The night air outside the Eisenstadt Grand Palace was sharp, dry, and freezing, tasting of high-altitude alpine pine, ozone, and the faint, electrical tang of a hundred anti-mana security barriers operating at maximum capacity.
A heavy snowfall had dusted the black basalt spires and flying buttresses of the ancient palace, but along the central plaza, three hundred high-potency thermal lamps hovered on anti-grav rigs, melting every snowflake before it could touch the ground. Rolling down the sweeping double-staircase of white Carrara marble was a two-hundred-meter crimson carpet—a plush, two-inch-thick velvet ribbon bordered on both sides by glowing azure mana-barriers that kept thousands of roaring civilians and media representatives at bay.
Floating overhead in a tight, synchronized grid were over four hundred armored broadcast drones from every major network on Terra-Rift. Their blue recording lenses flashed relentlessly, transmitting 8K multi-angle video streams directly to orbital communication satellites.
Across four continents—from the neon-drenched spires of Shin-Neo Tokyo in the Yamato Sovereign Realm to the bustling concrete plazas of Plata-Central in Plataria—over eighty-two million viewers were tuned in live to the red carpet broadcast.
Floating above the main red carpet feed was a live social media stream and chat overlay:
LIVE BROADCAST: EISENSTADT GLOBAL HERO GALA (RED CARPET)
CURRENT VIEWERS: 82,910,400
TRENDING: #ObsidianVanguard #CassianDrake #ApexMedia #GalaDrip
CHAT:
@Valoria_Daily: "Who is position twelve?! The schedule says Apex Media delegation!"
@GigaFan_99: "GIGANT IS COMING! IS HE WEARING BURGUNDY?!"
@Oakhaven_Watcher: "Lady Death was spotted near the grand entrance looking like she wants to set the carpet on fire."
Standing near the foot of the grand staircase, just past the international customs checkpoint, was Lady Death.
She looked like a queen of frozen shadows. She wore a floor-length, pitch-black velvet evening gown featuring razor-sharp shoulder crests embroidered with dark silver thread, her dark wool coat draped over one arm, her coal-black lipstick set in a razor-sharp, furious line. Beside her stood her heavy handler, Radisson Rex, looking deeply uncomfortable in a massive, custom-tailored dark tuxedo, nervously holding his insulated tumbler of cold-brewed black coffee.
LADY DEATH: (Checking her wrist-comm tablet with a cold snap of her gloved fingers, her voice a low, lethal whisper) "Position twelve... Their motorcade just cleared the plaza gates, Radisson."
RADISSON REX: (Taking a cautious sip of his coffee, wiping his rugged jaw) "My lady... are you sure we shouldn't just go inside to the VIP lounge? The press is already staring at us because Magistrate Vogel ran off to his office thirty minutes ago weeping about an international court injunction."
LADY DEATH: (Glaring at Radisson with eyes cold enough to freeze boiling water) "We stand right here, Radisson. I want to see Cassian Drake’s face the moment he steps off that limousine and realizes that no amount of fancy tailoring can erase forty-two pending civil judgments on the Association record. When the news drones zoom in on his debt managers, the world will remember he is a deadbeat."
RADISSON REX: (Muttering under his breath as he checked his watch) "I don't know, my lady... Those custom suits Nadia Chen made for the auditors looked pretty expensive..."
LADY DEATH: "Shut up, Radisson."
The heavy iron gates at the edge of the plaza swung open with a deep, resonant hydraulic hiss.
Sweeping down the cobblestone boulevard in a flawless, synchronized double file came a fleet of eight obsidian-black executive stretch limousines bearing the silver-and-crimson crest of Valoria-Plata Apex Media. Their dark-tinted windows reflected the brilliant stadium lights, their anti-grav suspension gliding smoothly over the marble pavement without making a sound.
The crowd behind the mana-barriers erupted into a deafening roar of anticipation.
