2025-08-21 18:28:28The banquet scandal did not fade overnight. By the next morning, newspapers and social media platforms across the city buzzed with headlines about EastGate’s disgrace. Clips of officers seizing the stolen sculpture circulated online, while commentators tore apart the Daniels family for aligning themselves with “frauds.”
Inside the Daniels mansion, the mood was grim. Harold Daniels paced the length of his study, his face pale and weary. David sat nearby, his jaw tight with frustration. Clara stood by the window, her arms folded, while Michael leaned quietly against the wall. “This is a disaster,” Harold groaned. “Our stockholders are panicking, and our partners are questioning our credibility.” David scowled. “This is your fault, Clara. You dragged that… that useless man along. Every time he shows up, something bad happens.” Michael’s gaze flicked to him, calm and unflinching. “Funny. If I recall, the disaster came from EastGate, not me.” David bristled. “Don’t talk back. You’re nothing but a freeloader in this family.” “Enough,” Harold snapped, though his eyes betrayed agreement with David. He turned to Michael. “Tell me the truth. Did you know EastGate was dirty?” Michael’s answer was steady, deliberate. “Yes.” The room went silent. Clara’s eyes widened. “You… you knew?” Michael nodded. “Their financial records didn’t add up. Their public image was a mask. I suspected they were involved in something illegal, and last night confirmed it.” David let out a harsh laugh. “And you didn’t warn us? Typical. Playing the prophet after the storm has already passed.” Michael’s gaze hardened. “I did warn you. You just weren’t listening.” The words hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. Clara glanced between them, torn between her family and the husband they constantly scorned. Later that day, while the Daniels licked their wounds, Michael walked through the city streets with Clara at his side. Though she tried to mask it, her mind swirled with questions. Finally, she spoke. “Why didn’t you say more last night? If you knew EastGate would fall, why not stop it before it embarrassed the family?” Michael’s lips curved faintly. “Because sometimes, letting pride fall is the only way to rebuild it. Your family needed to see their vulnerability. They’ve been blind for too long.” Clara frowned. “You speak as if you control the tides of fate.” He chuckled softly. “Not fate, Clara. Just people. Their greed, their lies, their weaknesses—they all leave trails. I only follow them.” Her steps slowed as she studied him. For the first time, she wondered if there was far more to her husband than anyone realized. That evening, Michael visited a quiet tea house on the outskirts of town. The owner, an elderly man with sharp eyes, greeted him with a knowing smile. “You came earlier than I expected,” the old man said. Michael bowed his head respectfully. “The Daniels are in trouble. EastGate’s fall was only the beginning. There are bigger storms coming.” The old man poured tea into two cups, his movements deliberate. “And you? Are you ready to step out of the shadows?” Michael’s gaze was thoughtful, almost distant. “Not yet. But when the time is right, I will.” The old man chuckled. “The city still whispers your name, you know. The heir who vanished. The lion who sleeps. They will tremble when they discover who you truly are.” Michael’s eyes glinted, though his voice remained calm. “Let them whisper. For now, I am only Clara’s husband.” Meanwhile, back at the Daniels mansion, Clara sat alone in her room, staring at the city lights outside her window. Her family had mocked Michael for years, treating him as a burden, a joke, a mistake she should regret. Yet last night, when everything collapsed, he had stood unshaken. While her father and cousins panicked, Michael had seen through the chaos, even predicted it. “Who are you really, Michael?” she whispered to herself. She didn’t notice the door open until Michael stepped inside. His presence filled the room with quiet strength. “You’re thinking too much again,” he said softly. Clara turned to face him, searching his eyes. “You’re not who you pretend to be, are you?” Michael’s faint smile returned, mysterious and unreadable. “Does it matter who I was? What matters is who I choose to be—for you.” Her heart skipped. For a moment, she forgot the weight of her family’s troubles. For a moment, it was just the two of them, standing at the edge of something, neither fully understood. But outside the Daniels mansion, the world moved restlessly. Rivals smelled blood in the water. Enemies whispered in the dark. The collapse of EastGate was not the end of the storm—it was merely the first thunderclap. And in the shadows, Michael Daniels—the “useless son-in-law”—was preparing to rise.
