The Fake Warlock

The weight of legacy

Chapter Three – The Weight of Legacy

The company had not changed.

As I stepped into the glass building the next morning, its polished floors reflected the man I had become—or perhaps the man I was pretending to be. Marble columns, high ceilings, the sharp tang of disinfectant, and the faint hum of busy clerks typing away. This was not merely a company; it was an empire. One built by sweat, brilliance, and ruthless discipline.

Stephen Mark’s father had carved this kingdom out of stone and willpower. And yet, his son—the original owner of this body—had squandered it all with arrogance and carelessness. That was the reason people stared as I entered. Their shock was not at my presence, but at the impossibility of my return.

“The prodigal son…” I heard a woman whisper as I passed.

“He’ll ruin us again,” another murmured.

They did not bother to lower their voices. Good. Let them doubt. Let them mock. For doubt was fertile soil, and I would sow terror where they expected weakness.

I adjusted my coat, forcing my steps to remain steady despite the faint dizziness that still pulsed at the edge of my skull. My soul and this body had not yet merged. Each step felt like dragging two shadows behind me. But the whisper still burned in my mind: Fulfill what was left undone, or you will not endure.

The receptionist, a young man with a too-eager smile, stammered when he saw me. “M-Mr. Mark! W-we didn’t know you were coming in today.”

“That’s because I didn’t announce it,” I replied coolly. “Announce me to the boardroom.”

His fingers scrambled across the phone. In seconds, the building stirred. Word spread like wildfire: Stephen Mark had arrived. Executives rushed into their suits, managers straightened their ties, and secretaries exchanged frantic looks.

By the time I entered the boardroom, the air was thick with unease. The long mahogany table gleamed under the chandelier, its seats filled with cautious eyes. Some faces I recognized from Stephen’s memories—men and women who had tolerated his arrogance in silence, biding their time until his collapse. Others were strangers, opportunists who had joined during his descent, eager to pick at the carcass of a fading heir.

I walked to the head of the table and sat. No hesitation. No wasted movements. The scrape of the chair echoed like a gavel.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice calm but sharp enough to draw blood. “Let’s begin.”

For a moment, silence ruled the room. They exchanged glances, testing each other, wondering who would challenge me first. Finally, a man in his fifties cleared his throat. His name surfaced in my mind like a blade—Mr. Harold Trent, Chief Financial Officer. Ruthless, calculating, a man who despised weakness.

“Mr. Mark,” he began, voice polite but laced with disdain. “We weren’t expecting you. After your… extended absence, surely you understand the company has continued without you.”

I smiled faintly. “Yes. I’ve read the reports.” I tapped the file before me. “Losses in Q2, stagnation in Q3, and projections for Q4 flatter only the blind. Without intervention, this company will bleed out within two years.”

His eyes widened. Murmurs spread around the table.

“How dare—” Trent began, but I cut him off with a single raised hand.

“You think me a fool, Mr. Trent. You believe the board runs this empire now, that my absence proved my incompetence. Perhaps the old Stephen Mark gave you reason to think so.” I leaned forward, letting my gaze pierce through him. “But the man before you now is not the same.”

The words hung heavy.

I stood and walked to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker. My hand moved swiftly, outlining restructuring plans, profit recovery strategies, and market expansions. Every stroke was decisive, drawn not from Stephen’s fragmented memories, but from mine. My past life—the empire I had once built, the rivals I had crushed, the victories I had claimed.

Within minutes, the boardroom shifted from skepticism to awe. Executives leaned forward, their pens scratching furiously, their eyes widening as though scales had fallen from them.

“This—this is genius,” one whispered.

“Impossible… how did he—?” another murmured.

Only Trent remained rigid, his jaw tight, his pride wounded. But even he could not disguise the flicker of fear in his eyes.

When I finished, I turned back to them, my breathing even despite the faint burn in my chest. “This company is not dead. It is sleeping. And I will wake it.”

The silence that followed was not doubt. It was submission.

Finally, applause erupted—hesitant at first, then swelling into something real.

For the first time, the company felt order under Stephen Mark’s hand.

Yet as the meeting ended, the dizziness struck again. My vision blurred, and for a moment, the room spun. I gripped the table to steady myself, my knuckles white. No one seemed to notice, too swept up in the shock of my performance.

Not yet, the whisper returned. You have begun, but the path is long. Each step must honor the body you wear. Only then will flesh and soul become one.

I closed my eyes, forcing the weakness down. Revenge would wait. For now, survival demanded obedience.

Later that day, I stood in Stephen Mark’s office—my office now. The view stretched across the city, skyscrapers gleaming like blades in the sun. Power hummed in the air, a reminder of what I once had, what I would reclaim.

The door opened quietly. It was the secretary, a young woman with sharp eyes hidden behind glasses. “Mr. Mark,” she said cautiously. “Joan called. She asked for your number.”

My lips curved into a cold smile. “Tell her she’ll have to wait.”

The secretary blinked, surprised, but nodded.

As she left, I leaned back in the chair, steepling my fingers. Joan thought she was weaving her web, thought she could seduce or manipulate me as she pleased. She did not realize she was stepping into a new game—one she could not win.

For now, my mission was clear: make the father proud, prove the son worthy. Piece by piece, I would cement my hold on this vessel until the soul rejection ended.

Only then would I turn my eyes back to Joan, Jake, Barb, and the faceless man behind the wheel of the black Corolla.

And when I did… the villain arc would truly begin.