REPORTER 1: (Screaming into a floating microphone for the Valoria Daily) "Position twelve has arrived! The delegation from Valoria-Plata Apex Media is officially on the red carpet!"
REPORTER 2: (Zooming a high-definition lens onto the lead limousine) "Look at the vehicle detailing! Is that brushed titanium trim with anti-scrying runic plating?! Apex Media spared zero expense!"
The lead limousine glided to a halt at the base of the red carpet.
A uniformed palace footman stepped forward, extending a gloved hand to open the heavy rear door.
First to step out onto the crimson carpet was Trevor Grant.
The entire press line seemed to catch its collective breath. Standing at his full height of 188 centimeters, the twenty-five-year-old media mogul commanded immediate, absolute silence. He wore a tailored, double-breasted charcoal tuxedo crafted from heavyweight Italian wool, featuring narrow silk lapels, a crisp white shirt with mother-of-pearl studs, and a dark silk bow tie tied with mathematical precision. His dark eyes swept across the four hundred broadcast drones with the calm, untouchable composure of a man who owned the airspace, the cameras, and the narrative.
Walking beside him, radiating brilliant intellectual elegance, was Dr. Yelena Hover. She wore an emerald-silk evening gown that flowed around her heels like liquid jade, her wire-rimmed glasses catching the floodlight beams as she held a sleek, silver-bound data portfolio under her arm.
Following immediately behind them was Zach Drake.
The crowd gasped, then burst into a wave of chuckles and excited chatter. Zach walked with his hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his custom, matte-black obsidian-silk hoodie—designed by Nadia Chen with subtle silver-thread embroidery matching his family crest—paired with dark formal trousers and his signature, glowing neon-green Zhi-Shan sneakers. He wore pitch-black polarized aviator sunglasses, a wide-brimmed waterproof bucket hat pulled down firmly over his spiky green hair, and looked like a high-fashion cyberpunk rogue who had accidentally wandered onto an imperial red carpet.
ZACH: (Muttering under his breath to Trevor while waving casually at a camera drone) "Trevor... there are at least fifty female heroes in the VIP bleachers looking at me right now. I am actively reciting the Platarian Income Tax Regulations in my head to maintain my 5-year Vow of Celibacy."
TREVOR: (Without turning his head, his deep voice smooth and untroubled) "Focus on Chapter 22, Zach. The Stoic Silence of the Unobtainable Bachelor."
And then, stepping out of the limousine with slow, breathtaking, effortless aristocratic grace, was Cassian Drake.
The camera flashes exploded in a blinding, continuous wave of white light that illuminated the entire plaza.
Cassian stood six-foot-two in his hand-polished black calfskin dress shoes. His double-breasted burgundy tailcoat—woven from impenetrable, acid-resistant abyssal kraken-silk—shimmered under the floodlights, its lapels embroidered with dark silver threads depicting coiling leviathans. His fitted dark charcoal vest and white silk cravat were secured by a hand-cut emerald pin that sparkled like a green star. His long white hair, cascading in smooth, silk-like waves down his back, caught the cold mountain wind, flowing behind him like an imperial banner.
In his right hand, Cassian held a single, hand-woven bouquet composed of dark, carnivorous abyssal orchids that twitched greedily in the chilly air, offering the camera drones a radiant, breathtakingly arrogant aristocratic smile.
REPORTER 3: (Shouting frantically into her microphone) "IT'S CASSIAN DRAKE! SS-RANK #2! THE LEVIATHAN OF PLATA-CENTRAL!"
REPORTER 4: "LOOK AT THE BURGUNDY KRAKEN-SILK TAILCOAT! NADIA CHEN OUTDID HERSELF! HE LOOKS LIKE AN EMPEROR!"
LADY DEATH: (Stepping onto the edge of the carpet, her tablet raised, her voice loud and cutting) "Cassian Drake! As the designated enforcement officer for the Oakhaven Syndicate, I am here to ensure that your court-appointed debt management team—"
She froze.
