Four days had passed since Allen’s funeral, and the city had not stopped whispering.

What should have been a display of Royal dominance—a convoy of armored vehicles, escorts, and an heir’s grieving family—had become a public spectacle of blood and fire. Videos of the attack looped endlessly on news channels: cars engulfed in flames, masked gunmen darting like phantoms, the streets littered with broken glass. The image of a bullet-scarred limousine crawling away from the chaos was etched into every citizen’s mind.

The Royals were supposed to be untouchable. Now, the entire country questioned if their empire was starting to crack.

Headlines screamed:
“The Vigilante Clan Under Siege?”
“Who Dares Strike at the Royals?”
“Are the Power Brokers Losing Grip?”

In the markets and tea stalls, whispers grew bolder. In the darkened halls of government, rivals sharpened their knives.

The attack had been clean, precise, and brutal—too professional to be a random strike. The public murmured about rival families, foreign mercenaries, and even betrayal from within.

For the first time in years, fear seeped through the Royal name.

In a glass-walled skyscraper far from the Royal mansion, two men sat across from each other, the city lights reflecting in their drinks.

Kai Zeke was young, lean, and dangerous—a man whose calm smile always felt like a trap. His empire stretched across trade routes, ports, and smuggling rings. Where others flaunted their power, Kai preferred precision.

“You’ve stirred the lion,” said Rhoads Ronald, swirling amber whiskey in a crystal glass. He was older, heavier, with the sharp eyes of a man who’d built his fortune on casinos, hotels, and darker pleasures. His voice carried a lazy menace.

Kai smirked. “A lion bleeds like anyone else.”

“Mm. But a bleeding lion is still dangerous. You sure it wasn’t… one of yours?”

Kai leaned back, unbothered. “If it was, would I admit it?”

Their laughter was low, measured. Outside the penthouse windows, the city glittered like a board of pieces waiting to be moved. Both men had sent condolences to Thomas Royal for Allen’s death, their messages polished and dripping with insincerity. Now, behind closed doors, they plotted.

“The boy survived,” Rhoads said.

Kai’s smile widened. “Good. Let him grow. It makes the game more interesting.”

Back in the Royal stronghold, Thomas Royal was a storm in a suit. His orders rang through the halls like gunshots—security doubled, routes changed, meetings arranged. The mansion, already a fortress, was now crawling with guards.

But beneath his rage, Thomas was calculating.

Albert, an old friend and now a kingmaker in his own right, arrived in a convoy of black SUVs. He was followed by Borak, head of intelligence, whose cold eyes missed nothing; Jang Sung, the architect of the Royal empire’s business network; and Arth, the war-scarred commander of the private army that guarded their holdings.

The mansion’s marble halls echoed with tense footsteps as these men assembled. The weight of their presence alone showed how shaken the empire truly was.

Owen watched from the shadows of the staircase, his small figure hidden behind a carved pillar. He listened as voices rose and fell, as his father barked about retaliation, loyalty, and betrayal.

To outsiders, Thomas seemed enraged. To Owen, his father seemed… afraid.

The boy said nothing. He had not cried, even when guards died inches from him. He had not flinched when bullets cracked the windows of his car. He had not shed a tear at his brother’s funeral.

But now, as he watched the most powerful men in the province gather like vultures around his father, something inside him hardened further.

He thought of the night of the attack.
Of the smell of blood.
Of the silence of his brother’s coffin.

And most of all, he thought of the whispers.

Who leaked the convoy’s route?
Why now, of all times?
Who profits from a Royal heir’s death?

Owen didn’t trust anyone—not even his father. Especially not his father.

In his pocket, a small recording device rested. The boy had already started collecting secrets.

The city had become a chessboard. Convoys moved under heavy escort, armored vehicles rumbled through intersections, and snipers occupied rooftops.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some said foreign mercenaries were behind the attack. Others whispered about betrayal within the Vigilante Clan itself. Rival families—the Zekes and Ronalds—were now under intense scrutiny, though both families publicly declared loyalty and sent lavish tributes.

It was a game of shadows, and the Royals were no longer moving in silence. They were bleeding.

Late that night, Owen stood at his bedroom window, watching the glow of the city. The mansion below was alive with security patrols, armored guards, and the hum of helicopters circling overhead.

Four days ago, his brother was lowered into the ground.
Three days ago, his father beat him until he couldn’t stand.
Two days ago, masked men tried to kill him.

And tonight, the game had only just begun.

The boy’s reflection in the window stared back at him—expressionless, but not empty.

Owen Royal was a child.

But the man he would become had already begun to wake.

End of Chapter 3