The Last Successor

11. The Last Loyal Servant

The  leader of the Ironclad security team stared down at Adrian for a long moment. Then, his face twisted into a mocking laugh that echoed across the quiet shipping yard.

"Adrian Veyron?" the leader shouted.

He turning his head slightly so his men could hear him, "The useless son-in-law of the Sterling family? The pathetic delivery boy who carries boxes for a living?"

He stepped even closer to Adrian, trying to use his massive frame to force the young man to look up.

"We know exactly who the hell you are, kid. Our corporate superiors warned us that a desperate beggar might try to play king with a dead man's scraps today. Let me tell you something plain. Move along right now before we break both of your legs and throw your body into the deep harbor."

Behind the line of guards, the elderly man in the blue uniform jacket froze completely. Director Thomas looked past the thick shoulder of the massive guard, his old eyes locking onto Adrian’s face.

More importantly, his eyes caught the sudden, sharp gleam of the heavy iron key that Adrian was now holding openly between his fingers.

Thomas’s breath hitched instantly. His old, wrinkled hands began to tremble so violently that the heavy leather ledger almost slipped from his arms.

"The... the key of the primary vault," Thomas whispered to himself, his old voice cracking with a sudden wave of overwhelming emotion.

"The dynamic geometric carvings... it is the Sovereign's token. The promise is real."

"Shut the hell up, old man!" one of the grey-uniformed guards snapped, roughly shoving Thomas against the brick wall again.

Adrian witnessed the interaction clearly. A cold, dangerous fire flashed deep within his gray eyes. He did not yell, and he did not lose his composure. He simply turned his head slightly.

"Winston," Adrian said softly.

"Yes, your Sovereign," Winston replied instantly from behind the umbrella, his voice entirely calm.

"Clear the path completely. Do not waste another second of my time on these common dogs."

Before the scarred leader could even register the command or raise his hand, two of Adrian’s black-suited bodyguards moved with terrifying speed. The movement was so fast it barely looked human.

The first bodyguard grabbed the leader's outstretched right arm, twisting it sharply behind his back until a loud, sickening pop echoed through the sound of the rain.

The massive leader let out a wild scream of pure agony, his knees instantly hitting the wet concrete. The second bodyguard did not hesitate; he delivered a brutal, precise kick directly into the man's exposed ribs, sending his massive body rolling down the concrete steps into the thick mud below.

"What the hell—! They're attacking! Get them!" the remaining grey-uniformed guards roared in panic, pulling out their heavy batons and rushing down the stairs in a chaotic wave.

But it was not a real fight; it was a clinical execution of high-level tactical martial arts. Adrian's bodyguards had been trained for years by the deep, hidden security branches of the original Dominion. They moved through the rain like shadows, dodging the wild swings of the batons with minimal effort. Striking with absolute precision, they targeted joints, throats, and knees.

Within less than two minutes, the entire conflict was over. All eight of the Ironclad tactical guards were lying flat on the wet ground, groaning in deep agony, their joints broken and their corporate pride utterly shattered.

Adrian walked calmly up the concrete steps, stepping over the groaning bodies of the thugs without granting them a single downward glance. He stopped right in front of the trembling old director.

Thomas did not look at the broken men on the floor. His eyes were fixed entirely on Adrian’s face, tears streaming down his weathered, wrinkled cheeks, mixing with the cold rainwater. Without warning, the old director fell heavily to his knees on the hard concrete, pressing his forehead directly against the ground right at Adrian’s feet.

"Director Thomas of the 109th Sector greets the true Successor of the House," the old man sobbed.

His voice shaking with a deep loyalty that had survived four decades of total poverty, "Forty years... forty long years I kept the gates of this port. The others told me the Founder had abandoned us. They told me our sector was forgotten and dead. But I knew... I always knew in my heart that he would eventually send his blood to reclaim the yard."

Adrian looked down at the old man kneeling before him. For the first time since he had walked out of the Sterling family's apartment, a look of genuine warmth appeared on his calm face. He bent down slowly, placing his calloused hands firmly under Thomas's elbows. He gently lifted the old director back onto his feet.

"Stand up, Director Thomas," Adrian said.

"A loyal servant of Victor's house does not kneel in the mud before anyone. Especially not before a pack of rabid wolves. Your loyalty has been proven. Now, straighten your back."

Thomas wiped his eyes quickly, his breathing ragged but his spirit completely renewed.

"Yes... yes, Young Master! Forgive my weakness. The main office building has been completely invaded by a regional executive from Ironclad Heavy Industries. His name is Marcus Van. He arrived with a team of corporate lawyers and a forged asset transfer document. He is inside our primary digital archive right now, using their equipment to force our physical locks."

Adrian turned his head toward the heavy glass doors of the office building. Inside the lobby, a man wearing a grey corporate suit was watching them through the window. His face was completely pale with sudden fear, and he was frantically talking into a phone, his hands shaking.

"Marcus Vane," Adrian murmuredHis thumb gently brushing against his father's watch. "Let us go inside and see what kind of price The Forge is truly willing to pay for trying to steal from the dead."