The Path Of A True King.
Chapter 55: Meeting

Chapter 55: Meeting

Chapter 94

Seasoned meat, fluffy rice, and a hint of sweet soy sauce curled through the air like an invisible hug. Even the walls seemed to lean in, eager for a bite.

Plates clinked. Steam rose like miniature smoke signals from the dishes.

The overhead light flickered once in protest—then decided, fine, it would contribute to the ambiance—and bathed the kitchen in a golden glow.

The earlier tension in the room didn’t vanish, but it did take a coffee break.

Elijah sat at the end of the table like some half-retired war general, his plate a small mountain of dumplings and grilled meat, stacked with the precision of a man who’d fought too many battles to waste time with cutlery.

Jack was slouched beside Amy, poking a fried dumpling like it had personally insulted him.

"So," Jack said, fork poised like a fencing foil, "you’re telling me this pink-haired kid dies and then comes back with a sword big enough to file a building permit?"

Amy let out the kind of groan that required shoulder movement. "Not exactly! He becomes a Soul Reaper. It’s not about the sword, it’s about the spiritual obligations. He has rules now."

"Oh yeah, real deep," Jack replied. "’I swing sword, therefore I grow.’ Why does everyone in these shows level up by screaming and losing their shirt?"

Elijah snorted mid-bite, which was unfortunate timing.

He hacked into his napkin like a dying kazoo, then reached for his water. "I mean, he’s not wrong. Shirt explosions are apparently a power-up mechanic now."

Amy hurled a napkin at Elijah’s head. "You guys don’t get it! It’s symbolic. They’re shedding emotional layers!"

"Is that what we’re calling it?" Elijah wheezed. "Because some of them need therapy, not more abs."

From across the table, Stella dabbed her lips with a napkin and smiled. "It’s always the shirtless ones that are ’fighting for something,’ huh?"

Amy turned crimson. "MOM!"

Jack nearly fell backward off his chair, cackling. "Okay okay! Miss Stella coming in with the fire! I didn’t know you had bars like that!"

Stella raised an eyebrow and sipped her tea in mock elegance. "There’s a lot you boys don’t know about me."

"Please don’t say cryptic stuff like that while I’m eating," Elijah muttered. "That’s how horror movies start."

Amy, now fully intrigued, leaned forward. "Wait—Mom. Did you ever watch anime?"

Stella paused, a flicker of nostalgia lighting her face before she spoke. "A long time ago. Your uncle used to binge it after school. There was one with a red motorcycle... and lots of explosions. And, I think, psychic forehead veins."

"Akira," Elijah said, reverent. "That was my gateway drug. Kai gave it to me."

Amy squinted at Elijah like she’d just solved a puzzle. "That explains so much."

The room rippled with laughter—the kind that didn’t feel rehearsed or forced, the kind that made you forget the world had sharp edges.

Dishes passed hands.

Rice bowls refilled.

Someone started singing a commercial jingle under their breath and no one stopped them.

Jack launched into a story about a gym brawl involving a protein shake and a guy who insisted on fighting in flip-flops.

Amy grumbled about how every guy in her class was convinced he was the chosen one of some tragic prophecy.

"I told one kid he had a ’redemption arc’ incoming, and he got so mad he didn’t talk to me for a week," Amy said, clearly proud.

Jack nearly spat out his drink. "Savage."

Stella shook her head as she cleaned her hands. "Amy, you’re getting too sharp for your own good."

"Thank you," Amy replied sweetly.

Everyone laughed again.

Even Elijah, who hadn’t said much, just listened.

Soaked it in like sunlight.

This wasn’t just dinner—it was peace, wrapped in dumplings and sibling roasts.

No gangs, no threats, no looming territory disputes.

Just voices.

Just warmth.

Then Stella reached across the table and gently tapped Elijah’s hand.

Her smile was soft, motherly in the way that said she’d known him before he had teeth.

"When you get back tonight," she said quietly, "can we talk?"

Elijah blinked. "Sure. About what?"

"Just something between a mother and her son," she replied. "It won’t take long."

For just a moment, everything was okay.

Not perfect.

But okay.

And sometimes, okay was more than enough.

The plates were cleared with sleepy chatter.

Jack and Amy took turns scraping leftovers into containers, making jokes about who was doing the "real" cleaning.

Stella kissed Amy goodnight before disappearing into her room.

The sound of her door clicking shut felt like the last note in a lullaby.

Amy followed shortly after, her steps slow from the food coma.

She paused to give Elijah a quick hug—one of those sideways ones that meant more than words—and vanished down the hall.

Elijah and Jack stayed behind, quietly changing into darker clothes.

No words were exchanged.

None were needed.

Black jackets.

Durable pants.

Hardened boots.

The softness of dinner shed like a second skin.

By the time they stepped out into the night, the air had changed.

No longer warm. It felt sharper, like the city was holding its breath.

