THE DISCARDED SON-IN-LAWS GOD-LEVEL DOMINION SYSTEM

Chapter 9

Morning came slowly over the city.

Ethan stood at the broken hotel window and watched the sky turn from black to gray. The room still smelled of sweat and old blood. A hotel manager had come at midnight with a pale face and a long speech about safety. He had offered a free suite on the top floor and a full refund. Ethan had refused both. He had slept two hours on a chair near the window with his back to the wall. It was enough. The System had already filled his body with strength again.

He picked up his phone from the table. Seventeen missed calls. All of them came from numbers he did not know. He ignored them and opened the news page instead.

The first headline made him stop.

KANE CONGLOMERATE FAILS TO MEET LOAN DEADLINE. BANKS BEGIN ASSET SEIZURE.

Ethan read the article slowly. At five o'clock yesterday, the banks had waited in the lobby of Kane Tower with a team of lawyers. Damien Kane never came down with the money. At five minutes past five, the first notice was placed on the front glass doors. By six, security guards in Kane uniforms were quietly walking out of the building with their personal bags. By seven, three of the biggest partners of the Kane family had announced they were ending all business ties.

Below the article was a photo. It showed old Mr. Kane, Damien's father, standing on the steps of his house with a cold, hard face. A reporter had asked him one question. The old man had answered in one sentence.

"I no longer have a son named Damien."

Ethan read the line twice. A small, cold smile touched his mouth. He felt no joy in it. He felt only the quiet click of a lock closing.

[Ding!]

[Mission progress: Destroy Damien Kane's remaining power. Completion: 85 percent.]

[Remaining target: Damien's hidden support.]

Ethan closed the screen with a thought. Hidden support. A man like Damien did not send ten masked men through a hotel door with money from his own pocket. Someone stood behind him. Someone with weapons and men and a reason to wait in the dark.

He would find that person. First, he had other work to do.

He changed into the black shirt from yesterday, picked up the wet suit, and dropped it into the trash can. He did not need it anymore. At the front desk, the tired man from the first night looked up and went white in the face. He had seen the police cars. He had heard the rumors. He pushed the room key back across the counter with both hands and said nothing at all.

Ethan walked out into the morning.

A black car waited at the curb with its engine running. A young man in a dark suit stood beside the rear door. He bowed so low that his head almost touched his knees.

"Mr. Cross. I am Daniel from the Cross Holdings office. Manager Liu arranged this car for you. He said you should not take taxis anymore."

Ethan looked at the car. It was long and clean and shining. The kind of car that Victor Whitmore parked in front of restaurants so everyone could see it. He opened the door and sat in the soft leather seat. It smelled of new things.

"Whitmore Group," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Cross."

The car moved smoothly into the traffic. The city looked different through its dark windows. The same streets, the same crowds, but now no one looked at him with disgust. No one looked at him at all. It was strange how quiet the world became when it could not see you.

His phone buzzed again. He answered this time.

"Mr. Cross!" The voice on the line was Manager Liu, loud and eager. "I wanted to confirm that the car arrived safely. And I wanted to say, if you wish, the bank can arrange a private apartment for you. A very good one. In the best tower in the east district. The owner is a friend of mine and he would be honored..."

"Send me the address," Ethan said. "I will look at it tonight."

"Of course! Of course, Mr. Cross! Right away!"

Ethan ended the call. Three days ago, Manager Liu had called the police on him for walking into a bank. Today the same man begged to give him an apartment. Ethan did not hate him for it. Men like Liu did not have anger or loyalty. They only had a nose for power. He would be useful for as long as the nose pointed in the right direction.

The car stopped in front of Whitmore Group. A line of employees stood on the steps of the building, waiting. Ethan frowned. There were at least fifty of them. Managers in front, clerks in the back. When they saw the car, they all straightened at once like soldiers.

An older woman in a gray suit stepped forward. Her gray hair was tied back tightly. Her hands held a thick folder against her chest. Ethan remembered her. Mrs. Grace Tan, head of the finance office. Three years ago she had once handed him a cup of tea in the kitchen when everyone else had walked past. She had never said a word about it. He had never forgotten.

"Mr. Cross," she said. Her voice was steady, though her fingers were white on the folder. "The staff wanted to welcome you. Some of them did not want to come. I told them that anyone who did not come should not stay."

A few people in the back shifted their feet. A young man near the end of the line looked at the ground.

Ethan stepped out of the car and looked at the long row of faces. He knew many of them. A manager who used to push empty boxes at him and tell him to carry them upstairs. A clerk who had once spilled coffee on his shoe and laughed. A woman from the front desk who had pointed at him in the elevator and whispered to her friend. They all looked at the stone steps now. None of them met his eyes.

"I will not give a speech," Ethan said. His voice was calm. It carried clearly in the quiet air. "I do not need your fear. I do not need your respect. I need your work. Do your jobs well. Be honest. Do not lie to me. If you do those three things, you are safe here."

He paused and looked down the line one more time.

"If you spent the last three years being cruel to people who could not fight back, you may want to think about whether you belong in this company."

No one moved. The silence was thick. A young woman near the back began to cry softly into her hand.

"Mrs. Tan," Ethan said.

"Yes, Mr. Cross?"

"Bring me every employee file from the last five years. Everything. Complaints, reports, firings, promotions. I want it on my desk before noon."

"Yes, sir." She did not ask why. She turned and walked into the building with straight shoulders.

Behind her, the line of employees began to break apart. Ethan heard the whispers move through the crowd like wind through dry leaves. Some people hurried inside with their heads down. Others stayed on the steps in small groups, speaking in low voices and glancing at him from the corners of their eyes. He caught a few words. Cross Holdings. Fifty-one percent. The ambush at the hotel. The rumors were already growing arms and legs. By tonight, people would say he had killed fifty men with his bare hands.

He did not correct any of them. Fear could be a useful tool, as long as he never let it become a habit.

Ethan followed her inside. The lobby was the same lobby as before. White marble, new carpet, the smell of coffee. But the receptionist behind the desk now stood up when he entered. The guards who had laughed at him yesterday kept their eyes locked on the wall.

He took the elevator alone to the top floor. When the doors opened, a new silence waited for him in the hallway. The boardroom doors stood open. The old chairman's office at the end of the corridor had its door half closed. A thin line of light came from under it.

Ethan frowned. That office had been empty since yesterday. He had ordered the security guards to lock it.

He walked toward the door slowly. His steps made no sound on the thick carpet. The War God Template stirred quietly under his skin, ready.

Then he pushed the door open.

An old man sat in the big leather chair behind the heavy desk, with his back to the window. The light behind him made his face dark. He was not tall, but his shoulders were wide and straight. A cane rested against the desk. His hands lay folded on a pile of papers.

The old man did not stand. He looked at Ethan with sharp, tired eyes.

"Come in, Ethan," said Old Mr. Whitmore. "Close the door. You and I need to talk."