The night had sunk deep by the time they reached the base. Shadows stretched long across the cracked ground, and the building itself seemed to breathe with noise. Inside, chaos raged — fists cracking against bone, groans spilling into curses, the sound of bodies slamming against concrete. Every strike carried out here echoed with defiance, and yet, outside, the air around the three of them was still.
James moved first, his steps deliberate, carrying the kind of gravity that didn't rush. Dane followed, hands tucked in his pockets, walking as though no urgency in the world could touch him. Behind them, Daniel kept his pace steady, every thought sharpening in quiet preparation for whatever lay beyond the walls.
They stopped at the massive sliding door. James placed his hand on the cold steel, its weight humming against the night. For a moment, Daniel swore the chaos inside grew louder, as if the base itself was daring them to enter.
Then James dragged the door open.
The sound was thunder. Metal grinding against metal, splitting the night, drowning out the fights inside. It was so sudden, so sharp, that even the ones mid-swing froze. The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was stunned.
Dozens of eyes turned toward the entrance. And in the gap of the doorway, under the harsh light bleeding from inside, two silhouettes appeared. One, tall and unshaken. The other, younger, smaller — but standing as if the ground itself braced beneath him. For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the third figure stepped in.
James.
The room shifted instantly. Recognition tore through the air like lightning. Murmurs broke out — scattered at first, then gathering momentum, a current of whispers chasing one another across the floor. It wasn't just surprise. It was a reminder. The name alone was enough to bend the atmosphere, but the sight of him… it turned the base upside down.
The base was silent now, except for the faint groans of the wounded. The sliding door still rattled from its opening.
And in that doorway stood Daniel. He walked forward as if the ground itself had shifted toward him.
James didn't take the lead. He stayed behind with Dane. Their presence was undeniable, but the silence told everyone the night wasn't theirs. It was Daniel's.
There were nearly one hundred and seventy men in the hall — a hundred-twenty Shadow Legion, fifty-odd executives in black coats. The difference was stark. The Legion looked like they had been through fire, bruised and bloodied but still standing. The executives, older, sharper, carried themselves like they'd only stretched before coming here. Their suits barely wrinkled. Their eyes cold.
Whispers rippled as Daniel advanced:
"Who is that?"
"What's going on?"
"Did James bring… him?"
Daniel didn't glance at the wounded, though he felt them with each step. He passed friends on the floor, crew slumped against the walls, but he didn't stop. To hesitate now would've killed what he was carrying. Step after step, he moved until he reached his group.
Rowan stood there, chest heaving, shirt plastered with sweat, a bat still in his hands like the fight hadn't ended. Logan sat behind him, a strip of cloth around his head bleeding through. Julian leaned against the wall, his arm bound in a makeshift sling, shoulder sagging as if even gravity hurt to bear. Ryan, Zach, Owen, Adrian — all on their feet, but not unscarred. They looked like men who had survived, not won.
Rowan lowered his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said. His voice cracked under the weight. "I couldn't keep my promise. I couldn't stop them from getting hurt. I'll hand it over to you now. It should've been you from the start."
The words struck deeper than any fist. Rowan — the one who despised fighting most — had stepped in without hesitation, and now he carried the guilt of it. Daniel felt it twist inside him: if anyone should bear that guilt, it was him. He was the one who left.
But Daniel said nothing. He was an overthinker by nature, never one to speak unless the words truly mattered. And when they came, they always cut deep. Now, he only gave Rowan a small smile — not bitter, not hollow, but the kind that said he understood both the weight and the path forward.
His eyes lifted then, straight to the center, where James and Dane had already taken their place. Dane's stare locked on him, sharp and measuring. James' gaze swept the room, counting the bruises, the silence, the breaths still caught in throats.
Daniel dipped his chin. Something cold sparked behind his eyes. Dane leaned toward James and whispered. James exhaled, then raised his voice.
"You fought well, Shadow Legion," he said, and the sound cut through the base like steel drawn from a sheath. "But this isn't enough."
Heads lowered. Fists clenched.
