The Yılmaz mansion stood like a fortress carved from arrogance—high walls, floodlights sweeping the grounds, armed silhouettes pacing in practiced routes. Esat Yılmaz had always believed fear was enough.
He was wrong.
Emre stepped out of the car, the night air brushing against his coat. He lifted a small radio to his lips, his expression calm—almost bored.
"Positions," he said.
From every direction, voices answered in quiet unison.
"Ready."
"Locked."
"In place."
"Waiting."
The system's voice joined them, colder, absolute.
"Affirmative, Subject Infinity."
Emre smiled.
"Then," he said softly, "let's begin."
The world froze.
Sound vanished. Wind halted mid-breath. A guard's cigarette ash hovered in the air, unfallen.
Emre vanished.
He reappeared inside the mansion's central corridor.
Two guards stood mid-laugh, unaware, fingers half-curled around their rifles.
The Infinity Blade flowed into a hunting knife, sleek and merciless.
One step.
Two motions.
Shhk.
Two throats opened in perfect silence. Blood hung in the air like suspended ink as Emre was already gone.
Teleport.
A stairwell.
Three men turning toward a sound that would never reach them.
The Infinity Gun came up—alive, adapting.
Phut. Phut. Phut.
Three precise headshots. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Teleport.
A wide living hall. Ten men. Cards on a table. Bottles mid-pour.
The Blade reshaped—katana.
Emre moved like a line drawn by fate itself.
One slash.
Then another.
Then a blur.
Bodies separated cleanly, collapsing only after time would return. He stepped through them, coat untouched.
Teleport.
Security room.
The Infinity Gun shifted—longer barrel, tighter focus.
Phut.
The man monitoring the cameras died before his finger could reach the alarm.
Teleport.
Bedroom hallway.
A guard raised his weapon—
Emre was already behind him.
The Blade became a short spear, punching through spine and heart in one fluid thrust.
Teleport.
Outside—
Time snapped back into motion.
"GO!"
Gunfire erupted from every direction.
The Aybeyli men moved with surgical precision, advancing in overlapping formations. The Ergün family hit the east wing hard—explosives breaching reinforced doors as trained shooters poured inside.
The Haznedar forces took the rooftops, silencing snipers before they could even realize the fight had begun.
And then—
Efsane moved.
She didn't shout. She didn't rush.
She hunted.
A man rounded a corner—her blade flashed once, low and brutal. Another tried to run—she caught him by the collar, slammed him into the wall, and ended him without hesitation.
Her eyes were cold. Focused.
This was her element.
Across the courtyard—
Efsun moved like fire.
She slid across marble floors, used pillars for cover, her movements sharp and aggressive. A guard charged—she disarmed him with a kick, took his weapon, and fired without blinking.
She laughed once, breathless, exhilarated.
"So this is what honesty feels like," she muttered, eyes bright.
Cengiz Saygın stood near the entrance, directing men with clipped commands, his presence alone steadying chaos. When a Yılmaz enforcer rushed him, Cengiz took the gun from the man's hand and broke his neck without breaking stride.
Mehmet Ergün personally led a strike team through the west wing, methodical and ruthless, clearing rooms with practiced efficiency.
Haznedar operatives moved like ghosts—silent, precise, professional.
And at the center of it all—
Emre appeared.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Everywhere Esat Yılmaz's men tried to regroup, Emre was already there.
A shadow.
A blade.
A gunshot.
Fear spread faster than blood.
"WHAT IS HE?!" someone screamed.
Emre heard it as he teleported behind the last cluster of guards.
The Infinity Blade flowed once more into a katana.
"One mistake," Emre said calmly, voice carrying over the chaos. "You believed you were the hunters."
The katana flashed.
When it was over, silence reclaimed the mansion.
Bodies lay everywhere.
No alarms.
No survivors.
Only dominance.
Emre stood at the center of the carnage, coat stained now, breathing steady. The Infinity Blade rested against his shoulder, the Gun warm at his side.
The system spoke, satisfied.
"Mission progress: Overwhelming superiority confirmed."
Efsane approached him, eyes dark, pulse racing—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.
