Chapter 95 The Blood of the Heirs

Chapter 95 The Blood of the Heirs
The blinding flash of superheated plasma and shattered titanium entirely consumed the entrance of the subterranean war room.

Those heavy impenetrable doors got violently, explosively blown completely inward, sending this massive shockwave of smoke, fire, and twisted metal tearing straight through the absolute nerve center of the Vance Syndicate.

Through the thick burning haze, six heavily armored Archangel operatives stormed in. Suppressed assault rifles up, sweeping for some kind of target. They thought they were walking into a terrified, cowering teenager.

Instead, they met the absolute, lethal perfection of the prince.

Our fifteen-year-old son didn’t flinch for a single microsecond, like none of it even registered. Standing flawlessly right in the middle of the room, icy-blue eyes totally hollow of panic, he turned his terrifying calculating intellect into a weapon. He didn’t shoot blindly into smoke, no. He immediately computed the exact kinetic geometry of the breach, as if he had time travel in his pocket.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

His sleek custom-forged tactical handgun barked, deafening and rhythmic, like it was locked into some brutal rhythm of fate. He moved with this blinding, effortless grace that was basically in the bloodline. Dropped his shoulder, sliding perfectly behind the thick reinforced glass of the glowing tactical table as return fire violently shattered the monitors above his head. He didn’t waste a single bullet. Every time he pivoted from cover, a heavy-caliber round found the unprotected visor of an Archangel operative.

Four bodies hit the polished floor in less than three seconds. No hesitation, no drama, just done.

“Flank him! He’s pinned!" the deep-state lieutenant roared, signaling the second wave flooding through the smoking breach.

Our son, calmly like it was a rehearsal, ejected the spent magazine and then slotted a fresh one in with that terrifyingly smooth kinetic motion. But then the siege's reality started closing in. He was a flawless apex predator, sure, but he was completely, entirely outnumbered. Dozens of deep-state assassins were pouring through the subterranean tunnels, converging on his position.

Thousands of miles away, on the blood-soaked deck of the North Sea ocean fortress, Julian Vance and I didn’t wait around for some rescue that would probably be too late.

“The stealth choppers are too slow!” Julian roared, his massive chest heaving, pitch-black eyes completely drowned in a deeply unhinged, feral panic, for our son.

“Then we take their wings, my King!” I commanded flawlessly.

We sprinted across the rain-slicked steel grating toward a massive, heavily armed Archangel supersonic extraction jet on the secondary helipad. Two deep-state pilots were scrabbling to spool the engines, hands frantic.

Julian unchained the monster. He didn’t use boarding stairs, not even once. The Fallen King vaulted onto the wing, completely tearing the reinforced cockpit door off its hinges with bare calloused hands. He yanked the two screaming pilots out into the freezing storm and hurled them—roughly, brutally—over the edge of the fortress into black waves that churned like they wanted names.

I slipped into the co-pilot seat, repaired heart pounding with cold, unyielding, utterly absolute adrenaline.

“Burn the sky, Julian,” I swore, darkly, strapping into the tactical harness.

Julian’s massive hands seized the flight controls. He slammed thrusters to their absolute maximum, and the stolen Archangel jet launched violently off the platform, shattering the sound barrier as we carved a blazing supersonic trajectory straight toward the Swiss Alps, bringing the ultimate world-ending wrath of the Kings back home.

But back at the Vance mountain chateau, survival—our bloodline’s survival—rested on a razor’s edge.

In the war room, our son’s handgun clicked empty. He’d exhausted his ammunition, the floor littered with deep-state bodies. A massive archangel enforcer vaulted over the shattered glass table, raising his heavy assault rifle directly at the prince's chest.

Our son didn’t close his eyes. He stood flawlessly, icy-blue gaze unbroken, as if the universe had to negotiate.

Then—suddenly—an earth-shattering kinetic impact shook the mountain’s foundation completely, all at once.

Outside, in the freezing courtyard, our daughter didn’t bother with landing thrusters.

The little Queen gave in to gravity and vengeance. She drove the multi-billion-dollar Vance stealth chopper into a terrifying gravity-defying dive, crashing it hard into the chateau’s snow-covered courtyard.

The deafening explosive impact instantly crushed the perimeter vanguard PMC squad under tons of burning, twisted stealth armor.

Before the flaming wreckage even finished settling, the reinforced side door got kicked violently open.

Our daughter stepped out into the howling alpine blizzard, completely unharmed. Her pitch-black designer gown was ripped, but she looked like something worse than unstoppable—dark eyes burning with an unhinged feral hellfire that mirrored her father’s soul perfectly. She drew her twin custom combat blades.

She didn’t “enter” the chateau so much as become a blinding supersonic blur of absolute slaughter.

She breached the subterranean tunnels leading to the war room, weaponizing her flawless kinetic agility in real time. She dropped her hips cleanly and slid across blood-slicked marble floors. Then, channeling explosive rotational momentum from my Olympic legacy, she spun violently—severing tendons, shattering knees, and completely dismantling the heavily armored deep-state squads blocking her path.

It was a breathtaking, brutal blade massacre. She left this absolute trail of broken, bleeding bodies in her wake, tearing through the deep-state army like a dark, unstoppable force of nature.

Back inside the war room, the Archangel enforcer’s finger tightened on the trigger of his rifle.

Before he could fire even a single round, a heavy, blood-soaked combat blade erupted straight through the center of his chest from behind.

The enforcer choked, his weapon dropping to the floor as he collapsed, lifelessly. 

Standing behind him, kind of out of breath, her twin blades still dripping with fresh crimson, was the little queen, no doubt, no pause. 

Our son looked at his twin sister, that flawless, terrifying smirk finally curving at his lips. "You're late." 

"I had to park the chopper," she answered coldly, stepping perfectly to his side, like it was choreographed or something. 

The remaining deep-state operatives in the tunnel froze in absolute paralyzing terror, like their bodies forgot how to move, as they stared at the two fifteen-year-old heirs standing back-to-back in that ruined war room. The icy-blue intellect and the pitch-black hellfire had… you know, converged completely. The unbreakable bond of the Vance bloodline was tested in blood, and they were entirely, absolutely invincible. 

Our daughter tossed a heavy, stolen tactical handgun overhand to her brother. He caught it flawlessly out of the air, then racked the slide with a blinding kinetic motion, fast like a reflex. 

"The Archangel Directive wanted a war," our son said, steady as if he had practiced it. His eyes locked onto the terrified operatives. 

"Let's completely bury them," our daughter vowed, lifting her bloody twin blades. 

The two generations of apex predators were completely, entirely unleashed. And as the stolen supersonic jet carrying the Kings violently crossed the Swiss border, the deep state was about to learn exactly why the earth belonged exclusively to the Vance Syndicate.