The Vowshade dynasty

After many days, sunlight finally fell upon the mountains; in its glow, everything in Murmansk was clearly visible—a stark contrast to the usual thick fog that often shrouded the landscape, rendering the mountains invisible. This region, with its lush trees and vegetation, is often described as a slice of paradise. Nestled within its beautiful valleys are charming, cottage-like homes, with mountain streams flowing beneath them, while the water cascading from distant waterfalls remains remarkably crystal clear. That a human could easily drink this water. Everyone wanted to see this earthly paradise, but it remained only a dream because even the birds and animals could not flap their wings without the permission of the mafia that ruled this area. The living beings here had to breathe accordingly to his will, and if anyone went against his will, he would make them leave this world. It was known about him that he made friends from heart but held enmity with all his heart and soul. Before taking enmity from him, anyone would definitely look at his family once because that beast would make them orphans or he wouldn't hesitate for a moment to make a woman a widow. The sound of a single gunshot echoed through the mountains, startling the birds perched in the trees and sending them into sudden flight; the bullet sped straight toward the glass object hanging directly ahead... Shattering the bottle, the projectile struck the man standing behind it—right in the center of his forehead. He had a habit of hitting two targets with a single shot, and history bore witness that his aim never faltered. "Dump him in the mountains; there's going to be a feast for everyone today . . ."_ Sheer brutality. With these words, he tossed the sniper he was holding toward one of his men standing nearby, who caught it instantly. His men held absolute sway over this entire region; their influence stretched across the mountains, far and wide — a domain where mercy was entirely unknown. They would ruthlessly murder people for the sake of money. This gang was invariably behind the bomb blasts that plagued the country. They also carried out large-scale, illegal smuggling operations with complete impunity, right under the nose of the police. The police would frequently pursue them—those whom they would drag along and beat mercilessly. They possessed imported weaponry far more advanced than anything the police had, enabling them to seize control of the entire country in mere minutes and wreak havoc. Every major politician in the nation held their position only by the grace of this group; whoever received the backing of the 'Black panther Gang' would secure power. This was precisely why, despite numerous cases pending against them in court, no one could even lay a finger on this gang. "I need that girl in my custody as soon as possible, Black panther—I cannot wait any longer . . ." At that moment, he was shouting from the rooftop of the tallest building in Murmansk, while his security guards stood watch below, weapons in hand. Upon hearing this, the person on the other end remained silent for a few moments. "Are you listening, Black panther . . .?" Seeing him remain silent, he spoke again, "I hear you, but as for what you’re asking of me . . . I neither can—nor will—do it." A deep, resonant voice came from the other end: "Why can't you? I’m certain you can pull it off . . . " The man on the receiving end let out a laugh—or something like it—so incredulous that he pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it with utter disdain. "By placing such 'faith' in me for a task as trivial as this, you are insulting the Black panther". Black panther is capable of all manner of illicit deeds, but . . ." " . . .to target a woman—that, he considers an affront to his own adulthood. Next time, if there’s a task worthy of a man, do remember to call—Black panther will be at your service." With that, he abruptly ended the call. He felt a burning urge to go and riddle the man with bullets, but that was a fantasy that could only ever exist in a dream. On the other end . . . One couldn't even meet his gaze; even after securing such a powerful position in politics, the fear of that gangster still coursed through his veins like blood. "Black panther..." Standing in an open field, he patted the back of his horse as he prepared to ride. There were other horses present as well; a special race was set to take place that day. Before it even began, everyone knew that—as always—the seasoned veteran of this game, 'The Beast,' would emerge victorious. Dante came and stood behind him, folding his hands in a respectful manner. He was Black Panther's most trusted man; if anyone’s word held authority there—second only to Black Panther’s—it was Dante's. "Hmm...?" He asked, his query brief, as he mounted the horse. The other man began to relay some important information, and as he listened, a reaction appeared on the black panther’s forehead . . . His brow furrowed; a surge of rage rose within him toward the man who was hell-bent on making him perform a task he had never undertaken