Last Night, Ancestral Study within the Blac family main estate,
A soft rain whispered against the tall stained-glass windows of the ancestral study. Shadows ruled the room—long, layered, and deliberate. Velvet drapes muted the storm.
The only source of light was a low-burning fire in the marble hearth, casting a gold-red glow across the rugs and shelves stacked with forbidden knowledge.
Ermond Vale stood near the doorway, posture straight, gloves pristine—befitting the butler of the Blac house.
Behind the grand oak desk, wrapped in darkness like a secret never spoken, sat the head of the Blac family.
His voice came low, grainy—like charcoal ground against steel.
"Young Cruxius brought another one, didn't he?"
A beat.
Then another.
"Yes, my lord," Ermond replied calmly.
There was the clink of crystal—glass brushing against the decanter—while the family head learned, as usual, that his son had brought another woman into his mansion to spend the night.
Two years had passed since that boy turned 18, and he had already slept with more than 100 women.
The family head spoke again. "He thinks we're blind. That we don't see how he tests the limits of our name..."
Ermond didn't flinch.
"If I may, my lord," he said, his voice like still water disturbed by thought. "Might I suggest something unconventional?"
The glass paused mid-air. "Go on."
Ermond folded his gloved hands behind his back.
"Perhaps... if we marry him, he'll finally stop chasing women."
The silence thickened.
"My lord," he continued, tone unshaken, "after an engagement—ideally arranged through Blac channels—his behavior may stabilize. A leash, so to speak. Bound in vows and responsibility."
The fire crackled softly. The family head leaned back, just enough for a glimmer of silver hair to catch the light. But his face remained hidden, swallowed by the dark.
"And who do you propose? One of the Vencrest daughters? Or one of those silicone-spined heiresses from the north?"
"I propose someone we own—a superheroine sponsored by Blac corporations," Ermond said softly. "Not someone we sell our young master for political bonding."
A long pause followed.
Then a sound—low, quiet, unnerving.
Laughter. Dry and rusted at the edges.
"You never did like diplomacy," the shadow said.
"No, my lord," Ermond replied. "I serve the house. Not its illusions."
Another clink of the glass. Then silence again, thick as blood drying on velvet.
"Very well," the family head said at last. "Find me a chain that won't break when he pulls."
Ermond bowed, like a blade folding back into its sheath.
"As you wish, my lord."
---
Present,
The cliffs of Montserrat loomed like silent witnesses as the black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided through the estate's winding roads. Its engine didn't purr out of humility—only restraint. Power didn't need to announce itself.
The car came to a stop at the base of the palace mansion. Granite pillars stretched tall, casting long shadows under the moonlight.
Ermond Vale stepped out, eyes closed as he recalled the events of yesterday.
'Lord really has to put me at front' Mid-forties. Precision, woven into flesh. Every movement sharp, deliberate. Black suit. White gloves. Not a wrinkle out of place.
A man who had served three generations of the Blac bloodline without a blemish—on his record or his soul.
Now betrayed by the family head who pushed him to deal with the young master.
A buzz from his inner coat pocket caused his impassive gaze to turn cold when he saw the caller ID.
He answered the call without a word.
"…You're pushing too fast, Vale," a voice warned—weighted with corporate nerves.
Ermond's reply was silk lined with cyanide.
"Let them bleed. Blac Pharmaceuticals doesn't need partners—it needs corpses."
A pause followed. The voice hesitated, tried to regain footing.
"This isn't some backroom buyout. It's the United Atlas Syndicate. If you destabilize, they may not even let you see the next sunlight—"
"I will own the licenses for Regrowth Serum within six weeks," Ermond cut in. "Your job is to soften the board—not cry over my methods. If they collapse, we buy. If they resist, we burn their supply chains. No one touches the resurrection market without Blac's blessing. Not anymore."
Blac Corporation was entering the unregulated market where mindless monsters—created through crude brain surgeries—were brought to life, briefly.
They were violent. Broken. Failures. Most didn't last more than a few hours.
And yet, the stakes were high. Black corporations were racing to find a way to control these beings using human consciousness.
Whoever won that race wouldn't just own a market—they'd redefine the means of war.
The line clicked off.
He slid the phone back into his coat.
As he looked toward the manor gates, they creaked open—revealing something... off.
Servants. Dozens of them.
Lined up in rows with luggage at their feet, heads bowed. But it wasn't reverence that bent their necks. It was fear.
Uniforms wrinkled. Faces pale. Children sniffled beside mothers. Even the chef stood trembling, flour still dusting his cuffs.
Ermond's brow tightened. The man who once advised the Blac family patriarch didn't rattle easily—but this? This was wrong.
He stepped forward, shoes tapping stone like a clock ticking toward reckoning.
Then, the scent.
Gun oil.
His gaze swept toward the mansion's center—and froze.
Dozens of guards. Full tactical gear. Combat stance. And in their hands—
Guns.
Not standard issue. Not even close. He recognized the make: custom grips, vibrating silencers shaped like tuning rods.
"T9-Peregrine Ultras," he murmured. Not for anyone else—just to honor the recognition.
Military-grade ultrasonic suppressors.
Inaudible to humans. But to those with enhanced nervous systems?
They were pure agony.
Nearby, crates were stacked against the eastern wall. A familiar stamp caught his eye.
Weblent Industries. LDR-9V. Acoustic Compression Variant.
LDRs.
Localized Directional Resonance units.
Weapons that didn't fire bullets, but sound. Sound that killed—not everyone—but anyone with the wrong kind of ears.
Ermond stepped closer, head slightly tilted.
"LDRs... at a domestic estate?"
Something was happening here.
At the heart of it—
Cruxius.
The young master.
Sleeves rolled, shirt half-buttoned, crouched by the eastern pavilion, gesturing to a crew. Giving orders. Sharp, efficient. Like a commander preparing a siege.
Barrels glinted in the grass nearby, lined like wolves awaiting their signal.
Ermond stopped at the base of the stairs.
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. Thunder rarely needed to shout.
"Young Master."
Cruxius didn't look up.
Ermond adjusted a glove with practiced elegance.
"I bring a message from the main house," he said, eyes cold. "And I find our palace preparing for war."
The breeze picked up—dry, electric. Like tension waiting for a spark.
"Would you care," he added, voice low, "to explain what's happening?"
"Tear that letter, I don't want to marry yet," Cruxius, ignoring the arrival of the Butler, who naturally was the aim for today's attack, directly came to the point for which he brought the letter, making Ermond, for a moment, surprised before composing himself.
"Young master, my work is just to deliver the letter; I am unaware of the content—" Knowing well about his young master's personality, where he is entangled with many women, Ermond acted ignorant about the letter to save himself considering this particular suggestion of marriage was given by him to the patriarch of the family.
"Now you are," Cruxius just gave a side look knowing well that these senile people just like in the past were going to push their conservative mentality of monogamy and one marriage thing on him.
He just pointed the guards to rearrange the weapons before finally dealing with all the instructions to prepare for the upcoming guest, he turned towards the butler who seemed to notice how there were those LDR weapons were getting placed on the peaks all turned towards the servant quarters.
"I see, but can I at least know what it is about Young Master?" Looking towards the situation, it appeared something serious was about to happen considering he also noticed the expression of his daughter who seemed to give him a clear serious look telling him things were not right and she could not tell him everything herself due to orders.
"We are going to get attacked by an A-Rank hero called Chicken," Cruxius declared.
'!?!'
"What?!"