Elijah Schwarzenger Rises To Power

0019

Morning broke with a fanfare of sound that stirred the air and silenced the birds. The sharp calls of silver trumpets echoed across the vast grounds of the Schwarzenger estate, accompanied by a grand orchestra of violins and drums stationed under the marble columns of the eastern balcony. Music swelled like a coronation hymn, reaching every corner of the grand palace, waking even the most distant guard.

In the central chamber, illuminated by sunlight streaming through crystal domes, Elijah stood without a shirt. He was surrounded by three estate maidens who moved around him gracefully, tending to him with precise and respectful gestures, almost like butterflies drawn to a vibrant flower.

He was slowly enveloped in a tailored wine-colored suit, the fabric shimmering softly in the morning light. The gold embroidery on the lapels caught the eye, revealing intricate regal insignias that signified his lineage, known only to the Schwarzenger bloodline.

When they were done, one of the maidens placed a platinum brooch over his chest pocket—the crest of the House of Schwarzenger and a light knock on the inner door followed.

It opened gently and two elite guards in ceremonial black-and-silver armor stood outside. One gestured low. “The carpet is ready, sir.”

Elijah drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he brushed away the fine powder that had settled on his shoulder. As the grand doors swung open with a resonant creak, he stepped out like a phoenix reborn, radiating confidence and purpose. His polished shoes struck the lush velvet-red carpet that unfurled down the entire east wing, each step releasing a soft whisper of luxury.

Above, delicate rose petals cascaded gracefully from the balconies, falling like confetti in a celebration meant just for him. The morning sun poured through the opulent glass dome of the palace, showering him in a radiant golden light that seemed to illuminate his very soul, enhancing the magic of the moment.

At the far end of the carpet stood three pillars of the Schwarzenger household—Butler Maestro, Butler Bartholomew, and at the center, the towering presence of his father, Schwarzenger himself, dressed in a navy-green Samoan regalia adorned with lapel pins from global conquests.

In Maestro’s firm grip was a richly textured leather document folder, its surface polished to a deep, lustrous sheen. Beside him, Bartholomew held a gleaming golden plate, upon which rested an inkless pen inscribed with Elijah’s initials—an emblem of legacy waiting to be claimed.

Without uttering a single word, Schwarzenger reached for the pen, his fingers brushing against Bartholomew’s as he took it. He extended the delicate instrument toward his son, their hands lingering momentarily in a silent exchange charged with emotion.

Elijah’s fingers curled around the pen slowly, a mix of anticipation and trepidation washing over him. Their eyes locked—father and son at last standing on the precipice of a new chapter.

With deliberate, steady strokes, Elijah began to weave his name across the crisp white pages, each flourish echoing the weight of his decision. The signature unfurled like a banner proclaiming his ascendance to the helm of the illustrious Schwarzenger dynasty.

Just as the last stroke dried, a sudden cacophony shattered the stillness.

Gunshots reverberated through the air, an abrupt jolt of sound that sent Elijah’s heart racing, each beat pounding against his chest as adrenaline surged. He flicked his gaze around, instinctively searching for peril, but the atmosphere was anything but menacing.

All around the estate, more than 500 guards, dressed in full formal combat uniforms, raised their weapons into the air and fired three coordinated rounds. The sound thundered like a storm echoing against the hills beyond the gates. Their voices followed in a single, disciplined, baritone chant.

"ALL HAIL LORD ELIJAH SCHWARZENGER!

WE WILL FOREVER BE AT YOUR MERCY!”

Emotion knotted in Elijah’s chest. He had imagined this day once, maybe twice, during long, hungry nights in a shared student dormitory, toilet mop in hand. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for this moment. His knees nearly buckled, but he stood firmly on the ground.

Schwarzenger stepped forward, his face unreadable until he extended a hand to his son and joined the guards in declaration.

"All hail, Lord Elijah Schwarzenger,” he said proudly.

“We will forever be at your mercy.”

Elijah accepted the handshake—and then they embraced, locked in a hug that ended decades of absence, denial, and longing between them both.

“Shall we?” Schwarzenger said, placing a palm against his son’s back and they both turned.

Waiting in the circular driveway below the garage stairs was a convoy of fifteen armored luxury vehicles, long, black, and humming silently ready in place. Elijah, Schwarzenger, Maestro, and Bartholomew took their places in the lead car, the seats upholstered with red velvet and cream leather, the ceilings etched with constellations.

The motorcade rolled out of the gates towards toward San Futuro, the nation’s elite capital.

Three Hours Later…

As the city’s skyline rose on the horizon, Elijah leaned forward in the seat. Before them stood Schwarzenger Global Inc.—a twin-tower masterpiece in black-tinted glass and steel, piercing the clouds at 120 stories.

The outer panels were reflective gold. Wide LED banners at the foot of the plaza displayed the morning news and stock tickers, while helicopters and drones circled overhead with private media press.

As the convoy pulled up to the circular landing deck, a mob of journalists, paparazzi, and news anchors surged like a tidal wave, waiting to finally set their eyes on Schwarzenger long- lost son.

Flashes erupted like strobe lights, nearly blinding Elijah even through the bulletproof glass. Signs and microphones flailed in the air as guards poured out of the convoy—at least fifty men, forming a perfect perimeter.

“Over here! Who is that man in the wine suit? He looked like the tech shop scammer!” someone shouted.

“Is he Lord Elijah Schwarzenger, is it true you were involved in a tech store scam yesterday?!”

Panic gripped Elijah for a split second. He turned to his father, who said nothing but only gave a nod and the guards immediately tightened the formation.

Elijah kept walking, his head high. He prayed silently that no one else had heard the outburst.

Inside the building, cool air met them like a royal mist. The entire floor was marble and gold-accented, with holographic screens flickering along the walls. A sculpture of Schwarzenger Sr., carved from obsidian and rising ten feet high, loomed over the lobby.

They walked past the receptionist who stood at attention straight to the central elevator, which zoomed upward with a silent hiss. Floor after floor zipped past the glass walls until they reached Level 120—the throne floor.

They stepped out onto a plush-carpeted corridor that stretched to a massive mahogany double door with no visible handle, no knob, no sensor pad.

Elijah looked around, puzzled. “How do we go in?”

Schwarzenger folded his arms and gave a cryptic smile. “That depends. Do you want to go in… or remain locked out forever?”

Elijah froze then remembered the diamond card and his heart dropped.

“I... I don’t have it. I was angry and mistakenly left it with the attendant at the tech store yesterday…” he stammered.

Before Schwarzenger could respond, Maestro stepped forward, his gloved hand producing the gleaming black-and-gold diamond card from his inner breast pocket. “You didn't remember to take it from their staff, sir. I took the liberty of keeping it safe.”

Elijah’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you, my man.” he breathed, embracing Maestro tightly.

“Ahem,” Schwarzenger coughed and they straightened instantly.

Elijah pressed the diamond card against the dark wall near the door. A soft green pulse rippled across the wood. A mechanical click followed—and the door parted like a gateway to Olympus.

Inside was a long oval table beneath a chandelier shaped like a sunburst. Eleven board members, all in tailored suits and expensive watches, stood from their seats as the four entered.

"It's been a long time, master Schwarzenger." Their heads bowed in perfect synchronization.

Elijah saw that eleven occupied seats had the name "Schwarzenger" initials except "S" and his gaze went to two empty chairs that awaited—one engraved with the letter “S”, and at the far end, a throne- like seat gilded in platinum and crushed velvet.

"Go on..." Schwarzenger said, pointing at the throne-like seat.