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The rear doors of the seven remaining executive transport shuttles behind Cassian's limousine hissed open in perfect, mechanical unison.
Stepping out onto the marble pavement in a double-column formation were the forty-two Hero Association court auditors.
The entire red carpet plaza fell into an absolute, stunned silence.
There were no neon-pink safety vests. There were no plastic clipboard folders. There were no wrinkled, ill-fitting corporate suits.
Every single one of the forty-two auditors was clad in a masterfully tailored, double-breasted obsidian-silk tailcoat or tuxedo gown embroidered with silver thread matching the Drake family crest. Their structured shoulder pads gave them a formidable, triangular breadth, while across their faces, each auditor wore a sleek, Venetian-style black lace mask. In their hands, they held silver-bound leather tablet folios that looked like royal decrees.
They marched onto the red carpet behind Cassian in perfect, silent, terrifying synchronization—moving with the cold, unstoppable discipline of an elite gothic imperial guard escorting a sovereign monarch into battle.
Auditor Marcus marched at the head of the column. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses behind his Venetian mask, his obsidian silk lapel catching the stadium lights with an expensive, majestic shimmer as he held his chin high with absolute executive pride.
The international press line exploded into pure, unadulterated madness.
LIVE CHAT:
@GigaFan_99: "HOLY CRAP! LOOK AT HIS ENTOURAGE!"
@Valoria_Daily: "ARE THOSE HIS AUDITORS?! THEY LOOK LIKE AN ELITE DEPARTNENT OF DEATH SQUAD!"
@Zhi_Shan_News: "THE DRIP IS BEYOND COMPREHENSION! HE TURNED A GARNISHMENT TEAM INTO AN IMPERIAL VANGUARD!"
@Aethelgard_Truth: "LADY DEATH IS STANDING THERE LOOKING LIKE HER PLAN JUST GOT ANNIHILATED!"
Cassian glided up the Carrara marble steps, stopping three feet away from Lady Death. He offered her a slow, polished, breathtakingly arrogant bow, his long white hair brushing his navy-blue storm coat shoulder before he straightened up to his full height.
CASSIAN: "Ah, Lady Death. What an exquisitely cold evening in Eisenstadt. I see you’ve brought Radisson. Tell me... does his suit feature a heated cup holder for his coffee, or is he still warming his hands on the engine block?"
RADISSON REX: (Looking down at his insulated tumbler, completely earnest) "Actually, a heated holder would be amazing, Lady Death, can we get one—"
LADY DEATH: (Turning a glare of pure, molten fury onto Radisson that could have melted stone) "If you speak again tonight, Radisson, I will personally assign you to guard the sewer rifts in Sector 9 for six months."
She snapped her head back to Cassian, her dark eyes flashing with lethal, sub-zero fury as she thrust her tablet toward his face.
LADY DEATH: "You think a fashion show erases your records, Cassian?! You are still subject to Section 9 debt oversight! These forty-two individuals behind you are court-appointed garnishment officers assigned to seize your earnings!"
AUDITOR MARCUS: (Stepping forward from the front line of the obsidian vanguard, adjusting his silver-bound folio, his voice echoing with cool, untouchable executive authority) "Pardon the interruption, Lady Death, but your classification is legally outdated."
Lady Death’s jaw tightened. "What did you say to me, Marcus?!"
AUDITOR MARCUS: "As Senior Executive Attaché to the House of Deoliux representing Valoria-Plata Apex Media, I must inform you that our department’s status was officially re-classified three hours ago under Section 42-B of the International Corporate Code."
MARCUS: (Opening his silver folio with a crisp, authoritative snap) "We are no longer classified as garnishment officers. We are currently employed as Senior Asset Preservation Consultants under a five-year corporate retainer fully funded by Apex Media. Furthermore, Mr. Drake’s current liquid bank balance stands at positive one point two million credits, with fifty-two million dollars in maritime revenue yield currently processing through our international clearing house."
