Chapter 9 009
Dawn had not yet broken over Blackspire City when the Abyssal King unleashed hell.
Nyxor stood inside a mobile command vehicle three kilometers from the first target, surrounded by glowing holographic feeds. Elara sat quietly in the corner, wrapped in a dark blanket, refusing to be left behind. She watched the screens with wide eyes — a mixture of fear and grim fascination.
“Target One,” Vesper reported through the comm. “Southside Drug Warehouse. Confirmed Voss property.”
Nyxor’s voice was ice. “Burn it.”
Six blacked-out assault vehicles smashed through the warehouse gates simultaneously. Shadow operatives poured out like wraiths. The guards barely had time to raise their weapons before silenced rounds dropped them where they stood.
Explosives were planted with ruthless efficiency. Within ninety seconds, the entire warehouse — packed with hundreds of millions in narcotics — erupted in a roaring fireball that lit up the night sky. Black smoke billowed into the clouds as the Abyssal sigil (a stylized black crown dripping blood) was burned into the surviving outer wall.
One down.
“Target Two,” Kael’s voice came next. “The Crimson Arena. Underground fight club used for money laundering and human gladiatorial bouts.”
Nyxor glanced at Elara. She gave a small, determined nod.
“End it.”
This time Nyxor went personally.
He led a strike team of twenty into the bowels of the arena. The moment they breached the main doors, the crowd of wealthy spectators and armed thugs froze.
Then the slaughter began.
Nyxor moved through the chaos like death incarnate. A shotgun blast from a guard was met with a sidestep and a brutal counter — he drove his elbow into the man’s throat, crushing it instantly. Two more charged him with blades. Nyxor disarmed the first with terrifying speed, then used the man’s own knife to gut the second.
Gunfire filled the arena. His operatives cut through the security like a scythe. Nyxor reached the central fighting pit where two chained fighters were being forced to battle. He jumped down, snapped the chains with raw strength, and pointed toward the exit.
“Run,” he commanded the fighters. “Or die with the rest.”
Most chose to run.
The VIP boxes above were filled with the same kind of degenerates who had bid on Elara. Nyxor looked up at them with cold eyes.
“Burn it all.”
Thermite charges were placed. The entire arena — a symbol of Seraphine’s cruelty — collapsed in on itself in a cataclysmic explosion. The Abyssal sigil was seared into the rubble.
By sunrise, seven major targets had been destroyed.
Drug distribution hubs. Blackmail archives holding dirt on half the city’s elite. Three underground slave processing centers. A luxury brothel that catered exclusively to the powerful.
Each strike was surgical. Each left the same message: the Abyssal King was coming.
In the command vehicle, Elara watched the live feeds in silence. When the final warehouse fell, she whispered, “They’re really losing everything…”
“They haven’t lost nearly enough yet,” Nyxor replied.
He turned to the main hologram. Seraphine’s empire was bleeding — red warning indicators flashing across financial networks, supply lines severed, allies going dark.
Vesper’s voice crackled with satisfaction. “My King, we’ve confirmed Seraphine lost over six hundred million credits in the last four hours. The Blackfang Cartel has withdrawn support. Two of her lieutenants tried to flee the city. We intercepted them.”
Nyxor allowed himself a cold smile. “Interrogate them. Then dispose of them.”
Elara looked up at him. “Does it feel good? Destroying them like this?”
Nyxor knelt in front of her, his blood-stained hands resting on his knees. “It feels necessary. Every building we burn, every account we drain — it’s one less weapon they can use against you.”
She reached out and touched the bandage on his shoulder. “You’re bleeding again.”
“It’s nothing.”
Aunt Selene’s voice came through a secure channel from the safehouse. “Nyxor… be careful. I saw the news. They’re calling it the Night of Black Flames.”
“Let them call it whatever they want,” he replied. “This is only the beginning.”
He stood and addressed his full command staff through the comm.
“Phase Three begins at dusk. We hit their financial heart — the Obsidian Bank vault. Simultaneously, Vesper will lead a raid on Seraphine’s private estate on the outskirts. I want every record, every ledger, every dirty secret she owns.”
Kael hesitated slightly. “My King, intelligence suggests Seraphine has called in heavy reinforcements. Over a thousand Iron Reavers mercenaries are moving into the city.”
Nyxor’s eyes gleamed with dark anticipation.
“Good. Let them gather in one place. It makes the slaughter more efficient.”
Elara stood up and walked to his side. Despite everything she had endured, there was steel in her posture now.
“I want to help,” she said firmly. “I can’t fight like you… but I can learn. I don’t want to be the reason you carry everything alone anymore.”
Nyxor placed a hand on top of her head, the same protective gesture from their childhood.
“You already help by surviving,” he said softly. “But if you want to learn… I’ll teach you. After this war is won.”
A new alert flashed across the main screen.
Seraphine Voss had just gone live on a dark web broadcast. Her face was twisted with fury as she stared directly into the camera.
“Nyxor Raventhorn,” she snarled. “You’ve made the biggest mistake of your pathetic life. For every building you burn, I will kill ten people you care about. Starting with that precious aunt of yours. My men are already closing in on your location.”
Nyxor stared at the screen, completely unfazed.
He activated his own encrypted feed, his face appearing on Seraphine’s broadcast — cold, bloodied, and radiating absolute dominance.
“Come and try,” he said simply. “I’ll be waiting.”
He cut the transmission and turned to Elara and the war room.
“Time to end this phase.”
As the convoy moved out for the next major strike — the Obsidian Bank — Nyxor felt the familiar cold settle over him.
The Abyssal King was no longer hiding.
And Blackspire City would never be the same again.
