THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

In a gilded cage, where opulence reigned supreme, a spectacle of cruelty unfolded. The room, a masterpiece of design and decadence, was a stark contrast to the man writhing on its crimson carpet. Each detail, from the towering columns to the plush sofas, was a testament to an era of excess. Yet, beneath this veneer of refinement, a darker reality lurked.

The man, a quivering shadow amidst the grandeur, was a victim of the nobles' twisted amusement. Their once-graceful hands, now tools of torture, delivered blows with a cold, calculated precision. His face, a canvas of pain, was a stark contrast to the opulent surroundings. Fear, a raw, palpable emotion, was his only companion in this gilded hell.

The room, a symphony of light and shadow, mocked his suffering. The chandelier, a crown of crystals, seemed to dance with cruel indifference. The nobles, draped in their finest, lounged on sofas, their laughter a macabre melody that echoed through the chamber. Maids, silent observers, stood at the ready, their presence a chilling reminder of the power imbalance.

The man, a mere pawn in their cruel game, was a stark reminder of the humanity that could be crushed beneath the weight of privilege. In this chamber, where beauty and brutality coexisted, his suffering was a stark contrast to the gilded illusion.

"So, you really expect us to believe your pathetic lies?" one of the nobles sneered, his voice dripping with contempt as he looked down at the kneeling man before him. "If you're after quick Terran gold, at least have the decency to bring us credible information, you wretch." With a swift motion, the noble's hand struck the man's face, the sharp sound of the slap echoing through the room. The force of the blow sent the man sprawling even lower, his face burning with humiliation.

"Please, my lords, believe me!" the man gasped, struggling to push himself back up to his knees. His voice quivered as he pleaded, "I speak the truth!" But before he could continue, another noble, lounging casually in his chair, waved a hand to summon a maid. As she silently refilled his glass with wine, he spoke, cutting the man off with a dismissive tone.

"I'm telling you, these commonfolk think they can fool us," the noble scoffed, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a slow, deliberate sip. He savored the rich, fruity flavor that lingered on his tongue, a stark contrast to the bitter scene unfolding before him. Suddenly, an idea sparked in his mind, and he exclaimed with a wicked grin, "You know what? Let's execute him in front of the rabble outside. Make an example of him."

The man's heart sank as he heard the nobles murmur in agreement, their eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation. "Please, my lords, have mercy," he begged, his voice barely above a whisper, but his pleas were met with cold, unfeeling stares. One of the nobles, the same who had struck him earlier, stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Sparks danced at his fingertips, igniting into small flames that flickered ominously.

"Better yet," the noble said, his voice filled with dark delight, "let's do it here." The others nodded in agreement, their faces twisted with sadistic pleasure.

The man's last shred of hope evaporated. He had hoped to make a few quick gold pieces by betraying the Earl's secrets, thinking the Earl's second son would be an easy mark. But now, he realized too late that he had walked straight into his own doom. As the noble prepared to unleash the fireball that would reduce him to ashes, a voice suddenly cut through the tension, commanding and authoritative.

"Stop, Sanir."

The room fell silent as everyone turned to the source of the voice. Eric De Gor, the leader of the cohort, had spoken. His gaze was icy, his expression unreadable as he addressed Sanir, the noble from the House of Enchantrix.

"Don't mess up my room with his commoner blood," Eric said coldly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Sanir immediately lowered his hand, the flames extinguishing as quickly as they had appeared. "Forgive me, my lord, that was not my intention," Sanir apologized, his earlier bravado vanishing as he returned to his seat, chastened.

The room remained tense, the nobles' bloodlust momentarily quelled by Eric's command. But the kneeling man knew his fate was sealed. Whether here or outside, he would not leave this mansion alive.

With a deliberate and graceful motion, Eric rose from his seat, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. He approached the trembling man, who knelt quivering in fear. Leaning down slightly, Eric grabbed a fistful of the man's brown, disheveled hair, yanking his head upward until their eyes met. The man's breath hitched as he stared into Eric's sharp, golden eyes—eyes that gleamed with a dangerous intent, ready to seal his fate.

"Let me get this straight," Eric began, his voice smooth yet edged with menace, each word carefully measured to instill fear. "You're telling me that my little brother, David, has awakened?" He paused, letting the words sink in. "And not only that," Eric continued, his tone dripping with incredulity, "but he also managed to take down the Fingers, an entire underworld group, as a mere awakened?" The question hung in the air, more rhetorical than inquisitive, as if the very notion was too absurd to entertain.

"Yes, my lord," the man stammered, desperation lacing his words. "I heard it from the Earl and the Grand Sage themselves—they confirmed it with their own mouths!" His voice trembled as he relayed the information, hoping it would spare him.

Eric's brow arched slightly, a subtle sign of his skepticism. "And how, pray tell, did they come by such information?" he demanded, his voice cold and unforgiving.

"A magic scroll, my lord!" the man answered hastily, eager to please. "It was sent by one of the noble elders!"

Eric studied the man for a long moment, his gaze piercing as if searching for the slightest hint of deceit. But the man's fear seemed genuine, and Eric's interest quickly waned. Bored and dissatisfied, he released his grip, tossing the man aside as if he were nothing more than a piece of refuse.

Magic scrolls of this caliber were no trifling matter—only the highest-ranking nobility could afford such luxuries. The better the grade, the more effectively they concealed the sender's identity from all but the intended recipient. Such methods ensured that only those of true power could wield such tools without fear of exposure.

Straightening, Eric let out a quiet sigh, his gaze shifting to a nearby maid who had been standing nervously on the sidelines. "You there," he called out, his tone indifferent but authoritative. "Take this man out of my sight and pay him a golden coin."

The maid, already jittery from the tension in the room, scrambled to obey, quickly moving to help the man up. Her heart raced as she bent to assist him, eager to escape the noble's presence without incurring his wrath. Without a word, she ushered the man out of the room, her movements hurried as if the very air had become too stifling to bear.

As they exited, the door closed with a soft thud, leaving Eric alone with his thoughts. The room, now devoid of its earlier tension, felt oddly quiet, as if the very walls held their breath, waiting for whatever came next.

In the heart of the opulent chamber, a figure stood apart, a beacon of captivating allure. Her midnight hair, a waterfall of silk, cascaded over her shoulders, adorned with golden tendrils that shimmered like starlight. Her teal eyes, a tempest of secrets, held a mischievous glint that belied her regal poise.

A symphony of colour and texture adorned her. Indigo and white, gold and lace, intertwined in a dance of elegance. Her every movement, a graceful sway of her skirts, a delicate flutter of her fan, was a testament to her refined nature.

Seated beside Sanir, her countenance a mask of disdain, she turned to Eric, her voice a silken rapier. "Do you truly believe such nonsense?" Her eyes, daggers of scepticism, pierced him.

Eric, his gaze unwavering, responded with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Well, there's only one way to confirm if your ex-trash of a boyfriend has truly become strong," he said, his tone cold as he turned to leave the chamber, followed by his loyal cohort. The lady remained behind, her fan fluttering in her hand as she tried to cool the sudden heat that rose within her.

"Could that worthless David really have done that?" she wondered, her mind racing as she fanned her face, trying to dismiss the unsettling thoughts that now swirled in her mind. The possibility that the man she once scorned could rise to such power was almost too much to bear, yet the seed of doubt had been planted, and it took root in the fertile soil of her imagination.