The rules of the Underworld were simple but absolute.
Every morning, the twenty heirs were to assemble in the hall and pay their respects to the Master of the Underworld.
Curfew was at nine.
Anyone found outside after that would be punished. Brutally.
No one was to speak unless spoken to.
No one was to disobey.
No one was to complain.
And above all, every heir was to understand one thing clearly. They were no longer visitors.
No longer children waiting to be returned home. Everyone there was family now.
And family, in the Underworld, did not mean love.
It meant ownership, discipline. It meant that if one of them broke, the Underworld would not comfort them.
It would remake them.
In the weeks that followed, Chaos adjusted to his new home because there was no other choice.
Some of the other heirs did not adapt so quickly. They cried at night. Screamed for their mothers. Begged to go home. Called out names that meant nothing within those walls.
The Underworld cured them of that. Through training, hunger, punishment and pain.
The weak were not allowed to remain weak. They were beaten out of softness, dragged out of fear, and forced to stand even when their bodies begged to collapse.
Here, weakness was treated like a myth. Shameful and impossible.
Something that had to be killed before it killed them first.
Chaos watched it all in silence.
He learned quickly.
He learned when to stand, when to kneel, when to answer, when to keep quiet, and when to let his face become empty enough that no one could use it against him.
Then came the pairing.
During training, each heir was assigned a partner.
A brother, they called it.
The twenty heirs were divided into pairs, and from that moment, the bond was law.
A brother was the one meant to fight beside you, survive with you, protect you, and, if necessary, drag you back from death itself. That bond was not to be broken and that was how Chaos met him.
Alex Sergeyev.
The cold, feared heir of the Sergeyev clan.
Alex had been brought to the Underworld the same day as Chaos, though he had arrived earlier. Unlike the Riegrows, whose empire stretched between polished boardrooms and bloodied backrooms, the Sergeyevs did not bother pretending they were anything other than monsters.
They were mafia through and through.
Ruthless.
Bloody.
Raised on violence the way ordinary families raised children on manners.
Alex was the second son of the Sergeyev clan. His elder brother, the firstborn, and original heir, had died during his own training in the Underworld. The clan had not mourned him.
They had called him weak.
A disgrace and a waste of the Sergeyev name.
So when Alex's turn came, he was sent with only one warning.
Even at death's door, he was not to think of crossing it.
Alex had been raised among heartless men who treated killing like routine. Blood did not frighten him. Pain did not humble him. Fear, if he felt it at all, never showed on his face.
He was cold. Sharp. Unsettlingly calm.
And yet, there was something wild in him too, something amused by danger, as though violence was a game he intended to win beautifully.
From the first day, Alex noticed Chaos. Most of the children had cried when they arrived. Some had flinched at the guards. Others trembled when weapons were placed before them or when the first punishments began.
Chaos did none of that.
He stood quietly, his pale blue eyes empty, his black leather gloves never leaving his small hands. He looked too soft for that place. Too beautiful.
And yet, he did not flinch.
Not when the guards shouted.
Nor when another heir was struck down during training, not even at the sight of blood staining the sand.
Alex found that amusing.
He had thought himself the only one there who could look at the Underworld without breaking on the first day.
Then came Chaos Riegrow, with his silent face and icy eyes, looking like a porcelain doll someone had forgotten to teach fear.
From that moment, Alex decided he would befriend him.
Among the other heirs, Alex was quickly feared.
Even during training, he fought like death had personally taught him. He did not hesitate. Did not seem to understand the concept of mercy.
He laughed in the middle of pain, smiled through bruises, and looked at every opponent as though they had already lost by daring to stand before him.
So when the pairs were announced and Alex Sergeyev was assigned to Chaos Riegrow, the other heirs watched in silence.
Some with relief that they had not been chosen.
Some with pity for Chaos.
Alex, however, looked delighted.
He crossed the training ground with a grin and threw an arm around Chaos's shoulder as though they had known each other all their lives.
"Bratan!" The Russian word rolled off his tongue with bright excitement.
[Brother.]
Chaos looked at the arm around his shoulder. Then at Alex. His expression remained blank.
Alex only grinned wider.
"Let us survive this," he said, eyes gleaming, "and come out as legends."
Chaos stared at him for a moment. Then he removed Alex's hand from his shoulder. "Do not fall behind," he said coldly.
And with that, he walked away.
Alex stood there for a second.
Then he laughed.
Yes.
He had chosen well.
The training was brutal.
Year after year, the Underworld stripped them down and remade them into something sharper, colder, and harder to kill.
Not every heir survived the process.
Some fell in the arena.
Some broke during training.
Some disappeared during punishment and were never mentioned again.
