Marcus and Alfred took Max to what looked like an old abandoned manor. It was made of bricks and had a distinct look about it. They drove into the main compound and helped Max get down. He was limping as a result of the beating he had taken earlier that evening. "Damn Alfred, you really tuned him up good, didn't you ?" Marcus said as they walked towards the main entrance. It was bolted shit and bound with a set of chains and a heavy padlock. Marcus brought out the key from his pocket and unlocked the padlock and the door while Alfred helped Max stand on his feet. "I had to make it look real, no hard feelings right?" He asked Max who was too stunned by the building in front of him to answer. "Well, Master Maxwell, to your family manor, you see up until now I haven't told you somethings because I was waiting for the right moment, your name, your real name is , Maxwell Arnold Quentin III (the third) You are the only true heir of Lord Archer Arnold Quentin, and Lady Martha Arnold Que

Maxwell leaned against the hospital bed, the weight of Marcus’s words pressing down on him like a vice. His pulse raced, his mind spinning as decades of lies unraveled before him. “Your father,” Marcus began, his tone steady, “was the second-in-command of the Silver Crescent Clan, a family revered for its strength and influence. But his stepbrother, Alphonse, resented him. Alphonse was failing as clan leader—his reign marred by poor decisions and rebellion among the ranks. When certain members conspired to overthrow him, Alphonse pinned the blame on your father, Archer.” Maxwell’s fists clenched as he leaned forward. “So they turned the brothers against each other?” Marcus nodded solemnly. “The accusations created a rift that couldn’t be mended. Alphonse, blinded by paranoia and rage, believed the lies. He feared your father’s influence and sought to eliminate him... and his family.” The room seemed to close in around Maxwell as Marcus continued. “Alphonse hired assassins t

Maxwell leaned back in the leather seat of the sleek black SUV, staring out at the blur of the city. Despite being discharged from the hospital with a clean bill of health, his body betrayed him—each movement a sharp reminder of his recent collapse. The faint hum of the engine filled the silence, occasionally interrupted by static crackling from Jackson’s earpiece. Jackson, seated in the driver’s seat, kept his focus on the road. His stoic expression gave away little, but Maxwell sensed the man was preoccupied, likely replaying the intense conversation they’d had hours earlier. There was more to Jackson than his quiet demeanor—his presence was a constant reminder of the dangers Maxwell now faced. When the car rolled to a stop in front of the towering glass building that housed Maxwell’s penthouse, Jackson quickly stepped out to open the door for him. “Thanks,” Maxwell muttered, hesitating briefly before stepping onto the pavement. As they rode the elevator to his floor, Jackso

The room carried the weight of memories, the scent of aged wood mingling with stale tobacco. Lenox stood near the doorway, his posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. The faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots was the only sound, punctuating the tense silence as he stared at the frail figure of Alphonse, his adoptive father, slumped in a king-size armchair. Once a towering presence, Alphonse had been a man whose word could bend others to his will, a force of nature who commanded loyalty and fear in equal measure. But now, age had whittled him down, his frame thin and brittle. Still, the sharpness in his voice remained, an echo of the man he once was. “How dare you show your face here?” Alphonse's voice sliced through the air. “After all I’ve done for you? After the life I gave you, you walk in here like this—a weakling?” Lenox’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. His expression was stoic, carved from stone, his gaze steady and unyielding. Silence was his shiel

Maxwell woke to the sharp, relentless buzz of his alarm. His phone blinked on the nightstand, vibrating insistently. Groaning, he grabbed it, blinking away the haze of sleep until the words on the screen came into focus: “6:00 a.m. Gym session with Alfred."He exhaled heavily and swung his legs over the bed, every muscle in his body protesting. Yesterday’s sparring had been brutal; each punch and block now etched into his aching limbs. As he stood, a sharp pain shot from his calves to his shoulders, making him mutter, “Should’ve skipped the second round.” The thought of Alfred—always brimming with inexhaustible energy—waiting for another grueling session filled Maxwell with reluctant determination. Their sparring had become a ritual, a weekly test of endurance, but today, he wasn’t sure if his body would cooperate. Dragging himself to the bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror: disheveled hair, dark circles under his eyes, and a faint bruise on his jaw—a souvenir from