At the Gate, Elijah stopped to wait for Tony, standing beneath the flickering lantern affixed to the side wall.

Jack paused beside Rio, who stood stiffly like a guard dog unsure if it should bark or bite.

"No one is allowed to enter or leave at this moment and time," Jack said, voice low but clear. "If anything happens, activate the magic barrier placed here."

Rio nodded quickly, his hands folding behind his back in a formal stance.

But Jack didn’t move yet. His red eyes caught the lantern light and burned like coals in the dark.

"Also, another thing," Jack said, tone sharpening like a drawn blade.

"Never enter the house without saying anything. Never touch any of them. Not unless it’s an emergency. Because I promise you—your death will come quick. No matter who’s protecting you. They will never protect you from me."

Rio was sweating buckets but held a calm expression.

Jack smiled—not kindly. Then turned and walked toward Elijah, the shadows swallowing his figure in seconds.

"You shouldn’t have threatened him like that, Jack," Elijah said quietly.

Jack chuckled. "I was just making sure he understands."

Elijah didn’t press it.

There was nothing wrong with what Jack did.

They had made enemies—many of them.

And loyalty was a currency that ran out quick.

Most of their gang could be bought if the price was right.

Even the Vice Leaders couldn’t be completely trusted.

Elijah wanted to believe otherwise.

But that wasn’t how Jack saw it.

His mission was clear.

Protect Elijah.

Which meant anyone could be an enemy.

Anyone

it didn’t take long.

The van pulled up to the curb with a low growl, black-tinted windows hiding the driver’s face but not the familiar hum of the reinforced engine.

Jack yanked the side door open and hopped in first, sliding across the bench seat with the kind of ease that came from too many rides like this.

Elijah followed, pulling the door shut behind him with a heavy thud.

No one said a word.

The streetlights blurred by as they sped through the city, cutting through alleyways and over backroads like shadows chasing the night.

Their destination wasn’t far—a strategic decision made by Kai himself. The new base, formerly the Moon Gang’s headquarters, was A hangout.

A buffer zone.

A place where tension could bleed out before it got dangerous.

It was only a few minutes before the van came to a stop in front of the large building.

Concrete walls, matte black windows, and a glowing neon sign that buzzed faintly in the early afternoon light.

The door opened with a hiss.

Jack and Elijah stepped out.

Inside, the setup wasn’t unfamiliar—like a louder, looser cousin of the Pool Club.

Bars lined the walls.

Lounge areas with plush couches and glowing tables were scattered across the first floor.

Laughter, shouting, and the occasional thud of a game table being slapped echoed through the open space.

Some guys were half-drenched from the pool, drinks in hand, while others crowded around betting slips and a busted flat-screen replaying underground cage matches.

Heads turned as Jack and Elijah entered.

A beat of silence passed—but only a beat.

Then the crowd resumed like nothing had happened.

There was no fear in their eyes—just acknowledgment.

The boss was chill most of the time, and his right hand only bit when someone gave him a reason.

No one was giving him a reason today.

Elijah walked through the sea of noise like it was nothing.

Jack stayed close but loose, always scanning without making it look like he was.

They moved toward the stairs, ignoring the flirtatious waves and side-eyes from newer recruits.

Upstairs was different.

Quieter.

Sharper.

This floor wasn’t for the boys.

It was for the leaders.

Dozens of rooms lined the hallway—briefing spaces, private meeting lounges, storage, even a recovery room—but Elijah didn’t care about any of them.

His eyes were locked on a single black door at the end of the hall.

Guarded.

Colt stood there, arms crossed like a sentry statue brought to life.

Six-foot-five, built like a wall, and always wearing that calm expression that could flip the moment danger sniffed the air.

He nodded at Elijah and stepped aside without a word.

Elijah opened the door and stepped in.

The mood inside shifted immediately.

The noise of the base dropped behind the closed door, replaced by the soft murmur of voices and the occasional clink of glass.

Kai looked up from his seat beside Aurora, a tablet in his hand and a calm smile on his face.

"Good morning, Elijah," Kai said, his voice smooth like warm tea.

Aurora glanced up as well, her posture regal despite the casual setting.

She was dressed sharp—leather jacket, tight black jeans, and that cold intensity in her eyes that never quite went away.

The queen of the strip houses as she was give control over them.

Kevin was there, leaning slightly on a cane but upright. His wounds hadn’t fully healed, but the fire in his eyes said he wasn’t backing down any time soon.

Ben sat near the window, arms folded and eyes alert. He gave Elijah a small nod—not out of respect, but recognition.

Mai looked up from a stack of papers, smile blooming like springtime as Elijah entered.

She waved gently, already scribbling a note on the margins of a form.

On the far side of the room, Sylvia poured herself a drink—whiskey, from the smell of it—and downed it like water.

Her expression didn’t change.

The clock on the wall ticked to noon.

12:00.