in his entire life. It wasn’t that the task was difficult for him—rather, he was a man, and he preferred doing the kind of work suited for men. "Fine . . . tell him his job will be done. Find that girl and hand her over to Jilani." He agreed to Dante’s request immediately—not merely because the man was his trusted associate, but because there existed another bond between them—one that Black Panther held dearer than any other relationship. Yet, when it came to business, the man was nothing more than his trusted associate. "But, Black panther . . . they only deal with you directly . . ." The man said, his head bowed, his voice low. "Whether I handle it or you do, it makes no difference. If he agrees, fine—otherwise, it’s six hundred billion." "The loss isn't all that great . . ." He said, spurring his horse into a gallop. A mischievous smile began to dance upon his lips. There was no blood tie between them, yet the love they shared ran deeper—coursing through their veins, intertwined with every single drop of blood . . .. . . . . . . It was the City of London, where a club was packed with people; the space was ablaze with a profusion of glittering lights. The atmosphere of the club was thick with the scent of cologne, mingled with an overwhelming, pungent air of indecency. Everywhere—among both men and women—attire was woefully insufficient to cover the body. In the hands of these quivering figures, glasses of wine sloshed, their contents spilling over. Just then, cutting through the thumping, high-intensity beat of the DJ’s music, the sharp click-clack of someone’s heels echoed out. She wore a form-fitting dress that reached just above her knees; instead of sleeves, there were merely two thin straps on her shoulders, leaving her fair, radiant arms fully exposed. Her golden-blonde hair, illuminated by the streetlights, swayed in the breeze. Without a doubt, she was the most stunning woman among those present. Making her way through the crowd, she went straight to the bartender. Seeing her approach, he prepared a glass—one in which the concentration of the intoxicant was significantly higher than in the others. Taking the glass from the young man’s hand, she downed the entire contents in a single gulp; yet, the craving within her remained unquenched. She poured glass after glass for herself, paying no heed to the people dancing around her; her only objective was to extinguish the burning fire within—a fire that kept her restless throughout the night. Nearby, a man took a woman to a side sofa and began engaging in animalistic intimacy. Such things were the norm here; there was no sense of discretion. Having witnessed these scenes repeatedly, she had become completely desensitized—no emotions stirred within her. Finding the entire atmosphere increasingly toxic, she made her way out of the club with unsteady steps. Just then, her mobile phone began to ring. Through half-lidded eyes, she glanced at the name glowing on the screen: "Miss Hitler." Seeing the name, her brow furrowed even more deeply. Reluctantly, she answered the call and held the phone to her ear. "How are you, my dear?" A middle-aged woman’s cheerful voice rang out. "Your 'dear' is . . . in . . . agony," she replied, rubbing her eyes, clearly heavily intoxicated. The woman on the other end fell silent for a moment. "Have you been drinking again?" she asked, her tone sharpening. "W-well... I drink every day, Mrs. Jilani." "Every day?" "I... I use it to . . . extinguish the fire burning inside me." The other woman’s stern tone had no effect on her. "Why are you putting yourself through such torment? Give up these sinful habits." By the end, her voice betrayed a sense of helplessness; sitting all the way in Russia, she had no control over her daughter. "Keep your lecture to yourself! It’s not like we’re going to come back into this world a second time, right? So, why not just enjoy it to the fullest?" She burst into loud, boisterous laughter. Her mother squeezed her eyes shut in anguish; the girl had completely slipped beyond her control. Suddenly, as someone walked past, the girl froze mid-laugh—her eyes filling with a sharp, shattered pain. Just then, a handsome young man approached from behind. "Hey, Aria! How are you, baby?" He placed his arm around her waist—a gesture she couldn't shake off. Her mother was still on call. "No, I’m not good . . ." Ending the call, the man—still holding her—led her toward his car. He opened the front door, helped her inside, and then . . . She sat down in the driver’s seat. Thomas was feeling exceptionally happy about spending time with her; the moment Aria settled into the car, he leaned toward her lips—but she pushed him away in one swift motion. "Relax, baby . . . we’ll do it at the flat." With a sultry, languid tone, she turned the key in the ignition. Meanwhile, Thomas ran his hand along her bare thigh, trying to soothe the burning desires surging within him. For him, even five minutes with Aria were nothing short of a privilege—in fact, most of the wealthy, handsome 'princes' who frequented that club longed for her closeness . . .. . . .