The Rise of John Raymond

Chapter 46: Let the Games Begin

The grand auction hall buzzed with muted murmurs and low laughter as the attendees—all paragons of old money, tech tycoons, media moguls, oil barons, and aristocrats—moved to their assigned seats. Each person carried the air of untouchable wealth, their expressions stoic yet proud, as though being there was both a privilege and an expectation.

John stood at the back of the room, ticket in hand, slowly growing uncomfortable.

Everyone else had located their seats with ease. Each chair was marked clearly with the corresponding code found on the guest’s invitation. But John, despite scanning the rows twice over, found no chair bearing his number. His eyes flicked over the crowd, hoping perhaps someone had taken his seat by mistake. There was, however, one vacant chair left in the entire room—a plain, metallic seat near the door with no tag or designation.

He hesitated.

Somewhere in the shadows of the hall, King watched through a discreet surveillance feed, a glass of dark liquor in hand and a sly grin spreading across his face.

"Let's see how the boy handles rejection in a room full of predators," King murmured to himself.

John, unaware of the hidden eyes on him, took a step toward the rows again, scanning every label meticulously. Maybe he had missed something? Maybe someone had swapped tags? He couldn’t just assume. Confronting someone in this room could result in embarrassment—or worse, political suicide. These weren’t students at a campus event. These were men and women who could blacklist him with a whisper.

He looked back down at his ticket.

The number was gone.

In its place, a digital timer had started counting down—fast.

“What is this?” he whispered under his breath, feeling the tension in his chest rise. He turned, instinctively scanning the room again, only to see the same plain seat near the entrance catching his eye.

Tamara, watching from the Terrace view upstairs, caught sight of his hesitation and smirked.

“This is exactly what a gutter child like him deserves,” she muttered under her breath, sipping from her wine glass with casual cruelty.

John’s pulse quickened. He looked around once more, then closed his eyes briefly and took a slow, steadying breath.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “If this is a game… then let’s play.”

He walked calmly toward the vacant chair by the door. For a moment, some nearby guests glanced at him with vague interest, wondering what he would do. He didn’t flinch. He lifted the chair and scanned the rows of seated elites—every row symmetrical, perfect, locked in design. He could take the easy way out and sit quietly in the back, unnoticed. Or he could take a chance.

He walked forward.

Not to the middle. Not the back.

To the front.

And instead of placing the chair in a row, he set it squarely in the middle of the wide aisle—directly between the frontmost seats. He sat, straight-backed, eyes forward.

Heads turned.

A few guests whispered.

One man chuckled softly, impressed.

King’s eyes lit up.

“That’s what I like to see,” he said, swirling his drink. “He gets it.”

The placement of that chair meant more than most people would have realized. To sit at the back would have marked him as timid—a passive observer. The middle, a fence-sitter—neither bold nor foolish. But the front? That was defiance. That was confidence. That was declaration.

John didn’t flinch under the sudden attention. He sat perfectly still, like he belonged there. And in that moment, he did.

But the games had only just begun.

The lights dimmed suddenly.

Guests shifted in their seats. A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Then, soft lights under each chair began to glow—some in vibrant blue, others in a deep pink.

John’s chair, however, remained dark.

No light. No group.

No category.

He looked left and right. Every guest had begun murmuring again. Some chuckled. Some frowned. Some pointed.

“What’s going on?”

“Why doesn’t he have a color?”

“Is he… special?”

“Or maybe he’s just not supposed to be here?”

“Is he the entertainment?”

The whispers stung, but John kept his composure. He didn’t need to panic. He just needed to wait.

The compere, clad in black and gold, appeared from the side of the stage with a radiant smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “the colors on your chairs indicate your new groups. If your seat glows blue, kindly proceed through the blue door to your right. If your seat glows pink, head through the pink door on the left.”

The movement began immediately.

Chairs were lifted, conversations paused, and guests began migrating with grace and poise toward their assigned doors. But none of them could ignore the young man sitting dead center in the aisle—chair dark, expression unreadable.

Some servants glanced at John, unsure of what to do. Some guests whispered cruelly as they passed.

“Who does he think he is?”

“He doesn’t even have a light?”

“Must be a mistake.”

“Maybe he’s King’s charity project?”

John sat still, his jaw tight.

Above, in the Terrace view, Tamara smirked again and sipped her wine without shame. She turned to Hera and whispered, “He doesn’t even know the games being played. This is child’s play.”

Once the hall was nearly empty, and both groups had been ushered through their doors, the compere walked calmly to John and handed him a small, folded envelope.

“This is from the host,” he said.

John took it, his fingers a little stiff, and opened it.

The note was brief.

I know your grandfather sent you,

and you have indeed made a good first impression.

So I am giving you a chance to choose your future.

The two doors—blue and pink—are before you.

No judgment.

But understand, whatever you choose, you must own it.

Best wishes,

King.

John read it twice.

He wasn’t sure whether to be honored or unnerved.

This was clearly another test. Another game.

He looked at the doors again. The blue room had drawn the older elites—the legacy builders, the titans of oil, steel, old finance. Men and women like his grandfather. Their strength was endurance. History. Influence built brick by brick.

The pink room, on the other hand, had drawn the younger generation—tech moguls, fashion moguls, entertainment tycoons, crypto pioneers, new-age thinkers. Some inherited wealth, others created it from nothing, but all of them represented change and speed.

It wasn’t just a game of colors.

It was a choice about who John wanted to be.

Was he a legacy… or a revolution?

He swallowed.

A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. He wished his grandfather were here. He wished someone could tell him the right path. But that, too, would ruin the test.

He closed his eyes, thinking.

If he stayed in the hall, he would look arrogant.

If he chose blue, he aligned with tradition.

If he chose pink, he chose ambition and innovation.

King was watching all of this. John could feel it.

He opened his eyes.

And stood up.

The compere smiled faintly and asked, “So, Mr. Raymond… which door will it be?”

John looked at both doors one last time.

He tightened his grip on the back of the chair, then let it go.

“I really hope I didn’t mess this opportunity up,” John whispered to himself.

He took a step.

The compere nodded and silently led him toward one of the doors…