Marcus closed the folio, looking down his nose at Lady Death through his Venetian lace mask with supreme, bureaucratic disdain.
AUDITOR MARCUS: "In short, Lady Death... you no longer have standing to issue commands to this department. Please step aside. You are obstructing the red carpet arrival lane."
The forty-two obsidian auditors behind Marcus took one step forward in unison, their heavy leather dress shoes striking the marble steps with a single, thunderous CRACK that echoed across the entire plaza!
The crowd behind the mana-barriers broke into wild cheers and applause!
REPORTER 1: (Screaming into a drone mic) "UNBELIEVABLE! CASSIAN DRAKE’S HEAD AUDITOR JUST TOLD LADY DEATH SHE IS OBSTRUCTING THE LANE!"
REPORTER 2: "THE OAKHAVEN SYNDICATE HAS BEEN COMPLETELY DISMANTLED ON LIVE TELEVISION!"
Lady Death stood frozen on the marble steps. Her face was deathly pale, her hands trembling inside her wool coat pockets as eighty-two million viewers watched her garnishment scheme crumble into a global high-fashion meme.
TREVOR GRANT: (Stepping smoothly past her, offering a calm, faintly amused incline of his head) "A delightful evening on the red carpet, Lady Death. We shall see you inside on the auction floor... Do try to enjoy the champagne."
Cassian Drake offered her a final, radiant smile, twirled his carnivorous abyssal orchid between his fingers, and swept past her through the grand gilded doors of the Eisenstadt Grand Palace, flanked by his forty-two obsidian courtiers as the crowd roared his name into the cold alpine night.
THE GRAND FOYER OF THE PALACE
The interior of the Eisenstadt Grand Palace was a monumental cavern of high-society opulence.
Towering arches carved from white Carrara marble and dark green jade supported a soaring vaulted ceiling painted with frescoes depicting ancient hero victories against dimensional rifts. Floating high above the marble floor were twelve massive, crystalline chandeliers that hummed with soft, amber anti-grav mana fields, casting warm, golden light across a room filled with over a thousand high-tier heroes, international diplomats, corporate media titans, and foreign heads of state.
Music from a thirty-piece orchestral ensemble played softly from an elevated gallery, mixing with the gentle clinking of champagne flutes and the sophisticated murmur of high-society conversation.
Stepping into the main foyer, Cassian handed his winter coat and carnivorous bouquet to a uniformed palace attendant, adjusting his burgundy tailcoat in a nearby gilded mirror.
CASSIAN: (Polishing his emerald pin with his thumb, looking genuinely delighted) "Did you see her face, Trevor? Did you see her black-painted lips twitch when Marcus told her she was obstructing the lane? It was an artistic masterpiece! I felt a surge of aristocratic joy that I haven't experienced since we burned Cousin Vane’s summer villa in Deoliux!"
TREVOR: (Taking two glasses of vintage German Riesling from a passing silver tray, handing one to Cassian) "Celebration is acceptable, Cassian, but remain sharp. Stage one is complete. Stage two—the Wreckage Asset Auction—commences on the central balcony in twenty minutes."
DR. YELENA HOVER: (Reviewing her holographic tablet as she walked beside them) "Our automated bidding algorithm is pre-set to open Lot 14—the Dread-Megalodros chitin—at two million credits. However, my sensors are picking up unusual financial activity from the VIP boxes on the upper level."
ZACH: (Scanning the crowd while sipping a glass of sparkling water, his bucket hat pulled low) "What kind of activity?"
YELENA: "A secondary bidding account registered to Theodore Media Group—Trevor’s primary rival in Plata-Central—just logged onto the auction server. It appears Theodore has formed an ad-hoc financial alliance with Lady Death's shell companies to artificially inflate the bidding price on Cassian's chitin."
CASSIAN: (His pitch-black eyes narrowing slightly as he takes a slow sip of his Riesling) "Theodore... That insufferable media hack who tried to buy out my image rights last year? He dares attempt to drive up my repurchase cost?"
