Chapter 246 Catastrophe.

Chapter 246: 246 Catastrophe.

"Well, that definitely complicates the racket," Arman mused.

"Sorry to put you out," I said.

Arman waved a heavy hand. "Now, now. No need for the sarcasm, Miles. Believe it or not, I actually buy your story."

"That’s a relief," I muttered. And honestly, it was. The absolute last thing I needed on my plate was a coordinated two-front war against a demonic cult and the local superpower mafia at the same time.

"Oh, yes," Arman rumbled, tapping his diamond fingernails against the mahogany. "I do. You have every tactical reason to lie to my face right now, of course. But you’re a practical guy, Miles.

"You’re not the kind of man to get wrapped up in archaic, occult nonsense unless there’s a paycheck attached. Your explanation holds water. Staging a fake ritual to fluff a hero’s resume? That fits your character profile perfectly. Too perfectly to write off."

"You keep a character profile on me?" I asked.

The crystal facets of his face glinted in the low light. "Of course I do. In my line of work, reading people isn’t a soft skill. It’s a survival requirement."

"That’s reassuring. I—"

The heavy oak doors to Arman’s office suddenly creaked open.

I stopped mid-sentence, looking over my shoulder as the two rocky goons from the hallway shouldered their way into the room without knocking.

A sharp, cold knot of unease tightened instantly in my gut. Reading facial expressions on guys made of literal stone was tough, but something about their rigid posture and the heavy, synchronized set of their shoulders tripped a massive alarm in the back of my head.

I glanced back at Arman. He was still sitting casually in his oversized leather chair, but the atmosphere around the desk had violently shifted.

The relaxed mobster vibe vanished instantly. Arman wasn’t the only one in the room who knew how to read a sudden change in temperature.

"Granite. Red," Arman said.

His voice had dropped an octave, growing incredibly soft and low—which only made my adrenaline spike harder.

In this world, when a man like Arman Glint lowers his voice, it’s because his fists are about to do the shouting.

"I don’t believe I buzzed for you."

"Sorry, boss," Granite grunted. He ducked his craggy head slightly, burying his stone chin into his chest. "Came by to see if the freelancer was forking over the cube."

Arman slowly leaned forward. He ground the cherry of his cigar into the crystal ashtray with a sharp, brutal twist of his wrist.

"How incredibly admirable," Arman purred dangerously. "I do appreciate muscle that takes initiative. But you know the rules, Granite. When I want you to know something, I will call you in and tell you myself. Is the chain of command suddenly too complicated a concept for you?"

Granite’s heavy head dipped lower. "So he’s not giving it up?"

Despite the glittering shine of his diamond face, there were absolute knives in Arman’s smile now.

"Red?" Arman ordered quietly. "Kindly escort Granite outside. I would like to... review his employment contract in depth later."

"Can’t do that, boss," Red rumbled.

Oh, fuck.

What the hell had I just walked into? A mob mutiny?

I looked frantically between the two insubordinate goons and the diamond crime lord. The tension in the room was so thick and electric you could have powered a city block with it. I didn’t care about underworld politics. It was time to get the hell out of dodge.

"Well," I said, standing up smoothly and buttoning my suit jacket. "Looks like management has some internal restructuring to discuss. I’ll just be heading out. Great catching up with you, Arman. Really. Loved the chat. Don’t get up, I know the way out."

"No," Granite said.

I stopped dead.

That wasn’t right. The voice coming out of the stone goon wasn’t his usual grinding baritone. There was a hollow, overlapping echo to the syllable—like three different people talking directly into a distorted microphone at the same time.

I looked sharply at Granite.

Was that... steam rolling off his shoulders?

I squinted. Deep inside the craggy fissures of his rocky skin, a dark, arterial red light was beginning to pulse.

Granite slowly raised his head.

The low light of the office caught the deep, glowing brand newly carved directly into the center of his stone forehead. A jagged, serpentine sigil.

I didn’t need to look any closer to see the literal hellfire suddenly roaring to life behind his eyes.

"No," Legion hissed simultaneously through both Granite and Red, the demonic resonance vibrating the glass display cases lining the walls. "You’re coming with us."

"Aw, fuck me," I breathed, taking a rapid step backward.

Arman surged up from behind his desk. The glittering diamond facets of his body went entirely rigid, refracting the hellish red light pouring off his possessed goons like a lethal disco ball.

"You have made a catastrophic mistake stepping onto my territory, Legion," Arman snarled, his fists clenching tight enough to crack stone.

"I beg to differ," Legion replied through Red’s mouth.

And then the goon launched himself across the room.

Arman didn’t flinch. He violently hurled his massive mahogany desk out of the way with one hand and met Red’s charge head-on. Arman threw a devastating diamond right hook, smashing his fist directly into the possessed goon’s rocky face.

The impact sounded like a wrecking ball hitting a quarry. The blow sent Red staggering wildly sideways, crashing straight into one of the display cabinets with a deafening explosion of shattered glass and scattering geodes.

But having a brain made of possessed silica didn’t offer much in the way of concussion symptoms.

Red didn’t even pause to shake it off. He rebounded instantly, raw fire licking out of the cracks in his skin, and threw a massive haymaker that caught Arman flush on the jaw.

The crack of diamond against enchanted rock was ear-splitting. Arman didn’t go down.

He merely rolled with the punch, squaring his heavy shoulders and driving a piston-like uppercut straight back into Red’s gut.

Instantly, the two behemoths locked into a brutal, earth-shaking slugfest.

Their heavy, unyielding fists pulverized each other relentlessly, sending razor-sharp chips of rock and diamond ricocheting violently off the floorboards and walls like shrapnel.

But I didn’t have time to watch the heavyweight bout.

Granite was already charging across the Persian rug, his massive boots thudding like an active rockslide.

As the two-ton goon closed the distance, he threw a wild, looping clothesline aimed at my neck.

I dropped low, ducking cleanly under his thick arm. The intense, suffocating heat radiating from the magma-filled cracks in his body washed over my face like an open oven.

I slammed my armored shoulder directly into his chest.

At the same time, I unleashed a massive, pulse of magnetic repulsion directly into the heavy steel belt buckle, the metal zippers, and the iron shanks in his tailored suit.

Between my physical momentum and the violent magnetic push, I managed to upend the massive goon’s center of gravity entirely. Granite’s feet flew out from under him. I judo-threw him directly over my shoulder.

I caught a brief glimpse of Granite’s startled, flaming eyes as he flipped backward through the air. He crashed squarely down onto the remains of Arman’s overturned desk.

His weight snapped the heavy mahogany clean in half like dry kindling. He hit the floorboards with a concussive boom that physically shook the office walls.

Too bad the maneuver barely bought me a single second.

Granite was already scrambling back to his feet, ignoring the splintered wood. The fissures spreading across his stone skin were blazing hotter, expanding rapidly like a volcano preparing to erupt.

Raw, churning fire roared from his mouth and eyes like open windows into the abyss.

"Polaris!" Legion roared, his overlapping, demonic voice vibrating the floor beneath my boots. "I am your doom! I am your hell! I am your end!"