They Took My Daughter’s Heart

At the very peak of Empyrean Summit, where the wind scoured stone like a blade and clouds rolled beneath the feet of men, Dylan Brooks was standing before a lectern carved from rare rosewood, his posture calm, his expression unreadable. For years, this place had been untouched by the noise of the outside world. Here, power spoke softly, and authority never needed to raise its voice. Then the phone vibrated. The sound was faint, almost intrusive, like a wrong note in a perfectly tuned instrument. Dylan frowned slightly and picked it up. On the other end came a child’s voice—small, trembling, soaked in fear and tears. “Daddy… are you Daddy? Mommy has been locked up. They won’t let her out…” The words were disjointed, breathless, as if the speaker were afraid that even speaking would cost her something precious. “They… they said they’re going to take my heart. Mommy told me to call this number and find Daddy. Daddy, please save me…” For a moment, Dylan didn’t speak. His eyes narrowed, not with anger yet, but with confusion. “Hey there,” he said slowly, keeping his voice steady. “What’s your name, kiddo?” “My name is Gabrielle Brooks. Mommy calls me Gabby. Mommy’s name is Sophie Walker… are you my Daddy?” The world seemed to split open. The name hit him like a thunderclap in a clear sky. Sophie Walker. Five years. It had been five full years since he had last heard that name spoken aloud. He had buried it deep, sealed behind layers of discipline and silence, convinced that it belonged to a past life he had already severed. And now it was back. In an instant, memories surged up like a broken dam—late nights lit by city glow, whispered promises, a woman’s quiet strength, the warmth of a hand he had once sworn never to forget. Before he could respond, a harsh voice burst through the line. “You little bastard! Who are you calling?” There was a sharp, ugly sound—skin striking skin—followed by a cry abruptly cut short. The next second came the unmistakable c***k of plastic shattering. The line went dead. Dylan’s hand tightened around the phone. The air around him changed. “Who,” he said softly, his voice dropping to a register that made the temperature seem to fall, “dared to touch my daughter?” The killing intent he had restrained for decades erupted. With a thunderous roar, the rosewood lectern before him disintegrated into fine dust, scattering across the stone floor as if struck by an invisible explosion. Without another word, Dylan turned and walked out of the hall. No—he didn’t walk. He vanished. Dozens of people rose to their feet in unison. These were not ordinary students. Each one of them was a legend in their own right. Among them stood a warlord undefeated on every battlefield he had ever entered, a ruler who controlled a nation through shadow and steel, a magnate whose wealth could shake global markets, a physician capable of restoring flesh to bone, and an executioner whose name alone emptied cities. They shared one thing in common. They were the final disciples of Dylan Brooks. Today should have been a day of instruction, of insight passed down from master to student. Instead, something had shattered the stillness they revered. A man in full military dress moved first. Five silver stars gleamed on his shoulder. “Mobilize!” roared Thomas Reed, his voice echoing like cannon fire. “Prepare the helicopter immediately. Issue my command—every available unit is to stand by. Air support, armored divisions, everything that can move, moves. Full support for our master, at all times!” He was already running before the last word left his mouth. Another figure slammed his fist into the table, eyes blazing. “Someone has the audacity to provoke him?” he snarled. “Send word. Every mercenary outfit in the Tri-Zone deploys immediately. We move with the full weight of a nation. Whoever crossed that line—dies.” Voices overlapped, commands stacking atop one another. “Notify Divine Herb Vale. Every healer, every poison master, out of the valley. From this moment on, whoever stands against our master is our mortal enemy.” “Contact Nether Court. All operations suspended. Drop everything. Losses don’t matter—get to our master now.” “Liquidate assets from Riverton Group. All of it. Eight hundred billion dollars on standby, no questions asked.” “Reach out to all affiliates. Every disciple. Let them know—our master has descended the mountain.” The world began to move. Far away, in Kingsley, inside the estate of the Nolan family of Kingsley, a very different scene unfolded. A little girl barely four years old was strapped to a cold operating table. The metal beneath her stole warmth from her thin body, sending shivers through her limbs. Her cheeks were pale, her lips colorless, tear tracks drying on skin too young to know suffering. “If… if you take my blood,” she whispered weakly, “will you let Mommy and me go home?” Beside the table stood a soft mattress. On it lay a young boy, his complexion just as pale, cradled in the arms of a nurse. His eyes were fixed on the girl, unblinking. A man stood nearby, his smile sharp and cruel. “So that woman’s bastard child shares the same rare blood,” sneered Matthew Nolan. “I almost admire the irony.” Rh-negative blood—so rare it was often called panda blood. That rarity had made the girl indispensable. Whenever his son weakened, she was dragged back onto the operating table. Again and again, her blood was taken, filling bag after bag, sustaining a life that was never hers. Over time, her small body grew frailer. At four years old, she looked no older than a toddler. Her strength was draining away drop by drop. Matthew Nolan looked down at her, eyes cold. “My son was born with a defective heart,” he said casually. “I’ve wanted a replacement for years. But a compatible heart with panda blood? Nearly impossible.” He smiled wider. “Until you were born. Blood bank. Spare parts. That’s all you were ever meant to be.” The doctor beside him—Dr. Taylor—adjusted his gloves without emotion. “Proceed,” Matthew ordered. “Drain her completely. Then take the heart. This is the final time—draw extra. My son will need it after surgery.” “Yes, sir.” The needle slid in. Blood flowed. The girl clenched her teeth, refusing to scream. Her vision blurred. The world felt heavy, distant. Fifty milliliters. One hundred. Two hundred. More. Far more than any adult should give, let alone a child. The bag filled. Then another. Then another still. “D-Doctor…” her voice trembled. “Gabby is tired. It hurts. Please… stop.” She turned her eyes toward Matthew, searching his face for mercy that wasn’t there. “You said I could go home,” she whispered. “I miss Mommy…” She didn’t understand what a heart meant. She thought this was just more blood. Just one more painful thing before she could leave. Matthew laughed softly. “Go home?” he said. “After this? Don’t be stupid. Once your heart’s out, I’ll deal with your mother next. I’ve been waiting to break that woman for a long time.” He waved a hand. “Do it.” The surgical blade gleamed under the lights. The girl’s breath hitched. “What… what are you doing?” she whimpered. Fear finally breaking through the fog of pain. “I’m scared… please… I’m cold…” She sobbed, calling out names that echoed uselessly in the sterile room. “Mommy… Daddy… where are you…?” The blade descended. Pain exploded. Her screams tore through the air, thin and desperate, until her voice cracked and faded. Bound to the table, she could only shake, tears streaming, consciousness slipping away. Through the haze, her thoughts clung to two faces. Her mother. And the father she had never met. As her world dimmed, a storm unlike any other raced toward Kingsley—one born of blood, fury, and a promise that should never have been broken.