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Chapter 85: The Serpent In The Square
The morning dawned heavy with unease. No birds sang above the rooftops, and even the merchants, who once filled the square with their cries, spoke in hushed tones, their stalls half-shuttered. The rebellion of the past nights had left scars not only on the streets but in the hearts of the people.Clara felt it in the air as she stepped out of the council hall. The silence of mistrust was louder than any shout. Whispers trailed her like a cloak, scraps of words carried by the breeze: “She lies… Michael is gone… hope is dead…”Jonathan fell in step beside her, hand on the hilt of his blade. His sharp eyes darted across the gathering crowd. “They look at you as though you were their gaoler, not their guardian,” he muttered.Clara’s jaw tightened. “Then we must remind them who we are. Not lords above them, but people among them.”Jonathan’s voice was low, grim. “And if they will not listen?”“Then we must make them see.”---By midday, the square filled. The scribe had seen to that. He st
Chapter 84: Blood And Iron
The clash came like thunder. Steel slammed against steel, arrows hissed overhead, and the cries of men rose in a storm of agony and rage. The battlefield became a furnace where hope and despair melted into one.Michael fought at the front, where the danger was fiercest. His sword was no longer polished silver but a streaked thing, dark with blood, chipped at the edge, yet it sang in his hands with grim purpose. Every swing was a prayer, every block a vow—if his men must die, they would not die alone.The enemy pressed hard, ranks upon ranks, their armor gleaming, their numbers overwhelming. Yet Michael’s line did not break. Exhausted, starving, outnumbered three to one, they clung to their ground like wolves cornered with nothing left but teeth.“Hold!” Michael’s voice tore from his throat. He struck down one foe, then another, his body screaming with pain but his will unbending. “For the city! For your brothers!”Haran fought beside him, his axe a whirlwind. “They’re trying to split
Chapter 83: Shadows On The Battlefield
The battlefield stretched like a graveyard under a steel-gray sky. Charred wagons lay splintered across the plain, arrows bristled from broken shields, and the stench of blood mingled with smoke that clung stubbornly to the air. The wind carried with it a low moan—the sound of wounded men, scattered and forgotten, each cry a fading plea to heavens that no longer seemed to listen.Michael stood among them, his armor battered, the crest long obscured by mud and blood. He leaned on his sword like a crutch, breath harsh, his body a map of bruises and shallow cuts. Around him, his company—the remnants of what had once been a proud host—gathered in ragged silence.Fewer than a hundred remained. Once they had been a thousand.He scanned their faces. Hollow-eyed, starved, burned by both sun and frost, yet still they looked to him. Not because he was invincible—his limp betrayed his weakness—but because he had not abandoned them. He ate what they ate, bled as they bled, fought where they fough
Chapter 82: Ashes Of Trust
The city had not slept.The echoes of steel on stone, the cries of the wounded, and the bitter smoke of torches still lingered in the streets. Dogs barked uneasily at shadows, and mothers clutched their children close, whispering prayers into the night air that carried the faint, acrid tang of blood. By dawn, the cobblestones bore the scars of the night’s violence. Though water had been thrown across the square, crimson streaks clung stubbornly, like bruises that no scrubbing could erase.Silence hung heavy over the city—not the silence of peace, but of exhaustion, fear, and waiting. Every shuttered window seemed to hold a pair of watching eyes. Every alley seemed to conceal a whisper.Clara stood at the balcony of the council hall, her gaze fixed on the square below. She wore no jewels now, no bright gowns. Her dress was plain, her hair tied back, as if she wished to make herself one with the weary people. And yet she could feel their eyes on her. Not with admiration, not even with h
Chapter 81: Fire In The Streets
Clara’s words echoed through the council chamber long after the meeting had ended. Michael fights even now. And soon—soon he will return. It was the promise she clung to, the thread that kept her upright when fear clawed at her chest. But outside those walls, the city stirred like a hive struck by a stick.By midday, the whispers had become shouts. Citizens gathered in the square, shouting against hunger and broken promises. Banners hastily painted on rags waved above the crowd: Bread, not lies! and Down with the council!The guards, restless and divided, stood uncertain at the edge of the swelling mass. Some raised their shields, as duty demanded. Others lowered their eyes, as if ashamed. And a few, Clara noticed with a sinking heart, stood among the crowd instead of against it.At the center, the scribe lifted his arms, his voice carrying above the roar.“People of the city! How long will you starve while they sit fat in their halls? How long will you pray to a phantom who does not
Chapter 80: The Spark Of Rebellion
The city had grown restless. Hunger gnawed at bellies, and doubt gnawed at hearts. Though the council kept the walls strong, and Clara gave voice to courage, the whispers seeded by the scribe had spread like a sickness. And sickness, if not cut away, soon festers into rot.That evening, in a candlelit chamber beneath the tavern, the scribe gathered his followers once more. His voice, smooth as silk but edged like a blade, carried across the table.“You have seen it with your own eyes,” he said. “The girl speaks of hope, but she offers no bread. The council speaks of Michael, but they cannot summon him. And while we suffer, they dine in their halls and drink from their cups.”A murmur of agreement swept the room.The scribe leaned closer, lowering his voice until it became a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think Michael fights for you? No. He fights for himself. And when the enemy comes, he will throw open the gates and embrace them as brothers. I tell you—our true enemy is not outside
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