Efsun followed, smiling, cheeks flushed, eyes burning with excitement.
Around them, the allied families stood among the ruins of their enemies.
Esat Yılmaz's empire had ended in a single night.
And everyone there understood the same terrifying truth:
This wasn't a battle.
This was a declaration.
That the hunt had truly begun.
Esat Yılmaz didn't die like a king.
He died like a man who finally understood he had made the wrong enemy.
Glass shattered as he hurled himself out of the window, body twisting midair, desperation outweighing reason. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and forced himself up, lungs burning as he stumbled toward the trees lining the edge of the estate.
He almost made it.
Almost.
Reality folded.
Emre was suddenly there—already standing on the ground, calm, waiting, as if Esat had jumped to him rather than away.
Esat skidded to a halt, horror draining the color from his face.
"…What are you?" he whispered.
Emre straightened, the night seeming to bend around him. His voice carried—not loud, but absolute.
"I am Emrah Aybeyli," he said.
"The sole heir to the world's mafias."
"And the chosen heir of the God of Time."
Esat staggered back.
"You can't beat me," Emre continued, eyes cold. "No one can. And anyone who dares cross my path—"
The Infinity Gun shifted in Emre's hand, unfolding, expanding, reconfiguring into something massive and terrifying.
"—is erased."
The weapon roared.
Not chaos.
Not rage.
Judgment.
The barrage was relentless, overwhelming—far beyond necessity. When it ended, there was nothing left of Esat Yılmaz's escape. Only silence. Only finality.
Around them, everyone stood frozen.
Hardened men. Crime lords. Veterans of blood and betrayal.
All staring at Emre Aybeyli as if seeing him for the first time.
Cengiz Saygın broke the silence, his voice measured, thoughtful.
"Why the unnecessary aggression, Emre?"
Emre didn't turn to him immediately.
He looked instead at Efsun.
Then at Efsane.
Both were pale. Both were breathing faster than before. And both—despite themselves—were blushing.
When Emre finally spoke, his voice was steady.
"No one hurts my family," he said.
"That includes your granddaughter."
"You."
"And every family standing here tonight."
He holstered the weapon, eyes hardening.
"Especially not when I've promised my brother," he finished quietly,
"to protect you all—at all costs."
No one argued.
No one doubted him.
Because in that moment, every person present understood the truth:
This wasn't brutality for its own sake.
This was a message.
And the world had just received it.
For a brief, disorienting second, everyone thought they had seen it.
Something far too large to be a revolver.
Something that shouldn't have existed in a single man's hands.
A massive weapon—brutal, impossible—unleashed in a way that defied logic.
Then it was gone.
No smoke.
No recoil.
No proof.
Men exchanged uncertain glances. A few blinked hard, shaking their heads as if waking from a half-remembered dream.
"Did you see—?" someone muttered, then stopped himself.
Another laughed nervously. "Adrenaline. That's all."
Memory bent. Certainty fractured.
Emre had frozen time for only a heartbeat—just long enough to let reality correct itself. Long enough for doubt to replace truth.
But Cengiz Saygın did not doubt.
He had seen the way the air had folded.
The way death had arrived too completely, too cleanly.
The way Emre stood afterward—unchanged, unmoved.
That wasn't luck.
That wasn't training.
That was something other.
Cengiz said nothing.
He didn't question.
Didn't test.
Didn't warn anyone.
He simply watched Emre Aybeyli with a new, deeper understanding.
Respect—real respect—settled into his bones. He had ruled empires of crime, broken cities, shaped generations of fear.
But standing here, beneath the broken night sky, Cengiz knew one thing with absolute clarity:
He had never stood in the presence of a king before.
And whatever Emre truly was—
the world would learn soon enough.
Cengiz's respect ran deeper than anything he had felt in decades.
To him, Emre Aybeyli was merely the brother of his granddaughter's fiancé—a dangerous, brilliant young man who carried himself like a born ruler. Nothing more. Nothing less.
And yet…
The irony was almost cruel.
The man he now regarded with more respect than any other living soul
was the very same man he had already accepted into his family—
just wearing a different face.
