Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ambrose stalked through the streets of Virion, keeping to the shadows. The city's neon glow cast everything in an eerie, artificial light, reflecting off puddles and glinting off the metal-clad buildings. Despite the chaos he'd caused at the police station, the streets remained alive, buzzing with activity. People shuffled along, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath the surface.

  He had a new destination in mind. After dispatching Chelsea's partner and escaping the station, he hadn't wasted time. Back at his safehouse, he'd sifted through the information Adam had provided before the tree consumed him.

  One location stood out, a high-rise apartment building on the east side of the city. Adam had described it as a fortress, home to one of Vorshawn's key lieutenants, Maxwell Crane. The man was a lynchpin in the Red Hand's operations, managing drug shipments and supply lines across Virion. Removing him would deal a significant blow to the gang's infrastructure.

  Ambrose had left his challenger behind. The car had become too recognizable, too loud for the kind of entry he planned. Instead, he moved on foot, his black armor and cloak merging with the darkness. The city's labyrinthine streets offered plenty of concealment for a predator like him.

  A patrol car rolled past, its searchlights scanning the alleys. Ambrose froze, activating [Retributions Gaze] to assess the officers inside. Both were armed with advanced weaponry, their postures tense, fingers hovering near triggers. The hunt was on.

  Ahead, the apartment building loomed, a towering monstrosity of glass and steel that pierced the skyline. Its sleek exterior screamed opulence, a sharp contrast to the rot it housed within. Maxwell Crane was no fool. Security would be tight, and getting to him wouldn't be simple.

  His security will be nothing compared to what awaits at the Crimson Eclipse, Akaroth whispered in his mind. We should conserve our strength for what matters, hatchling.

  Ambrose circled the building once, his trained eye noting every detail. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their movements synchronized and professional. Cameras tracked every angle, leaving few blind spots. The glass panels that made up the building's exterior were reinforced, likely bulletproof and enchanted against System users.

  There was no subtle way in, but the loading dock at the rear offered the best chance. Less visible from the street, with fewer cameras than the main entrance, and typically staffed by regular workers rather than elite security.

  He approached the dock, moving with a predator's grace. Two guards stood at the entrance, their postures relaxed but alert. They wore the signature black-and-red uniforms of the Red Hand, though these were of higher quality than most. Crane's men were clearly paid well.

  Ambrose didn't bother with stealth. He stepped into the open, his cloak billowing faintly behind him.

  One guard noticed him immediately. "Hey! This area is off-limits!"

  Ambrose didn't reply. His silence was more unnerving than any threat could have been.

  The second guard drew his weapon, a sleek pistol with glowing runes etched along the barrel. "Stop right there or we'll shoot!"

  Ambrose kept walking. His steady pace never faltered, his eye fixed on them with predatory focus.

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  The guards opened fire. Energy bolts streaked toward him, streaks of blue and white cutting through the night. They collided with his [World Eater Cloak], only to vanish into the infernal fabric, devoured effortlessly.

  "What the fu—"

  Chains of molten silver and hellfire erupted from Ambrose's outstretched hands as he activated [Infernal Sanctuary]. They snaked through the air with a haunting grace, wrapping around the guards before they could react. The metal hissed against their flesh, scorching through fabric and searing skin.

  Ambrose opened a portal beneath them, his expression cold. "Vivienne, two more for the Tree." The guards' terrified screams were cut short as they vanished into the fiery rift, the portal snapping shut behind them.

  With the loading dock now clear, Ambrose entered the building. The storage area beyond was cavernous, rows of crates stacked high. The air reeked of chemicals, a pungent mix of synthetic drugs and industrial solvents.

  A service elevator stood at the far end, its doors gleaming beneath harsh fluorescent lights. Ambrose approached, stepping over the unconscious form of a worker who had foolishly tried to raise an alarm.

  The elevator required a keycard. Instead of searching for one, Ambrose wreathed his fist in stygian fire, activating [Hellfire Manipulation]. He punched through the control panel, melting circuits and forcing the doors open with a soft chime.

  Stepping inside, he pressed the button for the penthouse. The elevator began its ascent, accompanied by the faint strains of elevator music. Ambrose nearly laughed. Here he was, poised to unleash hell, and the system had chosen The Girl from Ipanema to serenade him.

