As Ethan and Anne approached the main checkpoint, the air seed to thin. The guard, who had been brisk and efficient with the previous leaders, suddenly felt a chill crawl down his spine as Anne presented her pass. It wasn’t bronze, silver, or gold. It was a matte black card with a blood-red crest—the mark of a Great House.
Ethan reached into his pocket and produced his own. It was identical in texture, bearing the gilded "R" of Royal.
The guard’s hands trembled as he scanned them. His voice caught in his throat before he managed to speak. "M-Matriarch Blackwood... and the Supre Leader of Royal, Ethan. Welco, sirs. Please, enter at once!"
The announcent rippled through the courtyard like a shockwave. Even Miss Valentine of Red Bloody Lake, with her golden card, paused and looked back, her eyes wide with genuine shock. In this hierarchy, those with the black cards were the true architects of the nation.
Everyone knew the titans: Celestial, the undisputed head of the Central territories with thousands of sub-clans under its wing; the Sea King Army, masters of the East Coast who had clashed with Celestial several tis to a stalemate; and the Snow Mountain Titans, who dominated the North in a brutal tug-of-war with the Northwestern Scavengers.
And now, standing before them, was the enigmatic Supre Leader of the West Coast. Ethan—the man every organization had been hunting for months. He was the owner of the only high-grade evolution nectar on the market. There wasn’t a group present that hadn’t tried to buy a single vial for a king’s ransom, yet Ethan had remained a ghost, rejecting everyone to avoid the prying eyes of the World Union while he rebuilt from their last assault.
The pair stepped into the gala. The interior was a cathedral of marble and gold. A head waiter, sensing the shift in the room’s gravity, rushed forward with a silver tray.
"We have Greysoul champagne and Darkice wine for your pleasure, esteed guests," said the waiter, his voice hushed.
Ethan looked at Anne. She didn’t even glance at the tray.
"Bring several bottles of each to a private table. We have no interest in socializing with the rabble," said Anne. Her voice was pure authority, leaving no room for a second thought. "And bring the finest dishes you have. I want to enjoy a lovely evening with my boy here."
"At once, Madam!" said the waiter. He snapped his fingers, and eight servers moved as if their lives depended on it. They set a table and chairs with rigid precision, their bodies stiff in Anne’s presence as she intentionally let a sliver of her brutal bloodlust leak into the air.
Ethan and Anne sat, while his six Falcons ford a living wall of black tactical gear around them, facing the crowd to ensure their privacy was absolute.
Outside, the atmosphere was far less refined.
"How dare you refuse my daughter entry!" shouted a man, his face flushed with rage.
The guard, devoid of emotion or fear, looked at him flatly. "Mr. Brooks, it isn’t our intention to make things difficult. However, your Silver-level pass, which allowed five companions, has been revoked. Your group has been downgraded to Bronze. Only one person may enter. I hope you understand; we wouldn’t want to offend you, but rules are rules."
The guard gestured toward a "waiting area"—a pathetic plastic tent with folding chairs, a blatant insult to anyone of status.
Vines of fury bulged on Mr. Brooks’ forehead, but Chloe grabbed his arm, her eyes downcast. "Peace, Father. I will wait in the tent," said Chloe.
Suddenly, a smug, youthful voice cut through the tension. "They’ll be entering with ."
A young man stepped forward, flashing a shimring Golden Card.
"Of course, Young Master McKenzie," said the guard, bowing low.
Chloe’s entire body tensed. A mix of anger, sadness, and pure loathing washed over her. It was him—her "fiancé." Under the protection of the McKenzie gold card, the guards ushered the entire Brooks family inside.
Back at the table, Ethan was just beginning to relax as the food arrived. Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and his heart skipped a beat. The caller ID read: "Chloe Brooks."
Ethan’s eyes widened. He stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his wine. "Forgive , Anne. I have to take this," said Ethan.
He didn’t wait for a reply, rushing toward a quiet corner of the hall. He pressed the phone to his ear, his voice a low, urgent whisper.
"Hello? Chloe?" his voice laced with a tension he couldn’t hide.
On the other end, there was a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of shaky, rhythmic breathing. Just as Ethan was about to hang up, a voice spoke—not the soft, lodic tone of Chloe, but the desperate, cracking voice of a teenage boy.
"I... I don’t know who you are," the boy stamred. "But my sister... she stares at your photo every night. She says your na in her sleep like it’s a prayer. I don’t even know if you can do anything, but please... please help my sister."
Ethan’s brow furrowed, a flash of annoyance flickering in his eyes. "Who is this? What are you talking about?"
Suddenly, a sharp, muffled voice barked in the background of the call: "Young master! What are you doing with that device?"
The line went dead with a sickening click.
Ethan stared at the darkened screen, his jaw tightening. "Crul, trace that signal. Find out where they are. We’re leaving."
[Master, the device is currently within the signal dampening field of this building. However, there is no need to depart,] Crul replied, his voice calm and analytical.
"What do you an ’no need’?" Ethan hissed.
[Turn forty-five degrees to your left, Master. Target identified.]
Ethan turned, his gaze cutting through the crowd like a blade. Near the grand entrance, Chloe was walking in, flanked by her father and the smug, preening figure of McKenzie.
User Comments
0 comments from readers