks passed by drunks. Music from rooftop bars melted into chants from distant temples. It was loud, chaotic, yet beautiful. Bangkok was breathing. On the Chao Phraya, boats floated like insects. Vendors shouted from the piers. The Grand Palace shone beneath floodlights. Wat Arun gleamed like a lighthouse across the water. And in the clouds above it all, something moved. A low, inaudible pressure spread across the city. Glass rattled. Dogs howled in fear. Birds fled. Somewhere, a street performer dropped his violin. Somewhere else, a child stopped laughing and stared up in horror. The sky opened. It didn¡¯t crack with lightning. It tore apart, something ancient clawed through the very seams of the world. The very earth trembled. A low, droning hum built until every car alarm blared in unison. The river surged. The lights flickered. Then came the shadow. It slithered across rooftops from above. Blocking out the moon itself. Something impossibly vast. Coiled, fluid, writhing with silent intent. No one saw the full shape. Just the aftermath. The Grand Palace collapsed inward, as if crushed by a god¡¯s hand. Wat Arun¡¯s spire shattered like glass, as the tower collapsed onto the river beside it. Siam Paragon exploded from within. The streets split apart. Fire erupted from manholes. Screams turned to static. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. And from the ruins of the city, Baiyoke Tower II¡ªthe tallest place left standing, a man watched the chaos engulf it all. 11:47. Bangkok, Thailand. Bangkok was now calm. But dead. The Grand Palace was nothing but rubble now. Its golden spires lay broken, clawing at the black sky. Wat Arun, once a beacon of light, had fallen. Its towering spire now broken, blackened by the flames. The streets lay abandoned. The air thick with smoke and ash. Siam Paragon lay in rubble. Glass and steel scattered on the marble. The lights flickered, then went out. The Chao Phraya River, once calm, now churned with debris of the Wat Arun. And high above it all, Baiyoke Tower II still stood. A monument to the city¡¯s past. The tallest point in the skyline, now barely recognizable. Its once-sleek glass walls now shattered, leaving it to burn in the distance. At the very top of that tower, stood a man. His back to the wind, as the heat from the flames threatened the sky. He leaned against a steel pole, arms crossed, staring down at the chaos below. The city was gone, and he watched in silence. A voice crackled through his earpiece. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± Levi¡¯s eyes never left the smoldering city. ¡°Better than expected,¡± he said, his voice calm like the sky which had seen the city¡¯s devastation. ¡°Levi,¡± the voice continued. It was Belzeebub. ¡°Is it all set?¡± Levi¡¯s lips barely twitched, and then spoke slowly ¡°It¡¯s almost done. The rest is a matter of time.¡± ¡°The others. Mammon and Satan. They¡¯re too slow. We¡¯re not here to play with them.¡± Levi¡¯s tone didn¡¯t change, but there was something darker in it now. ¡°Speed¡¯s irrelevant. Mammon fuels the world. Satan is the mind. They¡¯ll play their parts.¡± ¡°We¡¯re faster,¡± Belzeebub interrupted. ¡°Let it fall apart. The sooner the world crumbles, the sooner we can feast. Right, Levi?¡± Levi finally turned his head slightly, as if acknowledging the point. His voice was colder now, more deliberate. ¡°Exactly. The destruction doesn¡¯t just weaken the world. It pulls him out of hiding. He won¡¯t sit back forever. He¡¯s watching, waiting for the right moment. He¡¯s running out of places to hide.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Belzeebub¡¯s voice was more eager now, knowing the next step was near. ¡°And when we have him?¡± Levi¡¯s eyes narrowed, focusing on the burning city below. His next words came slower, more purposeful. ¡°And when we have him¡­ we take it all. His power, God¡¯s power. And then we finally finish what we started. The cosmos and everything within will be ours.¡± The flames below flickered, as if on cue. ¡°Keep it up, then,¡± Belzeebub said, a hint of impatience in his voice. ¡°We¡¯re getting close. Just don¡¯t let them get in the way.¡± Levi turned his gaze back to the horizon. His voice was quiet, but the weight of it could be felt. ¡°Let them try.¡± As the fires spread below, Levi stood unmoving. The city continued to burn.
Time didn¡¯t move. Neither did he. The inferno below continued to rage. But even amidst the devastation, his thoughts were elsewhere. The winds howled, carrying the ashes of Bangkok forward. Beneath the burning sky, deep in the northernmost reaches of the world, there lay a place untouched by mankind. A wasteland of frozen ice and snow, a place where no one dared to venture. The coordinates had been set. Their next move was not about the world of men. This was about something far older, far deeper, than anything the world had ever known. Levi¡¯s shadow stretched further than the city below, not as the man who stood above it, but as as Leviathan, the mythological sea creature. It loomed over the burning city, dark and vast, with tendrils curling through the night like the coils of a serpent from the depths. It was the shadow of Leviathan, the monstrosity that could swallow cities whole. ¡°We¡¯re headed to the Arctic,¡± Levi said softly to Belzeebub, his voice steady despite the tension that still lingered in the air. Belzeebub¡¯s answer was barely audible, but his intent was clear. ¡°The next step. The final phase. He won¡¯t be able to run anymore.¡±