Rise to Power: The Miraculous Liam Regan.

Chapter 7

The moment Lord Ayden finished speaking, every single person in the hall dropped to their knees.

The sound was thunderous armor striking gold, robes brushing the floor, foreheads pressed down in absolute reverence.

This was no ordinary gathering. Here knelt generals who commanded legions capable of leveling cities. Here knelt medical lords whose hospitals could pull souls back from the brink of death. Here knelt cultivators whose whispers could split mountains and financiers whose wealth could drown entire oceans.

But Yet at that moment, all of them bowed as one.

“Our master will not die!”

The roar shook the hall. A towering man clad in black military armor spoke, his fist pressed firmly against the ground. “We will not repeat the mistake of twenty‑five years ago. Never again!”

Another voice followed immediately, sharp and resolute. “We must save him at all costs. Any enemy standing in his path will be erased. If he is harmed in any way, I swear we will conquer the country he is in and make it part of our domain!”

“Where is he?” someone shouted.

“Give the order!”

“Let us go to war immediately!”

Voices overlapped, rising higher and higher, burning with devotion, rage, and regret. The hall trembled beneath their resolve.

Immediately Lord Ayden raised his hand, and the noise slowly died down. His expression was complicated part solemn, part troubled.

“The young master is on the other side of the world,” he said. “A place even I once believed to be uninhabited.”

Murmurs rippled through the kneeling crowd.

“There is no known direct means of transportation to that land,” Lord Ayden continued, his brows furrowed. “According to the signal given by the Ancestry Statue…”

He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle.

“The country is called Fawntail—a nine‑class world country.”

Immediately a sudden burst of laughter shattered the tension.

“What kind of trash lives in a nine‑class world country?” a man scoffed openly. His tone was dripping with contempt. “Why waste time? Let’s just buy the country outright and be done with it.”

Several people chuckled in agreement. To them, such a thing wasn’t arrogance it was possibility.

Hearing what they should said Lord Ayden’s expression hardened. “There is no time to purchase a country,” he said firmly. “The young master is in danger. Our priority is to save him.”

He paced a step forward, his voice heavy with restraint. “We cannot move immediately. International protocols will delay us for at least thirty days.”

The hall stirred uneasily. Thirty days was an eternity.

Just then, a lean man rose from the crowd, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I can send someone through the backdoor,” he said. “A covert route. No international attention. No alarms.”

Lord Ayden turned toward him.

“It will still take time,” the man continued. “Ten to twenty days, at best.”

“Do it,” Lord Ayden said without hesitation.

Then he added, “In the meantime, we must send the young master money. Wealth can solve many dangers, especially in a nine‑class world country.”

A burly elder immediately stood. “Send him one hundred billion dollars right now.”

The hall fell silent.

Then, a calm voice broke through.

“A nine‑class world country cannot receive that amount,” said Lord Issac, the richest man present, his presence alone commanding respect. “Their financial systems cap incoming funds. At most, they can receive one billion dollars over a set period.”

At that moment he paused briefly. “Even that would raise attention. But five hundred million dollars… that is possible.”

Murmurs of agreement spread quickly. Heads nodded. No one challenged his judgment.

“That is what we shall do,” Lord Ayden said.

Lord Issac turned toward him, eyes narrowing slightly. “To transfer the funds, I will need one thing.”

He bowed respectfully.

“The name of our young master.”

Without wasting anymore time Lord Ayden stepped forward once more and placed his hands upon the Ancestry Statue. The red glow pulsed, then condensed into a single beam of light before fading.

When he turned back, his voice carried the weight of destiny.

“Liam Hendricks Reagan.”

**

Liam struggled to open his eyes. The effort felt heavy, like his eyelids were weighed down by iron. After a few seconds, they finally parted, and light flooded in, too bright, too sharp. His vision was blurred at first, the world reduced to spinning shadows and streaks of white.

Slowly, the shapes began to settle.

A ceiling fan came into focus, rotating at high speed above him. The steady hum filled the room. He realized he was lying on a bed. A real bed not the cold ground, not a hospital stretcher.

As awareness returned, Liam braced himself for pain.

It came, but not in the way he expected. There was soreness, yes a dull ache in his limbs but nothing like the shattered agony he remembered. No broken ribs screaming in protest. No fire in his chest.

That made no sense, he should have been dead.

The memory crashed into him all at once: Emily’s eyes, Benjamin’s kick, the blood, the road, the headlights rushing toward him. He remembered the impact. He remembered the darkness. And then… the voice in his head.

How was he still alive?

At that moment without wasting anymore time Liam pushed himself upright, breathing hard.

His body responded easily, far too easily. Confused and uneasy, he slid off the bed and stood. His legs didn’t buckle. His balance didn’t fail.

On the wall opposite him hung a mirror.

He walked toward it slowly, half afraid of what he might see.

The reflection staring back at him made his heart skip. His body was perfectly intact. No bruises. No scars. No bandages. His skin was clean, unbroken as if nothing had ever happened to him at all.

Liam raised his hands, turning them over, pressing his chest, his ribs, his face. Nothing.

His mind reeled. He remembered how brutally he had been beaten how his body had collapsed, even got hit by a car, how blood had poured from his mouth. Healing like this would have required a fortune, the kind of money even mid‑level citizens couldn’t dream of.

So where was he? Whose house was this? He turned toward the door just as it creaked open. A little girl peeked inside. The moment her eyes met his, she froze then spun around and ran down the hallway.

Her small voice echoed excitedly through the house.

“Dad! He is awake!”