The Lost God Heir

Ethan The Nobody.

The ceap banquet hall resounded loudly with cruel laughter and the sharp glow of phone cameras.

Ethan stood in the middle of it all, surrounded on every side, with Damien’s shoe still planted in front of his chest.

Melted ice cream drips slowly from the leather and pools onto the tiled floor.

The sticky sweetness contrasts violently with the hatred in the air, making the humiliation feel even dirtier.

The guards inch closer, their shoulders tightening as if they are waiting for permission to crush him.

Ethan keeps his head up, but his fists tremble faintly at his sides.

Damien's laughter grew louder, throwing his head back with exaggerated pride.

“Look at you,” he sneers. “Still standing? You really think dignity feeds you now?”

Damien turns in a slow circle so everyone can hear him.

He puffs out his chest and raises his voice higher, enjoying the attention.

“My father’s companies span three cities,” he boasts loudly.

“My uncle works at Cole Linked. Real power. The real world you’ll never touch again.”

Whispers ripple through the crowd at the mention of Cole.

Even among the wealthy, that name carries weight.

“The real VIPs of Cole Linked are meeting upstairs tonight. The real elites.”

He laughs and looks back at Ethan.

“People like you only get close enough to clean their shoes.”

“And today, I will show the world that you're nothing close to my league…”

Before anything can happen, the noise in the hall shifts strangely.

Not because someone shouts, not because music stops—but because instinct moves faster than thought.

Dozens of heads turn at the same time toward the entrance and conversations die in broken fragments, and laughter freezes halfway in people’s mouths.

The double doors open without violence.

They simply part, quietly, as if the room itself is retreating.

Marcus walks in.

His suit is simple but flawless, dark and perfectly fitted, the kind that doesn’t need decoration to command respect.

His eyes are calm, unreadable, and sharp with the weight of long-standing authority.

Recognition explodes through the hall in a shockwave.

“That’s… Marcus…”

“It’s really him…”

“Marcus Vale…”

“Cole's chairman’s right hand…”

“The man who controls half the upper circle…”

Faces drainer white.

A few guests instinctively step backward.

Some managers bow without even realizing they’ve done it.

Even the guards stiffen, their aggressive posture collapsing into automatic caution.

They don’t lower their heads—but they no longer dare move.

Power doesn’t always roar.

Sometimes it just arrives and everything else kneels on its own.

Marcus scans the hall with mild disinterest.

His gaze passes over Damien over Lila, over the guards, over the raised phones.

Then his eyes stop on Ethan.

For the first time since entering, his expression changes.

He walks forward calmly, and the crowd parts for him without a word.

When he reaches Ethan, he glances at the ice cream on the floor and the cameras in the air.

Then he looks directly at Ethan’s face.

A faint smile touches his lips.

“You made new friends already?” Marcus asks lightly.

The entire hall falls into dead silence.

No one dares breathe too loudly either.

Damien blinks, then bursts out laughing as if he’s heard the best joke of the night.

He steps forward with exaggerated swagger, completely misreading the tension crushing the room.

“Friends?” The cow scoffs loudly

.

“This broken trash doesn’t qualify for friendship.”

He points at Ethan openly.

“He was about to lick the ice cream off my shoe.”