"You won't protect your districts if you fall to a handful of men in suits. Don't say 'we only lost to the strong ones.' Who stopped you from being the strongest? If you're fighting just to look cool in front of others… the world doesn't care. Most people grow to hate the fight. The only ones who keep enjoying it are the ones who fight. And if that's you, then you'd better be the best at it."
The silence that followed wasn't hollow. It was heavy. Daniel could feel it shifting in the air, see it in the set jaws of the Legion. And in that moment he understood again why James was their leader. Not just strength. Not just fear. Words that cut deeper than any blade.
But Daniel also caught something else — in James' tone, in the way his gaze lingered at the edges of the room. The speech wasn't only for the Legion. James was speaking to himself, too. As if the words were pushing him across an unseen line. Daniel realized then: James had decided. Whatever bigger war Dane had spoken of before, James was no longer on the fence. He was stepping into it.
James' eyes shifted to the executives.
"To the ones who came here to break us — if you're still not finished, we can finish. But I won't promise you'll walk out whole."
From the far side, movement stirred. Seven figures emerged, walking slow, calm, unshaken. The leaders of the executives. Not a bruise among them. Their suits uncreased, their presence cutting sharp as knives.
They stopped opposite James and Dane.
One of the executives — broad-shouldered, eyes hard with a kind of practiced disdain — stepped a little ahead of the others. His voice carried sharp through the hall.
"We heard you've gone against us, Dane. That true? Then there's no problem if we beat you down right here. Finish the job. End this little base. Neither you nor James will stop us."
Dane only smiled, hands still tucked in his pockets. A quiet chuckle slipped from him, light enough to sting.
James' gaze never wavered. "If that's what you believe," he said, voice even, "you're welcome to test it."
Another executive tilted his head, casual, almost bored.
"No need. Orders came down, the mission's off. But it didn't say we had to stop here. And since we'd already torn through your men, leaving without reminding them of their place felt… unfinished. Let them see what happens when they stand against someone stronger. That's all the reminder they need."
Dane's smile widened, though his eyes stayed unreadable. "And you think James' words didn't just undo that reminder?"
The man smirked, shrugging. "Maybe so. Maybe not. Either way, we've no business here now." He made as if to turn. "We're done."
"Not yet."
James' words cut across the floor like iron. The executives paused, exchanging faintly amused glances before facing him again.
"I need you for something," James said.
Their curiosity sharpened. "And what's that?" one asked, arms folding.
James let the silence sit for a beat. Then he spoke.
"I'm passing Shadow Legion's leadership on. And for that, I need a fight. A test. One of your men, against mine."
The air shifted. Surprise flickered across a few of their faces, and then gave way to laughter. Small, mocking smiles broke among them.
"You're serious?" one of them said. "After this mess, you think anyone you've got could hold against us?"
James' reply was cold and certain. "You misunderstand. I'm not asking for you to fight. Only one of your men. Let him stand against mine. That's all I need."
An executive scoffed, running a hand down his tie like he could barely be bothered.
"You think because we lead them, they're weak? Don't make me laugh. Some of those men breathe fighting. They'll crush whoever you put forward — tear him apart and leave him spitting blood. That's reality." He gave a long sigh. "Besides, it's late. We're tired. But fine. If you insist, we'll give you your little show. I'll even pick one who'll end it fast."
Dane leaned in close, whispering something at James' ear, his smile never faltering. James listened, exhaled once, and nodded.
"Then call your best," James said. "Let's see if he's worthy."
The lead executive chuckled, turning back toward his own. He lifted his voice, sharp and carrying through the base.
"Hey! Squad members! Anyone willing for a one-on-one, step forward!"
The call rang out across the hall. A ripple of whispers tore through the Legion. Confusion, doubt, sharp breaths. Who? Who's fighting? What's happening here?
And then James made it clear.
"The one stepping forward from us… is Daniel Carter. He is the candidate to lead Shadow Legion. My time here is finished. If not him, then another. But it begins with him."
