The Path Of A True King.-Chapter 17: The Changing of Power.

Chapter 57:

The air was thick with the scent of blood and gunpowder.

Screams had long faded into silence, leaving only the eerie hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Tristan stood in the dimly lit office of the gambling house, his presence as suffocating as the thick smoke that hung in the air.

Behind him, his men held the surviving gang members at gunpoint, their faces twisted in fear, their knees weak from the weight of death looming over them.

The manager, a wiry man with sweat pooling at his temples, fumbled with his phone.

His fingers trembled as he dialed the boss’s number.

The ringing seemed to stretch on forever, the silence in the room pressing down like a vice.

Finally, someone picked up—but it wasn’t the boss.

"What the hell is happening over there?" the manager blurted out, desperation cracking his voice.

A panicked voice answered, barely audible over the distant sounds of chaos. "We’re under attack! The whole damn base is being torn apart—" A sudden gunshot cut the caller off, followed by a gurgling noise, then silence. The line went dead.

The manager’s face drained of color.

His phone slipped from his grasp, clattering against the wooden desk.

His gaze darted to Tristan, who remained as still as a predator before the kill.

"Seems like you won’t be getting any reinforcements," Tristan said, his voice smooth, almost amused.

The gang members behind the manager stiffened, their expressions shifting from confusion to outright terror.

Their stronghold was crumbling, their leader unreachable.

The reality was setting in—they were standing at the edge of a precipice, and Tristan was the one deciding whether they fell.

Tristan tilted his head toward the men restrained behind him. "Your little empire is done. You can either kneel and accept new management or—"

He gestured with his gun to the corpses lying on the floor. "Join them."

The room was suffocatingly silent.

Then, one by one, the gang members dropped to their knees, their pride crumbling under the weight of survival.

The manager hesitated, sweat beading down his forehead as he looked for any possible way out. But there was none.

Tristan stepped forward, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol against the manager’s forehead. "What’s it gonna be?"

The manager swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "I—I’ll do whatever you want."

Tristan smirked. "Good choice."

He snapped his fingers, and one of his men produced a stack of documents—the official ownership transfers of the gambling houses and underground fighting rings.

At that moment, the doors swung open, and Law stepped in, a sharp grin on his face. "Brought the papers, just like you asked."

Tristan took the documents, flipping through them briefly before sliding them across the desk. "Sign them. All of it now belongs to Elijah."

The manager hesitated, but a firm nudge from a pistol to his ribs had him scrambling for a pen.

With shaky hands, he scrawled his signature on each page, his fate sealed with ink.

Tristan took the signed documents, tapped them neatly against the desk, and handed them to Law. "Make sure these get to Elijah."

Law nodded, tucking the papers into his coat.

Tristan turned back to the manager and the kneeling men. "Consider yourselves lucky. You’re still breathing. But remember this—you work for Elijah now. Step out of line, and I’ll personally see to it that you regret it."

He holstered his gun and stepped away, letting the tension linger. "Clean up this mess."

The moment Tristan exited the office, he was greeted by the sound of doors being thrown open.

His ten men entered, dragging bodies behind them.

Among the prisoners, one stood out—Ronan ’The Butcher’ Vasquez, bloodied, bruised, but still alive.

He was barely conscious, his breath labored as he was tossed onto the floor like discarded meat.

Some of the surviving gang members stirred at the sight of Ronan, their eyes widening in horror.

They had held onto the belief that he was their trump card, the one who could turn the tide.

Seeing him in such a state shattered whatever hope they had left.

Tristan crouched next to Ronan, gripping his jaw and forcing the man to meet his gaze.

"Recognize him?" he asked, directing his words at the kneeling gang members.

A few of them swallowed hard, nodding hesitantly.

"This is what happens to those who stand against us." Tristan’s voice was calm, but the weight behind his words sent shivers through the air.

"You can either fall in line, or you can end up like him."

Ronan let out a weak, bitter chuckle. "Is this why..." he rasped.

Tristan’s smirk widened as he released Ronan’s jaw and stood up. "Yes."

He turned to his men. "Take him to the warehouse. Elijah will decide his fate."

Two of his men nodded, hoisting Ronan to his feet and dragging him away.

The remaining gang members stayed frozen in place, their will completely broken.

Tristan turned to the rest of his team. "We’ve cleaned house here. We move out."

As they exited the gambling house, the cold night air hit them, sharp and crisp.

The city’s streets were quieter than usual, the underworld aware that something had shifted tonight.

They had taken over one of the biggest revenue streams in the gangless area without losing a single man.

Law lit a cigarette, taking a long drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke. "You think they’ll stay loyal?"

Tristan scoffed. "Fear is a powerful motivator. But if they try anything, we make an example out of them."

Law grinned. "Fair enough."

As Tristan climbed into the lead vehicle, he pulled out his phone and sent a single message to Elijah: ’It’s done.’

Their next target was already set.

They weren’t stopping here.

Tonight was just the beginning.

The convoy moved through the streets like silent predators, their headlights slicing through the darkness. They were heading to were Elijah and the others are attacking, Tristan was going under Kai’s orders.

If anything goes bad, Tristan will be their back up because Kai was confident that Tristan would finish much faster then anyone.