The Night the Watchdogs Kneel
The banquet hall doors closed behind me.
I didn't look back, but I could imagine the few seconds of deathly silence inside—their brains frantically scrambling to find excuses, telling themselves "this isn't possible."
But excuses were always meant for the weak.
I walked into the rainy night as my phone vibrated—an encrypted line.
My secretary's voice came through, reverent as if crawling along the ground: "Your Majesty, the car is positioned, route is clear. Shadow Consortium headquarters' top floor has been evacuated."
I replied flatly: "Good."
The car door opened and I settled into the back seat. Raindrops hammered the windows like meaningless drumbeats. I closed my eyes to rest, too lazy to waste any emotion on the Carter family rabble.
They would rage in humiliation.
They would find excuses.
They would paint me as a thief, a cheat, someone propped up by borrowed artifacts.
This was normal. Idiots never admit to being crushed—they desperately coat reality with sugar.
The car had barely traveled two blocks when my phone vibrated again.
I opened my eyes to see the sender: Kevin.
He'd sent me a lengthy message.
I opened it, the cold screen light reflecting off my knuckles.
"Ethan, I know you must be hurting right now. Truth is, Cynthia and I don't want to make this ugly. Your bloodline is too low—that's not your fault. The Moon Goddess was never fair."
I continued reading.
"But you should accept your fate. Someone like you should be grateful just to stay near her. Did you really think she'd bear your children? Now she's furious, and Alpha Carter is enraged. If you're smart, get back here before the rain gets worse. Crawl to the door and beg her forgiveness. I'll put in a good word for you."
The final line was like spitting:
"Otherwise, when the blacklist comes down, a worthless lowblood like you will rot in the streets with no one to collect your corpse."
I finished reading without even a ripple of emotion.
Like watching an insect about to be crushed, writhing frantically in a shoe's shadow, trying to frighten away a human with its tiny fangs.
I placed the phone in my palm and closed my fingers.
Crack—
Body, screen, and motherboard shattered together. Fragments pierced my palm, but I was too lazy to even bleed. I casually opened the car window and tossed the garbage into the rain.
The car fell quiet again.
The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror, immediately looked away, and gripped the steering wheel more steadily.
They thought blacklists could determine life and death.
But the place I was heading was precisely their so-called "unbeatable trump card."
Meanwhile, I didn't need to witness it personally to know: the Carter family was going insane.
Cynthia would shriek, would smash glasses, would treat my departure as a slow torture of her authority.
Alpha Carter would desperately save face, telling everyone I couldn't possibly withstand his pressure—I must have stolen some high-grade defensive artifact.
They had to say this.
Otherwise they'd have to admit—the dog in their eyes had walked out without even wagging its tail.
I sat in the car, letting city lights stretch into lines through the rain.
Years ago, I was willing to bow my head because I treated the "mate contract" as sacred faith.
But three years ago, when she demanded at the altar that I wait three years for her to bear Kevin's heir, my faith died.
Tonight I simply buried the corpse.
Now it was their turn.
Shadow Consortium headquarters appeared in view.
A building thrust into the night sky like a blade, its glass curtain walls reflecting the city's lights. The outside world called it "the black throne of North American werewolf commerce"—countless families knelt begging for cooperation agreements.
The car stopped.
I stepped out, rainwater flowing off my coat, cold and clean.
The guards at the entrance saw my face and instantly bowed their heads in unison, even softening their breathing.
I didn't pause.
The private elevator already glowed green, like a throat opened in advance.
During the ascent, there was no music, only subtle mechanical sounds. When I reached the top floor and the doors opened, the entire corridor was filled with kneeling figures.
They pressed their foreheads to the carpet, as if welcoming some ancient arrival.
I stepped over their shadows and walked to the door at the far end.
I pushed it open.
The CEO's office blazed with light.
A man stood before the desk—Shadow Consortium's public figurehead. Outside rumors claimed he was ruthlessly decisive, that even pure-blood Alphas bowed before him.
But the moment he saw me, his pupils contracted sharply, as if witnessing the sky's collapse.
The next second—
Thud!
His knees slammed into the carpet with no hesitation whatsoever.
He prostrated himself extremely low, forehead nearly touching my shoe tips, voice trembling with barely contained fervor and terror:
"This subordinate respectfully welcomes my King!"
I stopped before him, looking down.
I didn't need to release pressure.
They would kneel on their own.
"Rise," I said flatly. "Don't waste time. Show me the latest intelligence."
He didn't dare stand, only knelt while holding a tablet above his head with hands shaking like leaves in wind.
On the screen, a just-delivered communication filled the page.
Sender: Carter Family.
Subject: Joint Blacklist Request.
Every line of content was written with abject humility, like beggars crawling at doorsteps licking dust—humbly requesting Shadow Consortium's intervention to blacklist "traitor Ethan," willing to offer channels and profits in exchange for "thunderous execution."
Seeing that line about "humbly requesting," I couldn't help but curve my lips slightly.
"They want to borrow my hand to kill me."
The figurehead's spine instantly tensioned, cold sweat sliding from his temples: "My King, this subordinate failed in duty, allowing filth to reach your presence—this subordinate is willing to sever an arm in penance!"
"Unnecessary." I tossed the tablet back onto the desk and sat in the main seat.
That black-gold chair symbolizing Shadow Consortium's highest authority settled under me stable as a throne, as if it had always belonged to me.
I interlaced my fingers, voice calm: "The dormancy order I gave you—you've executed it for three years. Now it's lifted."
He jerked his head up, eyes igniting like fire: "My King, you mean... officially act?"
"Yes." I looked toward the rainy night outside. "Agree to their terms."
He froze.
I added the second half: "Accept everything. Tell the Carter family that Shadow Consortium is willing to cooperate. Tomorrow morning, invite Cynthia and Kevin to headquarters to sign the blacklist agreement against me."
The figurehead's breathing stopped for a beat, then his eyes flooded with nearly cruel excitement: "This subordinate understands."
They would think they'd obtained a butcher's blade.
But they didn't know this blade's handle had always been in my grasp.
I leaned back in the chair, tone like arranging a business meeting: "Make the main hall presentable. Let them think they're sitting in judgment."
"Yes, my King!"
The figurehead retreated with light steps, as if afraid to dirty the air.
The office fell quiet again.
I gazed out the window at the city lights below, floating like a restless sea.
Just then, massive engine roars came from the rooftop helipad direction, hurricane winds sweeping the glass, making the floor-to-ceiling windows tremble slightly.
I looked up.
That wasn't the sound of an ordinary helicopter.
That was the Supreme Luna's transport.
She had arrived.
Bringing my pure-blood twins.
Coming to welcome her King.
My lips curved slightly upward, but my eyes grew colder.
Tomorrow morning, Cynthia and Kevin would stride in here with high spirits, prepared to sign a death warrant under "Shadow Consortium's" witness.
Of course, they didn't know the warrant bore no trace of my name.
