Obsidian Heir

CHAPTER 8: SOVEREIGN CARD

At the command , the other guards snapped out of their trance, their faces darkening as they drew their heavy batons, the steel sliding out with a series of ominous clicks.

Then as one they all lunged. 

The air whistled as they swung their tactical batons, their faces contorted with the intent to maim. 

Bennett and Elise stood just outside the circle, their eyes wide with a jagged, frantic excitement.

"Don't hold back!" Bennett barked, his voice cracking with glee. "Break his legs! Let's see how tall he stands then!"

Elise nodded sharply, her lips curled in a sneer that mirrored Bennett’s. "He asked for this. Make sure he remembers why he doesn't belong here."

Around them, the crowd of socialites leaned in, a chorus of hushed mockery rising from the red carpet. "So reckless," a man in a silk shirt muttered, shaking his head. "To strike a guard at a Prism Dragon event... the boy has a death wish."

Zachary stood at the center of the storm, his breathing slow and rhythmic. 

The encirclement didn't move him; the jeers didn't spark a flicker of fear in his grey eyes. 

He looked through the guards as if they were made of glass, his stillness far more unnerving than any defensive stance.

The violence was interrupted by a sharp, authoritative shout. "What is the meaning of this chaos?"

The lobby manager stormed over, his face a mask of corporate indignation. 

He pushed through the crowd, his eyes landing first on the guard sprawled against the marble wall and then on Zachary.

"Sir!" the injured guard wheezed, clutching his ribs as he pointed a trembling finger. "This lunatic tried to force his way in with a forged invitation. When I stopped him, he attacked me! He’s a danger to every guest here!"

Bennett seized the moment, stepping forward with an oily smile. "It’s true, Manager. I know this man. He’s a fraud. He’s been putting on this pathetic act all evening just to attract attention. He has no right to be on these grounds."

The lobby manager turned his cold, calculating gaze toward Zachary. "The card. Hand it over."

Zachary reached into his pocket and produced the matte-black obsidian. 

He placed it in the manager’s open palm without a word.

The manager held the card up to the light, his brow furrowing. He was intimately familiar with the hierarchy of the Prism Dragon credentials—the gold-etched executive cards and the emerald-inlaid VIP passes were things he saw every night. But this card was different. 

The silver dragon engraving was far more intricate than the standard design, and the absence of a visible chip or serial number made it look like an unfinished prototype.

Because it deviated from the standard templates he was trained to recognize, the manager’s conclusion was instantaneous.

"Fake," the manager snapped. He didn't just hand it back; he flicked his wrist, letting the card fall and clatter onto the dirty marble at Zachary’s feet. "You have a lot of nerve, boy. To forge a prism dragon group credential is a felony. To do it here is suicide. Guards! Call for backup. Seize him and drag him to the security holding room. I want him dealt with."

A fresh wave of guards flooded the entrance, their boots thudding in unison. 

They closed the gap, batons raised high, aimed directly at Zachary’s shoulders and head. 

A cold, lethal glint flashed in Zachary’s eyes. 

His weight shifted; he was a fraction of a second away from a strike that would have leveled the front line.

"STOP!"

The roar was so sudden and infused with such raw authority that the guards froze mid-swing. 

The crowd parted like a receding tide as the regional manager, Henry Wagner, a man who held power over every lobby and branch in the sector, strode onto the carpet. 

His presence was overwhelming, his face a pale, sweating mask of absolute terror.

The lobby manager straightened his tie, a sycophantic smile forming on his lips. "Sir! You’re just in time. We’ve caught a forger who—"

WHACK.

Henry's palm connected with the lobby manager’s face in a brutal, sweeping arc. 

The slap was so violent it sent the younger man stumbling back, clutching his burning cheek in wide-eyed shock.

"You staggering idiot!" Henry bellowed, his voice echoing off the glass towers.

He didn't spare a second look for his subordinate. 

He pushed past the stunned guards, dropping to his knees on the cold marble. 

With trembling hands, he picked up the black card from the floor, wiping away a speck of dust with his silk pocket square as if he were handling a holy relic.

He stood up and turned to face the crowd, holding the card aloft for everyone to see.

"This card," the man announced, his voice ringing with a weight that silenced everyone, "is not a counterfeit. It is the Sovereign Obsidian Card—the highest-tier credential ever issued by the Prism Dragon group. This card carries the full authority of the Chairman himself!"

The revelation hit the crowd like a physical blow. Bennett’s champagne glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the pavement with a sharp, lonely crystalline snap. 

Elise’s smug expression vanished, replaced by a ghostly pallor that made her look like a statue.

 The jeering guests went silent, their faces pale with the sudden realization that they had been mocking a man who stood at the absolute peak of the city's hierarchy.

Ignoring the sea of stunned faces, the regional manager turned back to Zachary. 

He lowered his head, bowing deeply and respectfully in a posture of total submission.

"My Lord," the regional manager whispered, his voice thick with genuine remorse. "Please, accept my deepest apologies for the unforgivable negligence of my staff. They are fools who do not deserve to serve you. I sincerely ask for your forgiveness."

He swept a hand towards the entrance, " Right this way, My Lord.”