X rose slowly from the leather chair, its polished frame whispering as it turned a full circle beneath him. The seat alone was worth more than most men's lifetimes—a quiet testament to the empire he had built.
The room around him was perfectly circular, a deliberate design. No corners. No blind spots. Every inch of it reflected control.
And tonight, it belonged solely to him.
He had dismissed every technical staff, every aide, every shadow that usually lingered at his side. This hour—this silence—was reserved for one thing:
Planning the future of his economic dominion.
A future that was now… threatened.
By an island.
A small, insignificant island in the central plains of Azuverda.
His jaw tightened.
Ares Zuvel.
That man was too lucky.
At first, X had scoffed at the reports. A discovery in Isla? A royal mausoleum? It had all sounded like nothing more than a carefully staged farce—propaganda meant to inflate the Zuvel name and manipulate the masses.
A historical hoax.
