The factory stood like a corpse at the edge of the river, windows boarded, smoke bleeding from crooked chimneys. To the city, it was abandoned. To the Vigilante Clan, it was known only as “the Workshop”—a place where Kai Zeke’s men crushed pills, pressed them into neat tablets, and shipped them across the province hidden in crates of canned goods.

Tonight, it was guarded. Tonight, it was alive.

From the hill above, Owen watched through rain-beaded binoculars. His hands were steady, though his heart beat hard in his chest. Beside him, John crouched, cigarette ember glowing like a signal in the dark. Three black SUVs sat behind them, engines humming low, shadows of armed men waiting inside.

“You’re sure about this?” John asked.
Owen lowered the binoculars. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his voice cold as stone. “Grandfather told me whispers don’t kill kings. So let’s send them fire instead.”

John exhaled smoke and gave a short nod. The boy wasn’t asking permission anymore.

Inside the factory, workers in stained aprons shoveled powder into machines. Men with rifles lounged at doors, bored but watchful. The air smelled of chemicals and sweat. A foreman shouted, drowned by the drone of grinding steel.

Then the lights cut.

Darkness swallowed the building. Shouts erupted, flashlights flicked on, sweeping across walls slick with damp. In that breath of confusion, shadows moved—John’s men, masks low, blades flashing.

Gunfire cracked like thunder. Bullets tore into crates, spilling powder that rose like ghosts into the air. Flames followed—Molotov glass shattering, fire crawling across the floor, climbing walls, kissing the rafters.

The Workshop was becoming a pyre.

From the hill, Owen never flinched. He watched the flames rise, reflecting in his pale eyes. He listened to the screams carried by the wind, the gunfire, the roar of fire. His small hands gripped the binoculars tighter, but he didn’t look away.

John stood beside him, silent. He knew what this meant. Tonight, Owen had ordered blood. Tonight, the boy had crossed a line.

“Tell them to leave no survivors,” Owen said quietly. “Not one. If Zeke wants a war, let him bury his men first.”

John gave the signal. Down below, steel and flesh fell alike.

Hours later, the estate’s council chamber reeked of smoke and sweat. Lesley Royale sat at the head of the long table, his silver hair gleaming under low lamps. Ben sat to his right, composed as ever, hands folded neatly.

John escorted Owen inside. The boy’s clothes still smelled faintly of smoke.

“You burned the Workshop,” Lesley said, voice flat. Not a question.
“Yes,” Owen replied. His tone carried no apology, no hesitation.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Ben chuckled softly. “He’s faster than I expected.”

Lesley’s gaze sharpened on his grandson. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Yes,” Owen said. “I’ve started the war they’ve been planning anyway. Better it starts on my terms than theirs.”

The council shifted uneasily. Even grown men didn’t speak this way in front of Lesley.

Lesley leaned back slowly, lips curving into something between pride and warning. “One day, boy, you’ll learn that fire is a tool that burns the hand that holds it. But not tonight.”

Owen met his eyes, unflinching.

In the shadows, Norma watched unseen through the half-open doors, her hand tightening on the frame. She had seen what her son was becoming, and what her husband was already betraying.

At the docks, Kai Zeke stared at the orange glow rising on the horizon. His cigar trembled between his fingers. Rods Ronald cursed violently beside him, cane striking concrete.

Behind them, the Order’s emissary whispered, “The boy is no longer prey.”

Kai crushed the cigar beneath his shoe. His smile was thin, venomous.
“Then we hunt him like a wolf.”

That night, Owen lay in his bed staring at the ceiling. Rain still tapped the windows. His brother’s face drifted through his thoughts, pale and bloodied. He whispered to the dark:

I won’t end like you, Allen. I won’t be a victim.

Outside, the estate’s guards moved like shadows, but for the first time, Owen didn’t feel like the one being guarded. He felt like the one holding the blade.

The boy was gone. The heir was awakening.