  Humans have such strange tastes in music, Akaroth observed, her mental voice tinged with disdain. Dragons prefer the sounds of thunder and storm winds.

  The floor numbers ticked by. 10... 15... 20...

  Ambrose rolled his shoulders, loosening up. Maxwell Crane wouldn't come quietly—men like him never did.

  25... 30... 35...

  Something felt off. The ascent was too smooth, too uninterrupted. Crane was Vorshawn's lieutenant, and his stronghold should have better defenses.

  40... 45... 48...

  The elevator stopped abruptly. The music cut out, replaced by a voice over the intercom.

  "I don't know who you are, friend, but you picked the wrong building to rob tonight."

  Ambrose remained silent, his eyes scanning the elevator's interior. In the corners, small devices blinked with red lights. Explosives.

  "No response? That's fine. We don't need to chat. Goodbye."

  The elevator plummeted, the cables severed with a sharp twang that echoed through the shaft. Ambrose acted instantly, summoning hellfire to create handholds in the walls of the shaft. His gauntleted hands gripped the molten metal, halting his fall as the elevator car crashed into the basement far below.

  He climbed to the doors of the 48th floor, wedging his fingers into the seam and forcing them apart. The hallway beyond was a stark contrast to the gritty streets outside, a gallery of wealth and excess. Marble floors gleamed beneath recessed lighting, and abstract artwork adorned the walls.

  Ambrose moved silently, his senses honed. The faint sound of retreating footsteps reached his ears, multiple sets, heading toward the far end of the penthouse. Crane was running.

  He followed the sound, passing through lavish living spaces with panoramic views of Virion's skyline. The city sprawled below, a sea of lights that seemed almost peaceful from this height.

  The footsteps led to a reinforced door at the end of a hallway. Ambrose didn't bother with subtlety. He raised his boot, hellfire igniting around it as he delivered a single, devastating kick. The door flew off its hinges, slamming into the floor beyond.

  The room was a private helipad, the rotors of a sleek helicopter already spinning. Crane was visible in the cockpit, his pale face twisted in panic. Four guards stood between Ambrose and the aircraft, their weapons trained on him.

  They opened fire immediately. Energy bolts, physical bullets, even small rockets streaked toward him. Ambrose activated [Infernal Aegis], his spirit flaring outward in a crimson aura. The pressure of his spirit warped space around him, deflecting most of the projectiles. The few that pierced through were devoured by his cloak.

  Call me forth, hatchling, Akaroth urged, her voice eager for battle. Let me taste their fear.

  Akaroth materialized in his hand with a crack of thunder, its blade wreathed in both lightning and hellfire. Ambrose swung the dragon axe, sending an arc of destructive energy at the guards. Two collapsed instantly, their bodies smoking from the impact.

  The remaining guards faltered, their resolve crumbling. One threw down his weapon and raised his hands. "Don't kill me! I just work here!"

  Ambrose stepped forward, his expression cold. "Where is Vorshawn Red?"

  "I don't know! Only Crane knows how to contact him directly."

  Ambrose's gaze shifted to the helicopter. The aircraft was beginning to lift off. He opened a portal directly in its path, redirecting it back to the helipad. The sudden drop wasn't enough to destroy it, but the impact damaged its rotors, rendering it useless.

  Crane stumbled out, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. He fired a pistol wildly, the shots going wide. Ambrose closed the distance in a heartbeat, knocking the weapon from his hand and grabbing him by the throat.

  "Where is Vorshawn Red?" Ambrose demanded, his spirit leaking out, pressing down on Crane like a crushing weight.

  "If I tell you... he'll kill me," Crane wheezed.

  "If you don't, I will," Ambrose replied coldly.

  Crane's resistance crumbled. He gave Ambrose the information he needed—the Crimson Eclipse, downtown, tomorrow night. Vorshawn would be there.

  Satisfied, Ambrose opened a portal. "You're going to Avalon. Vivienne has a crystal waiting for you."

  Crane screamed as he was pulled through, the portal snapping shut behind him.

  His soul will feed the Tree well, Akaroth commented with satisfaction. But the main feast awaits us tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, Ambrose thought. Tomorrow, Vorshawn Red would fall.