She stepped into the elevator—the same woman who had helped Sam.
The doors slid shut with a soft hiss.
She raised her hand and tapped the panel.
101
For a brief second, the number hovered in the air, glowing faintly.
Then—
the panel flickered.
IDENTIFICATION REQUIRED
A pause.
She placed her palm flat against the surface.
Light shifted beneath her hand—scanning, reading, recognizing.
A soft pulse rippled through the elevator.
ACCESS GRANTED
The ascent began.
So smooth it scarcely felt like movement at all—only a subtle shift, as though the world itself were rising.
In a single breath, it was over.
The doors opened.
A long corridor stretched ahead, its polished floors reflecting distant light. A crisp, refreshing coolness lingered in the air, wrapping the space in a quiet, almost sacred calm.
She stepped out.
And this time—
she moved faster.
Her heels echoed sharply with each step.
At the end stood a massive door—more like a gate than an office entrance.
She didn't slow.
Didn't hesitate.
She slammed it open.
The heavy structure flew inward with impossible force.
And there—
The old man sat in quiet command, his presence anchoring the room.
A pair of glasses rested low on his nose, catching the dim light as his eyes traced the document in his hand.
Behind him, a vast wall of glass stretched like a silent abyss—
but the world below was swallowed by distance and haze, the city reduced to a ghostly blur beneath drifting clouds.
From this height, the ground no longer felt real… only distant.
Unreachable.
He didn't turn immediately.
But he spoke.
Calm.
Certain.
"You never did learn how to knock."
Only then did he lift his gaze toward the door.
He was the Chancellor—Ricardo Desmon.
His hair, streaked black and silver, was swept back with precision. A full beard and heavy moustache framed his face, both meticulously trimmed, sharpening his stern, unyielding demeanor.
His features were strong and sharply defined—high cheekbones, a firm jaw, and a broad forehead lined with age. Thin scars traced across his face, pale and deliberate, cutting through the natural lines of time without diminishing him.
Behind narrow glasses, his eyes were clear and steady, sharp and unwavering.
His build, though aged, remained solid. His shoulders were firm, his frame composed, with no hint of weakness in the way he held himself.
His presence filled the room without movement.
Not loud.
Not oppressive.
But absolute.
The kind of authority that did not demand attention— it claimed it.
His right hand rested along the arm of the chair, fingers relaxed… but not weak. The sleeve of his shirt was folded just enough to reveal a long, merciless scar. It began at his index finger, carving its way across his hand and climbing up his forearm in a jagged path before disappearing beneath the fabric near his upper arm. The scar was uneven and rough—a mark left by something brutal rather than clean.
Even now, that hand looked steady enough to decide life… or erase it.
He turned a page.
Calmly.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"What are you doing, and why are you disguised as a receptionist?"
The woman smiled faintly.
Then—
she lifted her hand and snapped her fingers.
"Return."
At once, white fog burst into existence around her, swirling like living mist. It wrapped around her body, glowing softly, obscuring her form.
For a heartbeat—
she vanished.
Then the fog began to fade.
And from within it, she emerged again.
Transformed.
No longer the composed staff member, but something far more striking.
A young woman in her twenties stood there. Her hair fell in silken waves of deep midnight black, each strand catching the fading light like threads of shadow. Her eyes were clear as crystal, shimmering with a depth that caught the light like the ocean under the sun.
The last traces of mist dissolved at her feet.
She looked… regal.
Untouchable.
Like something born for power.
She did not merely appear beautiful.
She was like a princess—not of kingdoms, but of something far greater.
"A disguise was necessary," she said lightly.
She was Aaira Desmon—granddaughter of Ricardo Desmon, the Chancellor.
Ricardo leaned back slightly in his chair.
"And why is that?" he asked.
Aaira, seated on the sofa, crossed her legs with effortless elegance.
"I was on the ground floor," she replied. Then she added,
"This time… I think it's only right that you visit the newcomers."
Ricardo set the documents aside, the faint rustle breaking the silence. He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in quiet thought.
"I've reviewed every candidate," he said, his voice calm but edged with disappointment.
"None of them stand out… none worth my attention—except Trezar's daughter."
A pause lingered.
"But she won't be attending the orientation."
Aaira smiled—slow, knowing.
"There is one more," she said softly.
Ricardo's gaze shifted to her.
"One candidate whose status window… I couldn't see."
That caught his interest.
He removed his glasses with deliberate care, setting them down on the table as his expression hardened.
"That's not something to overlook," he said.
"Who was it? And tell me—did you try forcing your way through the status window?"
Aaira's smile deepened, a glint of intrigue flickering in her eyes.
"I did."
She leaned forward slightly.
"And for a moment… it responded."
"What did you see?" Ricardo's voice sharpened slightly.
Aaira exhaled slowly.
"A window… framed in gold.
No details. No data.
No attributes. No rank. Nothing.
Only a name… and nothing else."
The moment the words "framed in gold" left her lips—
Ricardo froze.
For the first time, his composure fractured.
His eyes widened—just slightly, but enough to betray him.
Aaira noticed.
"You know something," she said, her voice quieter now, edged with certainty.
"About that golden frame."
"Tell me," she said, a hint of curiosity in her voice.
Ricardo rose without another word.
The chair slid back with a soft scrape as he reached for his blazer draped neatly over the backrest. With calm, deliberate movements, he slipped it on.
"You were right, Aaira," he said, adjusting his cuffs.
A faint smile graced his lips, subtle yet filled with quiet anticipation.
"It seems… I should be the one to pay a visit."
He paused, his gaze shifting somewhere distant.
"After all—"
a brief silence—
"the true king has returned."
For a moment, the words didn't register.
Aaira stood still.
Shocked.
She had never—not once—seen her grandfather like this.
Ricardo Desmon… a man whose name alone commanded nations, whose presence bent the will of the powerful—
Excited?
To meet someone?
Her thoughts stumbled.
Who could possibly make him react like this?
Some unknown, newly awakened.
No rank.
No history.
A nobody.
And yet—
He had called him a true king.
Aaira couldn't steady her thoughts.
Just what… had she stumbled upon?
Aaira let out a quiet sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"It seems," she murmured,
"I'll have to investigate this newly awakened… Sam Lysh."