The stars barely blinked through the heavy night clouds above the Yazumèi estate, yet the mansion below was alive.
Lights hummed softly behind tall windows, and guards in dark coats patrolled the outer perimeter like wolves keeping intruders at bay. Inside, the once-feared home of Seamus Yazumèi now thrummed with new leadership—a young king in the making.
Kaz stood on the rooftop balcony overlooking the estate.
Dressed in a loose black hoodie and sweatpants, his usual bravado gave way to quiet contemplation. The mob summit had ended hours ago, but the weight of it clung to his shoulders like a soaked cloak. The looks, the whispers, the subtle barbs—he had expected them. But that last moment, that broadcast, still echoed in his mind.
The Ferryman. A name that didn't belong to any known syndicate.
A declaration of war not just against the Sharks, but against the very system of the underworld.
Behind him, the glass doors slid open.
"Yo," Jamie grunted, carrying two mugs of coffee. "Thought you could use a real drink. Not whatever Amy puts in those cutesy mugs."
Kaz chuckled. "If it has sugar, it's a war crime to her."
Jamie handed him a mug. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the distant city lights flicker like embers.
"You killed it tonight, little bro," Jamie said. "Dad would've been proud."
Kaz nodded, but his eyes didn't leave the skyline. "We stirred the hornet's nest. Now the stingers are coming."
"Good," Jamie muttered. "Let 'em. We got fangs." Before Kaz could respond, a sharp alarm pinged on the estate's outer perimeter system. A red light blinked near the east gate. "What the hell?" Jamie muttered.
They both turned and moved fast. Within minutes, the family stood in the front courtyard, weapons on standby, as a single black vehicle rolled through the gate, escorted reluctantly by two Shark guards.
The car stopped. The door opened.
Out stepped a tall, imposing figure.
"No way," Vali muttered.
Marx the Spiral. Dressed in a matte suit with no tie, his golden eyes burned beneath his shaved head. The very air around him seemed to twist with residual force. He held no weapon—he didn't need one.
"Kazunai Yazumèi," Marx called, voice rich and thunderous. "You held your tongue at the summit. Now I want to see your fangs."
Kaz raised a brow. "You came all the way here for a fight?"
Marx smirked. "A friendly duel. No politics. No kill shots. But I want to see what fire you carry."
Jamie stepped forward. "And if we say no?"
"Then I find my entertainment elsewhere. But make no mistake—this challenge is for your future Don. Not for you."
Kaz stepped forward. "I accept." The courtyard cleared, forming a wide circle.
Kaz cracked his knuckles. "Let's see what all the hype's about."
The moment Kaz launched forward, black flames erupted from his arms, forming claw-like gauntlets that cracked the stone underfoot. Marx didn't move.
Instead, he let Kaz strike first—a barrage of wild swings. Each hit connected with Marx's body, but instead of damage, there was a ripple, like hitting a drum. The force vanished into Marx's frame.
Kaz leaped back. "You just let me hit you?"
Marx grinned. "I store impact. And I return it."
In an instant, Marx slammed his foot down. The ground beneath Kaz exploded, sending him flying backward. Mid-air, Kaz twisted, black fire propelling from his feet like jets, correcting his trajectory.
He landed and skidded. His smile widened.
"Now we're talking."
Marx charged. He moved like a cannonball, every step launching dust and gravel into the air. Kaz ducked, weaved, countered—his flames clashing against the coiled kinetic force of Marx.
They fought like two elements incarnate. Fire and pressure. Rage and precision.
When Marx finally landed a palm against Kaz's chest, the resulting blast sent the younger Yazumèi through three stone pillars.
"Still standing?" Marx asked.
Kaz coughed, blood trickling from his mouth. But he grinned, fire licking from his wounds.
"Is that all you got, old man?"
They clashed again. The estate shook.
And by the end, both stood, breathing heavily, bruised but grinning.
"You pass," Marx said. "But the Ferryman's coming. Don't die before we can really fight."
He turned and left, just as silently as he came.
Elsewhere, Toma stood in the minimalist yet sterile office of her mother's base.
"So you decided to answer," her mother said, sipping wine. "You always did love theatrics."
"You called me," Toma replied coldly.
Her mother paced toward the wall, where photos of mob alliances, dead rivals, and maps of influence hung like war trophies.
"Kaz is in over his head."
"And I suppose you're going to offer a life raft?" Toma snapped.
"No. I'm offering clarity. You have my blood. Not theirs. I raised you to lead. Not to follow."
Toma didn't answer. Her heart was a warzone. She admired Kaz. Believed in him. But the cracks were showing. Could he really lead them through this?
"Consider your options," her mother whispered. "Before loyalty becomes your coffin."
Back at the Yazumèi training grounds, Kimara twirled her twin daggers, the blades catching moonlight and scattering it across the cobblestones. Amy spun her kinetic batons, pink energy humming with every rotation.
The Frostviel Sabrelynx—still small but growing—watched from a rock nearby, its silver-blue fur pulsing with bioluminescence.
"Ready?" Amy smirked.
"Born ready Sis."
They clashed.
Flashy, precise, and beautiful—their sparring dance was equal parts art and violence. Amy ducked and twirled, using her baton's kinetic pulse to launch herself over Kimara's swipes. Kimara slid beneath a sweep and sent icy shards erupting from the ground.
Their strikes were loud, but their laughter louder. For a moment, it wasn't war. It was just two girls training, surviving.
At the end, they collapsed in the grass, sweating and laughing.
"You're amazing," Kimara whispered. "Kaz has brought girls home before. But none like you." Amy blushed. "I'm not going anywhere. Not until the end."
Later that night, the family gathered in the living room. The fire crackled. The TV murmured quietly.
Kaz entered, bandaged but smirking.
"Good fight?" Kimara asked.
"Felt like getting hit by a truck that hated me."
They laughed.
Suddenly, the screen flickered.
Static. Then darkness. Then a voice.
"Your time is over."
The image of a faceless figure appeared, shrouded in shadow, eyes glowing faintly.
"The underworld rots. You cling to crowns forged in blood and greed. But the Ferryman comes for all. Your empires, your armies, your names—ashes in the tide."
The camera panned to a man bound and gagged—a minor mob boss.
Then, without ceremony, his body froze, turned to crystal, and shattered.
"Let this be the first toll."
The screen went black. Kaz stood slowly. Everyone else sat in silence. "War is here," he said. The game had begun.