And some were claimed by the Underworld death matches, an elimination method used whenever the masters decided the group still carried too much weakness. The rules were always simple. Fight. Survive. Prove your worth or be erased.
By the time the seventh year drew to its end, only seven heirs remained. Seven out of twenty. They had been carved into weapons by violence and the constant lesson that mercy was not a virtue.
The Underworld gave the seven survivors a title.
The Seven Deadly Sins.
Each heir was marked by a sin and made to wear it like a second name.
The sin of Wrath.
The sin of Envy.
The sin of Greed.
The sin of Gluttony.
The sin of Pride.
The sin of Lust.
The sin of Sloth.
Seven sins. Seven heirs. Seven monsters refined by the same cruel hand.
Each one was deadly in a different way. They were the finest evil the Underworld produced every ten years, the few who survived long enough to stop being human.
Then came the final test.
The rules were simple.
Each in would be sent into the arena jungle with a weapon of their choice. Only three sins were allowed to leave the arena alive. The time limit was four hours.
To pass, a sin had to survive the jungle, escape its traps, endure its hidden dangers, and kill at least one opponent before the time ran out.
Anything less was failure.
And in the Underworld, failure had only one consequence.
Death.
One by one, the Sins were armed and sent into the jungle.
The arena was vast and cruel, built to mimic wilderness but designed by men who understood suffering too well. The trees grew thick and close, their shadows swallowing movement. Mud, thorns, pits, snares, and concealed blades waited beneath leaves and roots.
Somewhere in the distance, water ran quietly, almost peacefully, as if the jungle itself had not been fed blood for generations.
Then the hunt began.
For four hours, the Underworld waited.
The Master sat above the arena grounds, watching.
The guards stood like statues.
And from within the jungle came the distant sounds of violence.
When the fourth hour neared its end, the gates remained shut.
For a while, it seemed quiet.
The first to walk out was Chaos Riegrow.
He came through the trees with slow, steady steps, his clothes soaked with blood that was not all his. A deep sword wound cut across his arm, the blood trailing down to his gloved hand and dripping from his fingers.
His face was empty.
Cold.
His opponent had managed to wound him.
But not enough to live.
Chaos stopped near the arena exit and lifted his pale blue eyes toward the Master. He said nothing.
A few minutes later, the trees moved again.
Alex Sergeyev came out next.
He was clutching his side, blood seeping between his fingers from a gunshot wound that looked bad enough to bring most men to their knees.
Alex, however, was smiling.
Even pale and bleeding, as he staggered out of the jungle, there was amusement in his eyes.
His opponent had gotten him well.
But Alex had toyed with him before killing him.
He dragged himself forward, then stopped beside Chaos.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Chaos and Alex exchanged looks.
Then, they nodded.
Brotherhood, forged in blood, did not always need words.
The Master of the Underworld watched them both, his expression unreadable.
Two survivors.
Two qualified heirs.
The guards began to shift slightly, preparing to close the exam. It seemed no one else remained alive in the jungle.
Then something moved at the tree line.
A boy stumbled out.
He was breathing hard, his clothes torn, his body painted in dirt and blood. One of his hands hung at his side.
The other was still handcuffed to a severed hand.
The guards went still.
The boy dragged himself forward, exhaustion heavy in every step. The severed hand swung grotesquely from the cuff attached to his wrist.
Apparently, his opponent had tried to stop him by cuffing them together.
So the boy had cut the man's hand off and brought it with him.
Chaos tilted his head slightly as the boy approached.
He remembered him.
They had crossed paths a few times during training, though never long enough to speak much.
His name was Ivar.
Ivar stopped a short distance from Chaos and Alex. Then, with a tired smile, he lifted the severed hand and tossed it to the ground.
"You both got out first," he said.
Alex laughed, then immediately coughed blood into his palm.
"Little royal highness survived after all," he teased, his voice rough. He swayed slightly but caught himself.
Chaos only nodded at Ivar.
A small gesture.
But from Chaos, that was almost generous.
The Master of the Underworld sighed from above.
So the boy had survived after all.
Ivar came from a prominent and influential family, one with royalty tied to its name and military power buried deep in its bloodline. The Underworld had no interest in crowns unless they could be broken and reforged into weapons.
His father had sent him there for the same reason all powerful men sent their sons.
Legacy.
Control.
Fear dressed as ambition.
His excuse had been simple. He wanted a son who was not weak enough to disgrace the family title.
Now Ivar stood in the arena, bloodied, exhausted, and handcuffed to the severed proof of his survival.
The Master looked over the three sins.
Chaos Riegrow.
Alex Sergeyev.
Ivar Giaever.
Three survivors.
Three heirs.
Three deadly sins among the seven monsters the Underworld had finished making.
The exam was over.