TREVOR: (A cold, dangerous, beautiful smirk touching his dark lips as he swirls his wine) "Let him bid, Cassian. Chapter 25 of my book—The Art of Letting Your Rivals Finance Your Victory. If Theodore wants to spend his corporate reserves bidding against Apex Media, we will simply allow him to over-extend his liquid capital until he bankrupts his own firm."
Before Cassian could respond, a loud, booming voice echoed across the foyer from the grand marble staircase leading to the VIP lounges.
LOUNGS: (His massive voice carrying easily over the orchestral music as he claps his giant, muscular hands together) "BWAHAHA! THERE HE IS! THE MONK OF PLATA-CENTRAL!"
The crowd in the foyer parted as Loungs—SSS-Rank #1, the strongest human on Earth—strode down the staircase.
He looked imposing and ridiculous, wearing a neon-yellow formal tuxedo jacket over his massive mesomorph frame, paired with bright blue dress trousers and yellow leather loafers. Beside him walked his wife, Mrs. Loungs, impeccably dressed in a sharp designer skirt suit while reviewing financial spreadsheets on a high-end tablet.
And trailing behind them, wearing a gorgeous crimson silk ballgown but glaring at Zach with absolute, tearful fury, was nineteen-year-old Ashley.
LOUNGS: (Slapping Zach on the shoulder with enough force to generate a small sonic boom that rattled the nearby champagne glasses) "Look at you, Zach! Wearing a black hoodie and neon sneakers to the Eisenstadt Gala! You really take this five-year celibacy vow seriously, don't you?!"
ZACH: (Stumbling sideways from the pat, holding his water glass tightly) "I take my bank account balance seriously, Loungs! And your wife was trying to seize it!"
MRS. LOUNGS: (Looking up from her tablet with a sharp, calculating smile) "That was before your brother's media firm generated fifty-two million dollars in maritime yield from a single ocean harvest, Zach. My legal team has already updated our portfolio assessment. Valoria-Plata Apex Media is currently the most profitable independent entity in Sector 7."
ASHLEY: (Stamping her silk heel against the marble floor, pointing a manicured finger at Cassian) "Mom! I don't care about Apex Media's portfolio! Look at Cassian! He's wearing burgundy kraken-silk! He has forty-two obsidian guards! Why couldn't I marry HIM?!"
MRS. LOUNGS: (Without looking away from her screen) "Because Cassian Drake is managed by Trevor Grant, Ashley. And Trevor Grant has written three thousand pages of legal loopholes that would keep our family in court until you are sixty years old."
CASSIAN: (Offering Mrs. Loungs a polished, elegant bow) "An accurate assessment, Mrs. Loungs. My legal armor is quite impenetrable."
DING. DING. DING.
High above the ballroom floor, a series of heavy silver chimes echoed from the central balcony gallery. The crystal chandeliers shifted their illumination from warm amber to a deep, regal indigo, signaling the commencement of the official event.
Stepping onto the illuminated central stage overlooking the grand ballroom was Director Silas Mercer, Chief Executive Officer of the Global Hero Association Board, clad in his white Grand Marshal uniform covered in silver battle medals.
SILAS MERCER: (His booming, mana-amplified voice carrying across the entire thousand-person audience) "Honored heroes! Distinguished diplomats! Sovereign leaders of Terra-Rift! The Global Wreckage Asset Auction is now officially OPEN!"
The crowd turned toward the central balcony as massive holographic bidding displays materialized in the air above the stage.
TREVOR: (Setting his empty wine glass onto a passing tray, his dark eyes fixing onto the stage with absolute, predatory intensity) "Position yourselves, team. Stage two has begun."
Cassian Drake reached into his charcoal vest pocket, his pale fingers resting lightly against the cool, iridescent metal of his Abyssal Script Pen, his pitch-black eyes sparkling with unholy, aristocratic triumph as the high-stakes corporate war of Eisenstadt entered its finest hour.