Cengiz did not know that the king he had just witnessed
and the sickly heir he had cautiously agreed to trust
were one and the same.
He did not know that Emrah and Emre shared a single destiny, a single will, a single throne.
Had he known, perhaps he would have laughed.
Perhaps he would have been afraid.
But for now, ignorance protected the balance.
Cengiz only knew this:
If Emre Aybeyli ever chose to stand against him, the world would burn.
And if he chose to stand with his family—
Then his granddaughter was marrying into something far greater than a mafia dynasty.
She was stepping into the shadow of a god.
And somewhere beyond time itself, the God of Time watched silently…
amused.
Emre knelt only once.
With the Infinity Blade humming softly in his hand, he carved the words into a broken plank of wood—clean, precise, almost ceremonial. The blade didn't burn or tear; it decided where the letters ended.
HERE LIES AN IDIOT
WHO CROSSED PATHS
WITH EMRE AYBEYLI
He planted the wood above what remained of Esat Yılmaz, the message stark and merciless against the wreckage. There was no anger in Emre's face. No satisfaction either.
Only finality.
Then he stood, turned his back on the corpse, and walked away as if closing a chapter that had never deserved more than a sentence.
Outside, engines waited. Doors opened.
Efsun and Efsane moved to him instinctively—too quickly, too naturally. Hands clung to his arms, fingers brushing his wrists, palms resting against his chest as if grounding themselves in something real after the storm. Neither of them seemed to realize what they were doing.
Or who he was supposed to be to them.
They were flushed, breathing shallow, eyes bright—not with fear, but with something sharper. Something dangerous.
It wasn't love.
It wasn't even desire.
It was adrenaline. Power. The intoxicating aftertaste of survival and dominance.
Blood had been spilled for them.
And some part of them knew it.
They slid into the car with him, bodies still too close. Too warm.
No one spoke as the convoy pulled away.
Inside the vehicles, minds raced.
A revolver.
Six to eight bullets.
That was all it could hold.
And yet Esat Yılmaz's body—
Hundreds of impacts.
Too many to count.
Men replayed the moment in their heads, over and over, trying to reconcile what they knew with what they had seen. Some convinced themselves it had been automatic fire from hidden shooters. Others blamed shock. Darkness. Chaos.
A few said nothing at all.
Cengiz Saygın stared out the window, jaw tight, eyes distant.
He had seen enough wars to recognize the truth when it brushed past him.
Time had stuttered.
Reality had blinked.
And Emre Aybeyli had stepped through the gap.
He said nothing.
But the respect he felt had crossed into something far more dangerous than admiration.
Reverence.
And beside Emre, Efsun and Efsane leaned closer without realizing it, still drunk on the violence, still chasing the heat of the moment—unaware that the man they clung to wore two names…
…and that both of them belonged to the same king.
Somewhere, deep within a realm outside time, the system updated silently.
Mission Complete.
Threat Eliminated.
Reputation Shift: Irreversible. Hidden Reward Acquired: Charm Passive
The hunt had ended.
But the war—
the real war—
was only just beginning.
Somewhere deep within a realm beyond time, something else stirred.
Not a system.
Not a protocol.
A presence.
Reality itself seemed to slow—not stop, but listen.
From a vantage no mortal sense could reach, the God of Time observed the aftermath: the shattered mansion, the blood-soaked ground, the fear etched into every survivor who still breathed.
And at the center of it all—
Emrah Aybeyli.
Subject Infinity.
A voice echoed without sound, vast and ancient, amused rather than angered.
"You think you're my heir."
A pause—measured, deliberate.
"Interesting."
Time folded inward slightly, as if smiling.
"You are the first one bold enough to say it aloud."
The presence leaned closer, curiosity sharpening into approval.
"And I find that… refreshing."
The system remained silent.
Even it knew better than to speak.
"Very well, Subject Infinity," the God of Time continued.
"Continue walking this path."
A final murmur followed, heavy with promise and danger alike.
"I'm starting to like you even more."
And then—
time flowed on, unchanged.
But somewhere deep within the fabric of eternity, Emrah Aybeyli had been noticed.