The sky over the ravaged cliffs was an ugly bruise.
Smoke still bled from the ruins of the villa.
The world thought Nathaniel Blackwood was dead.
The world…was wrong.
Half-buried beneath stone and fire, Nathaniel's hand twitched. Broken ribs screamed. Blood filled his mouth. But he breathed.
He wasn't dead yet.
And neither was revenge.
He dragged himself free, inch by inch, his mind a white-hot blade of fury.
The boy—his boy—had chosen power over blood.
And now, Nathaniel would show him what true power meant.
Not a crown.
Not an army.
But vengeance written in fire.
—
Somewhere beyond the ruins, Alfreda stumbled through the smoking woods.
Her leg was shattered. Blood matted her hair. But she was alive—because Nathaniel had shielded her with his own body when the blast hit.
Celeste limped beside her, arm hanging limp, her face a mask of blood and ash.
Neither spoke.
There was nothing left to say.
Only survival.
Only revenge.
Only war.
—
The boy stood on the high ridge, the shattered remains of the villa spread out beneath him like a graveyard.
The surviving Reapers knelt behind him.
Waiting.
Breathing.
Obedient.
He slipped the Widowmaker signet ring onto his bloodstained finger.
It was too big.
It didn't matter.
He would grow into it.
The boy raised the ring toward the broken horizon.
"This world belongs to no one," he said. His voice was still young—but already cold enough to freeze oceans.
"It's mine now."
The Reapers slammed fists to their chests in salute.
The boy smiled.
A smile that promised ruin.
A smile that promised no survivors.
—
Three Weeks Later.
The new Widowmaker empire spread like a virus.
Safe houses fell.
Alliances shattered.
Old families bowed—or bled.
The boy's reach extended through the cities like black veins—merciless, unseen, unstoppable.
Those who had once feared Nathaniel now feared the boy even more.
Because Nathaniel killed with purpose.
The boy killed for pleasure.
—
Nathaniel watched the news from a grimy hotel room.
His ribs were taped. His muscles screamed.
But his mind was sharper than ever.
The boy thought he'd won.
He hadn't.
He'd only lit the fuse.
Nathaniel snapped the burner phone in half and tossed it into the trash.
Time to end this.
Time to take back everything.
—
Meanwhile, Alfreda tracked blood trails through the underground.
It led her to the Cemetery Club—a bar where ex-Widowmakers and rogue Reapers drank away their nightmares.
She stepped inside, guns swinging at her hips like iron wings.
Heads turned.
Guns rose.
Alfreda didn't flinch.
She just smiled, slow and deadly.
"Who wants to live long enough to see the boy bleed?" she asked.
The bar exploded into chaos.
Within minutes, she had a new army—small, savage, and loyal to death.
Because sometimes, fear isn't enough.
Sometimes you need rage.
And Alfreda was offering an ocean of it.
—
Celeste found the boy that same night.
He sat in a new throne room, carved from the corpse of an old government building.
The world's ruins made for lovely palaces.
"You've done well," she admitted, stepping through the rubble.
The boy grinned. "Flatter me more."
Celeste cocked her head.
"Flattery's for kings," she said.
She pulled a knife from her belt.
"You're just a prince."
The boy didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just smirked.
"You gonna stab me, Auntie?"
Celeste's fingers tightened around the hilt.
"I should," she whispered.
He leaned forward.
"Do it," he dared.
The knife kissed his throat.
His pulse fluttered under the blade.
Celeste closed her eyes.
And lowered the knife.
"I'll let Nathaniel do it," she said quietly. "He deserves it more."
The boy chuckled.
"You think he'll get close enough?"
His smile was a storm.
"Let him come," he said. "Let them all come."
—
Back with Nathaniel.
He stood before an old, rusted vault door deep in the mountains.
The last true Widowmaker stronghold.
His last ace.
Inside?
Weapons.
Information.
All the dirt the boy didn't have.
Nathaniel typed the old code.
The vault creaked open.
Inside, darkness.
And something else.
Something older than the Widowmakers.
Something worse.
A figure stepped out of the shadows.
Tall.
Lean.
Eyes like shattered glass.
"Hello, son," said the man.
Nathaniel's breath caught.
"You're supposed to be dead," he whispered.
The man smiled cruelly.
"I was," he said.
"And now I'm back to kill your mistake."
Nathaniel stared at him.
At the original architect of the Widowmakers.
Vincent Blackwood.
His grandfather.
His monster.
His war.
And now, maybe—his only hope.