The Exile's Wrath

CHAPTER 2: The Invitation

The Sterling Sovereign Hotel was a monument to excess. It pierced the sky like a needle of glass and gold, looking down on the slums of Ironhaven with disdain.

Tonight, the entrance was a parade of luxury cars. Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and limousines idled in line, depositing men in tuxedos and women dripping in diamonds.

The paparazzi flashed their cameras like strobe lights, hungry for a glimpse of the city’s royalty.

Inside the convoy of black SUVs, John stared out the tinted window.

"Commander," Drax said from the front seat. "We have no invitation. The security is run by Titan Corp. High-level clearance."

John adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. He had changed into a suit, black, tailored to perfection, hugging his broad shoulders. He didn't look like a soldier anymore; he looked like a king of the underworld.

"We don't need an invitation," John said. "We’re not guests. We’re the event."

Drax smirked. "Understood."

The SUV pulled up to the valet stand, cutting off a bright red Ferrari. The valet, a young man in a red vest, looked annoyed until he saw the government-style plates on the SUV. He hesitated.

John stepped out.

The air around him seemed to drop a few degrees. The paparazzi stopped shouting. Even the other guests paused, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. 

John didn't wave. He didn't smile. He walked up the red carpet with a stride that devoured the distance.

At the massive double doors, a blockade of security guards stood with clipboards and earpieces. The head of security, a man named Miller with a neck as thick as a tree trunk, stepped forward.

"Hold it," Miller grunted, holding up a hand. "Private event. Invitation and ID."

John didn't stop walking.

Miller frowned. He was used to entitled rich kids, but this was different. This guy walked like he owned the pavement. Miller placed a heavy hand on John’s chest to shove him back.

"I said stop, you deaf bit."

John’s hand moved. It was a blur.He didn't punch Miller. He grabbed the man’s index finger, the one pointing at him, and bent it backward.

SNAP.

Miller screamed, dropping to his knees as pain shot up his arm. "Aaaagh! My finger!"

The other six guards drew their batons instantly. "Get him! Take him down!"

The guests on the red carpet gasped, backing away.

"Drax," John said calmly.

Drax was already there. The giant stepped out from behind John and plowed into the guards like a runaway train. 

He backhanded one, sending him flying into a velvet rope. He caught a baton mid-swing and punched the attacker in the gut so hard the man lifted off his feet.

It took three seconds. Seven trained guards were groaning on the floor.

John stepped over Miller, who was cradling his broken hand. John looked down.

"Tell Julian I’m here early for the fireworks," John said.

He pushed open the golden doors and walked into the lobby.

The interior was blinding. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the ceiling. A string quartet played softly in the corner. The smell of expensive perfume and champagne filled the air.

John walked to the reception desk. The receptionist, a terrified woman named Sarah, was trembling as she watched the security feed on her monitor showing the carnage outside.

John reached into his pocket. Sarah flinched, expecting a gun.

Instead, he pulled out a small, rusted metal box. It was charred black. He placed it gently on the pristine marble counter.

"This is my gift for the groom," John said. His voice was polite, almost gentle. "Make sure it gets to the main table."

"W-what... what is it?" Sarah whispered.

"Ashes," John replied. "From the home he burned down."

He turned and headed toward the grand ballroom doors.

"Wait!" Sarah stammered. "You can't go in there! That's the Grand Hall! Mr. Sterling is about to make his speech!"

John didn't look back. "I know. I’d hate to interrupt."

He kicked the ballroom doors open. The Grand Ballroom fell silent. Hundreds of heads turned. The music faltered and died.

John stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the lobby. The room was a sea of tuxedos and gowns, holding flutes of champagne. At the far end, on a raised stage, stood Julian Sterling.

Julian hadn't changed much in fifteen years. He was still handsome in a slimy way, with slicked-back blonde hair and a smile that never reached his eyes. 

He held a microphone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Beside him stood a woman who looked like she was made of ice.

