The elevator doors of the Thorne Plaza hissed open, and the scent of expensive lilies and arrogance hit me like a physical blow. The ballroom was a sea of silk, diamonds, and the high-pitched laughter of people who had built their fortunes on the backs of men like me.
At the center of it all, under a chandelier that cost more than my father's house, stood Marcus and Clara.
"A toast!" Marcus shouted, raising a glass of vintage champagne. "To Elias. A man who worked hard, played hard, and ultimately… couldn't handle the pressure of the drop."
The room erupted in cruel, synchronized laughter.
"He was always so fragile," Clara sighed, leaning her head on Marcus's shoulder. She was wearing a red dress that screamed 'widow' about as much as a middle finger. "At least now, his assets are in capable hands."
I stepped out of the elevator. The marble floor clicked under my boots. "I didn't realize I'd been declared dead already. I don't remember signing the certificate."
The laughter died. It didn't just fade; it evaporated. A hundred heads turned. Glasses hovered mid-air. Marcus's face went from a triumphant flush to the color of curdled milk.
"Elias?" Clara's voice was a thin, terrified reed. "You... you fell. We saw you."
"I'm a fast learner, Clara. I learned how to land," I said, walking toward them.
"Security!" Marcus roared, his neck veins bulging. "How did this vagrant get past the lobby? Get him out of here! Use force!"
Four massive guards in tailored suits lunged toward me. I didn't move. I didn't have to. I simply let the "Overlord Presence" leak out—the heavy, suffocating power the General had warned me about.
The air in the room suddenly felt like liquid lead. The guards stopped mid-stride, gasping, their knees buckling as if the gravity had been dialed to ten. Around the room, socialites clutched their throats, their eyes bulging. The crystal glasses in their hands shattered simultaneously.
"Sit down," I commanded. My voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a mountain.
The guards hit the floor. Marcus staggered back against the buffet table, knocking over a tower of shrimp cocktail.
"What are you?" Marcus wheezed, clawing at his tie. "What is this? Some kind of trick? Some kind of tech?"
"It's called a promotion, Marcus. Remember?" I stopped three feet from him. The pressure was so intense that the marble tiles beneath my feet began to spiderweb.
"Elias, honey," Clara stammered, trying to put on her manipulative smile, though her teeth were chattering. "There's been a misunderstanding. We were just... we were holding this gala to honor you! To raise money for—"
SLAP.
The sound echoed like a gunshot. I hadn't moved my hand—a localized burst of kinetic energy had done the work. Clara's head snapped to the side, and she sprawled across the floor, her "better life" crumbling in a heap of red silk.
"Don't lie to me. It's beneath you," I said.
I turned my gaze to Marcus. He was shaking, sweat pouring down his face. "You think you can just walk in here? I own this firm! I own the accounts! You're a ghost with no bank balance!"
"Check your phone, Marcus."
"What?"
"Check. The. Phone."
He pulled it out with trembling fingers. His eyes darted across the screen. "No. No, this is impossible. The Miller account... the offshore holdings... they're gone. The balance is zero. It's all zero!"
"I didn't just take the money," I whispered, leaning in so only he could hear. "I took the name. You aren't a Thorne anymore. You're just a dog in a borrowed suit."
I reached out, my hand hovering over his throat. I could feel the Sovereign power humming, ready to drag him out over the same balcony he'd pushed me from. The room was silent, save for the sound of the elite gasping for air.
"Time for the final drop, Marcus."
I closed my hand.
BOOM.
The heavy double doors of the ballroom didn't just open—they vanished. A wave of silver light, cold and sharp as a razor, sliced through my Overlord Presence, shattering the tension.
The pressure lifted instantly. People slumped into chairs, coughing and sobbing.
A woman stepped through the dust. Her hair was a river of liquid silver, and her eyes were the color of an approaching storm. She wore a suit of white silk that seemed to glow with its own internal rhythm.
"That's enough, Elias," she said. Her voice was like bells and grinding stone.
I turned, my power flaring in response. "Who are you? Another one of Marcus's pets?"
She smiled, and the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees. She raised a hand, and a burst of blue-silver energy erupted from her palm, colliding with my golden aura. The impact sent a shockwave that blew out the remaining windows of the penthouse.
"I'm the person who decides if you get to keep that throne," she said, her energy surging until it matched mine, pin for pin. "And right now, you're making a mess of my city."
I stepped toward her, the floor cracking with every move. "Get out of my way."
"Make me, Your Majesty," she countered, her silver energy coiling around her arms like snakes.
The gala was no longer a party; it was a battlefield.