The words detonated. The Legion burst into whispers. The executives smiled at each other, entertained. Daniel's friends stiffened in shock — Ethan blurting, "What the hell does that mean?" Ryan muttering, "Leader? Daniel?" But Daniel didn't break stride. He walked toward the center, silent, carrying something heavier than any voice in the room.
A space cleared. A circle was forming.
From the crowd of executives, one man stepped forward. He was built like Daniel — broad-shouldered, young, but the lines of his muscles told a life of nothing but fights. The lead executive smirked. "He'll do. He'll finish this quick. Show the kid what the underworld really feels like."
Daniel reached the center. Only James and Dane stood close to him now, everyone else held back.
Dane pulled a bandage from his pocket and crouched slightly, wrapping it tight around Daniel's right hand. His voice was low, only for him.
"Remember this — the one who defends always holds the edge. But don't chain yourself to it. If he's stronger, don't hesitate to throw everything. You don't fight to survive tonight. You fight to own this place."
The bandage tugged tight. Dane's smile flickered, unreadable as ever.
James didn't speak. He only stood beside them, gaze fixed on the invisible ring forming around Daniel, his thoughts buried somewhere deep.
And then Daniel stepped forward.
PHASE 1
The circle tightened, shadows pressing in as the floor cleared. Daniel stood at the center now, a step apart from James and Dane. His fists slowly curled, the tape Dane had wound around his knuckles pulling tight. Across from him, his opponent loosened his shoulders, rolling his neck with a casual smirk. The man was broader, older, muscles cut deep like stone. His presence screamed confidence — not the reckless kind, but the kind built from countless brawls.
"End it fast," one of the executives muttered from the back.
The fighter gave a small nod and stepped forward. The air shifted instantly.
The first blow came like lightning. Daniel barely caught it, his forearm cracking against the man's fist, the impact rattling his bones. The force alone shoved him back a step, his heels dragging on the floor.
Another strike — a hook aimed straight for his temple. Daniel dipped under, sliding sideways. His instincts were sharp, his timing precise, but each dodge came at the cost of ground. The man wasn't holding back; he was pressing, heavy, trying to crush Daniel before he could even settle.
Daniel raised his guard, blocking a series of punches. Each one slammed through him, his ribs aching, his arms numbing. He didn't swing back — not yet. He couldn't. He was watching, reading, letting the storm hit him so he could find the cracks.
From the edge of the ring, Ethan's voice cracked out, panicked. "Daniel! Fight back!"
Daniel didn't look. He didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked, cold, tracking every movement.
The fighter's fist finally broke through, a brutal hook that smashed against Daniel's cheek. His vision blurred white, his lip splitting open. A sharp gasp cut through the crowd as blood sprayed from the corner of his mouth.
Rowan lurched forward but was caught by Logan's arm. "He'll—he'll get up," Logan muttered, though his voice shook.
The man didn't slow. He hammered a knee into Daniel's ribs, the sound sickening, sending pain stabbing through his chest. Daniel staggered back, clutching his side for a breath too long.
Dane's smile had faded, replaced with a silence rare for him. His eyes narrowed, watching Daniel stumble. "So this is it?" he murmured, almost to himself. "Was I wrong about him?"
James said nothing. His gaze didn't waver. He had seen countless fighters rise, and countless fall. His silence wasn't doubt — But something else.
The opponent drove forward, fists like hammers. Daniel caught one, twisted slightly to redirect it, but the follow-up blow came too fast — a clean cross that smashed into his jaw. His head snapped sideways, his body jolting before crashing down hard onto the floor.
The base froze.
The silence was suffocating.
The fighter didn't even pant. He stood tall, shaking out his hand as if the duel had been nothing more than practice. He turned to the executives, raising his eyebrows with a mocking grin, and lifted his hands in a gesture that said: Not even a warm-up.
Some of the executives chuckled, their voices low and sharp.
Among the Legion, though, not a sound came. They stood rooted, watching Daniel's body still on the ground.
Dane exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. The smirk he wore so often had vanished completely.
James didn't move. His hands were still folded across his chest. But in his eyes — sharp, unreadable — there was no sign of surprise.
And on the ground, Daniel's fingers twitched.