Chapter 442
The flying iron door crashed back and crushed two thugs who’d been waiting with rifles, their bodies folding like paper under cold iron.
An alarm split the night. “Enemy attack!” someone screamed. The room filled with men reaching for laser pistols, faces hard with surprise and fury.
It was what war looked like in alleys-fast, ugly, inevitable. But Alex was faster.
He moved like a blade: precise, brutal. Men went down with snapped bones and gasps.
Weapons clattered and sparked across the wet stones. He didn’t hesitate.
He broke wrists, snapped arms, tore men off their feet. The fight was a series of short, sharp sentences-strike, fall, breathe.
From the back of the room Jack Chambers appeared, a bull of a man with a grin that smelled of oil and money.
Beside him stood a hulking iron robot, bristling with guns and menace.
“You think you walk in here and take my turf?” Jack growled. “You bastard-do you want to die? Meet my guard: the latest model. It can crush a hundred men without breaking a sweat p>
Jack never finished.
Alex lunged. With one hand he slammed into the robot’s core.
Metal arms tore and sparks flew; the machine’s frame folded like a wounded animal and slammed into the wall, sending concrete tasting the floor.
Jack’s confident grin snapped into confusion.
“Did you say something?” Alex asked, cold and close.
Jack’s face went white. He dropped to his knees so fast it looked like an act. “No -no, sir. Welcome home, boss. Tell me what you want me to do. I will do it with my life p>
After that night nothing was the same. Each week Alex walked with the Kingswell through the city’s underside.
“Young Master,” Jack said as he followed Alex down the narrow alley.
“This territory belongs to one of the toughest gangs in the city. Most of them are illegal immigrants from Xia. They call themselves cultivators-people who use breathing techniques and focus heaven and earth energy to harden their bodies. They’re stronger than machines. Are you sure you want to take them on p>
Alex didn’t even look back. “Sure,” he said, walking straight toward a run-down gambling den glowing with red neon.
Two guards stood at the door, both sleeveless and built like fighters. One raised a brow. “You here to gamble p>
Alex smiled. “No. I’m here to take over this gang p>
The words hit like a gunshot.
“You-!” the man snapped, dropping into a fighting stance. But before either of them could move, an invisible pressure slammed into them.
Their eyes rolled back, and they collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
Jack froze, his breath caught in disbelief. He’d seen robot soldiers torn apart by
these fighters, machines built for war reduced to scrap in seconds. These people fought like engines of flesh and fury-cold, precise, unstoppable.
And now, one of the gang’s strongest guards lay sprawled on the ground, unconscious-taken out without Alex even lifting a finger.
Alex pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The den was alive with noise-cards snapping, dice rolling, men laughing through smoke.
He let his energy flare just enough to sense the strongest presence in the building. His eyes narrowed toward the back room.
He walked through the hall.
A guard tried to stop him. “Sir, this area’s restricted p>
Before the man could finish, he dropped, unconscious like the others.
Alex opened the last door. Inside, a middle-aged man worked over floating 3D data projections. He turned sharply, frowning. “Who the hell are you p>
“I’m here to take this gang under my control,” Alex said calmly.
“Taking my place?” The man laughed, rising to his full height. His voice dripped arrogance. “Do you even know who I am p>
“No,” he said evenly. “But here’s the real question-do you know who I am p>
“Bastard!” the man roared, thrusting his fist forward. A shockwave rippled through the air, charged with raw inner energy. “Die p>
The blow connected with Alex’s chest-but the moment it did, the man’s expression twisted in horror.
His energy vanished into Alex like water swallowed by the sea. Then, just as quickly, it rebounded-amplified-ripping through his own arm and exploding inside his body.
He flew backward, slamming into the far wall with a crash that shook the floor. Blood splattered across the tiles.
The man gasped, his face pale, body trembling. “A… a grand master p>
He fell to his knees, coughing blood. “I am Jamie Lee,” he stammered. “Welcome, Grand Master. Please take this place. It’s yours p>
Jack stood in the doorway, stunned.
He had expected Jamie Lee-the infamous cultivator from Xia-to stand his ground.
Instead, the man had been crushed in a single move. Jack exhaled slowly, the shock heavy in his chest.
So much for the great Jamie Lee, he thought. The legend just bowed like a servant.
From that night forward, Alex and his men moved through the city like wolves in winter-cold, relentless, and precise. One by one, they
dismantled the underey et
gang
bosses, smugglers, mafia heads, and black-market lords. No one stood for long. s
No den was safe. With every raid, they grew bolder; with every fallen thug, they climbed another rung of power.
No law could touch them, and no amount of money could buy them off. Their reach spread through the alleys and ports, through gambling dens and weapon rings, until the slums began to whisper their name in fear.
A year after carving out the biggest share of the underworld, Alex sat in a city that stank of power, blood, and paper money.
He had burned through half the syndicates, but the rest were no longer gangs- they were institutions.
Their leaders sat at banquets with generals, shook hands with ministers, and smiled for cameras next to nobles in pressed uniforms. They ran charity foundations by day and weapons shipments by night.
These weren’t men you arrested. They were men whose names appeared in government contracts and whose sons wore military badges.
Their payrolls funded election campaigns; their “donations” built hospitals that laundered millions. They were the invisible bloodstream of the nation-dirty money keeping clean systems alive.
Alex understood the math of it.
You touch one of them, you don’t start a gang war-you trigger a national crisis. The police would call you a terrorist. The military would call it an insurgency. And the news would say you disappeared.
Those bosses wore medals. Their crimes wore laws.
So he sat still. For now.
Because to move against them too soon wasn’t strategy-it was suicide.
“It’s time we go legal,” Alex said. “We build a company. A clean face for what
we’ve become. We hire our people under law, not shadow p>
He looked at the men around him, the Kingswell-hard, loyal, men who’d followed
him through alleys and fires.
“We need a new banner – something to split our work cleanly,” Alex said.
“What’ll you call it, Young Master?” one of them asked.
“What will you call it, Young Master?” one of them asked.
He paused, choosing like a man choosing the edge of a knife.
“Kingsley,” he said at last, his voice low and deliberate. “Or King-slayer-it means those who kill in service of the king. One part of use
will wear suits and walk in the light. The other will carry knives and move through the dark p>
to s
“We’ll build Eden Company,” Alex said, voice calm and steady. “That’ll be the legal
face-payroll, contracts, licenses. Everything aboveboard p>
He looked at the men around him.
“Kingswell handles the paperwork, the public faces, and the protection that keeps the business clean. Kingsley stays underground-muscle nightwork enforcement. One side signs the checks; the other side makes sure the checks can be cashed.” s
He who plays both sides never loses.
From that moment Alex poured every scrap of wit and cunning he had into
building Eden.
He hired lawyers who didn’t ask too many questions, shell men who smiled when money moved, accountants who knew how to make blood look like profit.
He walked between two worlds-balancing clean ledgers by day and drawing
blood by night.
In the sunlight, he was a successful businessman. In the shadows, he was the feared boss of the underworld.
And in between—beneath the suit and the power—he was still just the Rosenheims’ dog.
Every man has two faces, one he shows the world and one he hides.
Back in the present, the taxi ground to a halt. Alex stepped out onto a familiar
street and looked up at the Rosenheim mansion.
Three years ago this place had kept him on his knees, fed him scraps, and called
him a dog.
He had promised himself he’d destroy them—and now that day had finally come. Patience and time – two of the greatest warriors.