The Fake Warlock

Shadows in the boardroom

Chapter Four – Shadows in the Boardroom

The first week of my return was a storm.

News spread like wildfire: Stephen Mark has changed. The prodigal son who once stumbled through the corridors like a spoiled prince was now walking with iron in his spine and fire in his eyes. Secretaries whispered when I passed, executives exchanged nervous glances, and even the janitors avoided my gaze. Some were in awe, others in fear. It didn’t matter which—it was all fuel for the legend I intended to craft.

But power never flows uncontested. It attracts enemies the way blood draws wolves.

And on the fifth day, the first wolf bared its teeth.

The Missing Shipment

Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of my office, streaking across the desk like blades of light. Reports lay spread before me, each one meticulously reviewed. For the first time in years—perhaps lifetimes—I was beginning to enjoy this. Order. Control. Precision. Every directive I issued was followed with efficiency, as though the company itself longed to be commanded properly.

Then the call came.

“Mr. Mark,” my secretary’s voice crackled through the intercom, tight with unease. “The shipment for our northern branch has… gone missing.”

I froze. “Missing?”

“Yes, sir. Ten containers of high-grade steel. They were confirmed loaded last night, but the trucks never arrived. The drivers are unreachable.”

My lips curved into a smile—not of humor, but of recognition. So it begins.

The Boardroom

The boardroom was chaos when I entered. Executives hurled accusations across the long polished table, their voices rising in panic. The air was thick with fear, the kind of fear that makes men betray one another with words sharper than knives.

“This will cost us millions!” one shouted, slamming a fist against the table.

“Our clients will withdraw!” another barked. “Our contracts will be worthless!”

Trent sat at the far end, arms crossed, smugness tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t need to speak; his eyes already said it all: I told you so.

I let them rage for a full minute, watching, memorizing. Fear was a mirror—it showed a man’s true face. Who cracked, who deflected, who lashed out. All of it was useful.

Finally, I raised a hand. Silence fell, reluctant but heavy.

“Who had final oversight of the shipment?” I asked calmly, my voice cutting through the noise like steel through silk.

A junior manager hesitated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “I-it was under Logistics, sir.”

“Bring me the records.”

Minutes later, a folder was placed in my hands. I flipped through it quickly—too quickly for them to follow—yet every line etched itself into my mind. And there it was: a falsified entry, subtle but clumsy, like a shadow’s fingerprint. Someone had altered the log after the fact.

“This is no accident,” I declared, dropping the file onto the table with a sharp thud. “This was sabotage.”

Gasps erupted, bouncing across the room. Executives shifted in their seats, their fear transmuting into suspicion.

Trent leaned forward, his voice dripping with disdain. “And what proof do you have, Mr. Mark? Are we to believe your sudden genius sees things no one else can?”

I met his gaze coldly, unblinking. “Yes.”

The single word struck the room like a hammer. Trent blinked, momentarily stunned, while the others recoiled from my certainty. It wasn’t arrogance; it was conviction. And conviction was a weapon deadlier than evidence.

The Investigation

That evening, I traveled to the northern branch myself. Most executives would have sent underlings, preferring to remain in the safety of their towers. But I was not most executives. If my enemies wanted me to falter, they would find me in the field, not behind a desk.

The warehouse reeked of oil and dust. Workers scrambled nervously as I arrived, their fear palpable. Trucks sat idle, their engines cold, their beds empty. The containers were gone, vanished as though swallowed by the earth.

I crouched near the loading dock, studying the tire marks on the ground, the faint scent of burnt rubber still lingering in the air. Whoever had stolen the shipment wanted it to disappear cleanly, without a trace. But there are no perfect crimes.

“Fresh,” I muttered. “They left less than six hours ago.”

A foreman approached nervously, twisting his cap in his hands. “Mr. Mark, I—I swear, I don’t know how this happened. The drivers checked in, the paperwork cleared. Everything looked normal.”

I studied his face. The sweat on his brow, the tremor in his voice, the pleading in his eyes. His fear was genuine. This was not his doing.

Which meant the true enemy was higher. Someone with access, with resources, with ambition. A serpent hidden in the grass of my father’s empire.

The Return

By the time I returned to headquarters, night had fallen. My body burned with fatigue, the dizziness gnawing at the edges of my mind, a reminder that my soul had not yet fully fused with this vessel. Each step I took was a battle, but I refused to show weakness. Not here. Not yet.

I stood at the office window, staring out at the city lights below. Somewhere in this company, a shadow was moving against me. A ghost who believed I was still the old Stephen Mark—foolish, careless, easy prey.

They were wrong.

My reflection stared back from the glass, colder and sharper than the man who had once worn this face.

“Hide in the dark as long as you want,” I whispered. “I’ll drag you into the light. And when I do, there will be no mercy.”

The Whisper of War

The next morning, I summoned the heads of every department. Their eyes flickered with curiosity and fear as they filed into the room. They expected panic, a desperate scramble to salvage the company’s reputation. Instead, they found me calm, deliberate, composed.

“From this day forward,” I announced, my voice steady as stone, “every shipment will require dual verification. No paper passes without two signatures. No truck leaves without direct oversight. Any deviation will be treated as sabotage.”

Some nodded, eager to obey. Others frowned, wary of the iron tightening around them. Trent, of course, smirked in the corner, his silence loud enough to echo.

I let them stew in their thoughts. Trust was a luxury I could no longer afford.

The villain in me stirred, not from anger, but from the thrill of the hunt. Someone had declared war on me in shadows. They thought me blind, unprepared, fragile.

They would soon learn that I was none of those things.

This was no longer just about survival. It was war.

And war… was my specialty.