Elena Rostova.

She was stunning. Her dark hair cascaded over a silver dress that shimmered like moonlight. But her eyes were dead. She stared at the floor, her posture rigid, like a prisoner awaiting execution.

John’s heart slammed against his ribs. Elena.

She had been the daughter of the library owner near the orphanage. They used to read together in secret.

She had promised to wait for him. But looking at her now, standing next to the monster who destroyed his life, John felt a surge of betrayal mixed with pity.

"Who the hell is that?" Julian’s voice boomed over the speakers. He sounded annoyed, not scared. He didn't recognize John. Why would he? To Julian, John was just a piece of trash he threw away a decade ago.

The Hotel Manager, a frantic little man named Mr. Finch, came running up to John.

"Sir! Sir! You are trespassing! Security!" Finch yelled, looking around for guards who weren't coming.

John ignored him. He walked straight to the nearest empty table, Table 1, reserved for VIPs, and sat down. He crossed his legs and picked up a bottle of wine from the centerpiece.

"Get out!" Finch shrieked, grabbing John’s shoulder. "Do you know whose table this is? This is for the Mayor!"

John looked at the hand on his shoulder. "Remove your hand," John said. "Or I’ll remove it for you."

Finch froze. The look in John’s eyes was primal. It was the look of a tiger watching a mouse. Finch snatched his hand back, trembling.

"Who are you?" Finch whispered.

John popped the cork of the wine bottle with his thumb. Pop. The sound echoed in the silent room.

"I'm an old friend of the groom," John said, pouring himself a glass. He raised it toward the stage. "Continue, Julian. Don't let me stop the lies."

On stage, Julian’s face turned red. He was the King of Ironhaven. No one spoke to him like that.

"Security!" Julian roared into the mic. "Why is this beggar still breathing in my hall?"

From the side shadows, a man stepped out.

He wasn't a normal guard. He wore a loose gray martial arts gi and walked with silent, predatory grace. 

This was Master Hao, the personal bodyguard of the Sterling family. A man rumored to have killed a bull with a single punch.

The crowd gasped.

"Oh god, it's Master Hao," someone whispered. "That intruder is dead."

"Hao will break his spine."

Hao walked toward John’s table. He stopped three feet away.

"Young man," Hao said, his voice raspy. "You have three seconds to kneel and apologize to Mr. Sterling. If you do, I will only break your legs. If you refuse, I will crush your throat."

John took a sip of wine. He swirled the red liquid in the glass, watching the legs run down the side.

"This wine is cheap," John muttered. "Is this the best the Sterlings can afford?"

Hao’s eyes narrowed. "One."

John set the glass down. 

"Two."

Hao tensed his muscles. His chi, his physical focus, was honed to a razor's edge. He prepared to strike.

"Three."

Hao lunged. His fist was a blur, aimed directly at John’s temple. A strike meant to kill instantly.

BAM.

The table didn't break. The glass didn't shatter.

John hadn't moved his body. He had simply raised his left hand, palm open, and caught Hao’s fist.

The impact created a shockwave of air that ruffled the tablecloths nearby.

Hao froze. His eyes went wide. He tried to pull his hand back, but it was stuck.

"You call yourself a master?" John asked, looking bored. "Your stance is sloppy. And your fist..."

John squeezed.

CRACK.

Hao screamed. It was a high-pitched, terrifying sound. The bones in his hand were grinding to dust.

"Your fist is soft," John finished.

He stood up, still holding the screaming bodyguard's hand, and swung his arm. He threw Master Hao, a two-hundred-pound man, across the room like a ragdoll.

Hao crashed into the buffet table, sending shrimp and glass flying everywhere. He didn't get up.

The room went dead silent.

John dusted off his suit jacket. He looked up at the stage, locking eyes with Julian.

"Now," John said, his voice carrying across the room without a microphone. "Let's talk about the orphanage."