Chapter 43: Lord Alistair Prescott

Evren held the phone to his ear, looking out over the skyline of Veridia Metropolis.

"He wants to know the time and place of my convenience?" he repeated.

"Yes, Chairman," Mikay confirmed over the line. "The dispatch is formally sealed with the Prescott family crest. Lord Alistair is waiting for your reply."

Evren tapped his fingers lightly against the stone balustrade, thinking for a brief second.

During his days as an F-Rank delivery rider, he had driven his beat-up electric scooter to every corner of the metropolis. He knew the layout of the city better than most oligarchs who only traveled in blacked-out limousines.

He remembered delivering vintage champagne to the grand glass skyscraper in the central district during a heavy downpour, forced to take the freight elevator while elite guildmasters dined ninety stories above the clouds.

A faint, self-amused smile crossed Evren’s lips.

"Tell the Prescott envoy we meet today at two o’clock," Evren instructed. "The location will be the Pinnacle Sky-Lounge on the ninetieth floor of Veridia Sky-Tower. Have our security team reserve the entire floor."

"Understood, Chairman," Mikay replied. "I’ll dispatch the formal confirmation and coordinate with building management immediately."

—

At 1:55 PM, a black Maybach with dark tinted windows pulled up to the private VIP entrance of Veridia Sky-Tower.

Evren stepped out wearing a simple dark fitted crewneck sweater, dark trousers, and clean black sneakers, his hands resting casually in his pockets.

Behind him, Mikay followed, dressed in a business suit and carrying a slim leather folder.

They took the private glass elevator straight to the 90th floor.

DING.

The brass elevator doors slid open into the Pinnacle Sky-Lounge.

Floor-to-ceiling glass windows surrounded the penthouse lounge, offering views of the northern mountains and the sparkling southern sea.

Standing near the elevator lobby were four veteran bodyguards in black overcoats. Their eyes were sharp and their concealed mana signatures hummed quietly at high A-Rank levels. Seeing Evren walk out in casual clothes, they couldn’t hide their disbelief.

An elderly man sat at a circular mahogany table in the middle of the quiet, glass-walled lounge, sipping black coffee.

His silver hair was slicked back, and he had and cold gray eyes. He wore a velvet three-piece suit and an antique gold pocket watch, with a silver-headed obsidian cane resting across his lap.

Lord Alistair Prescott, the supreme Patriarch of the Prescott Clan, an S-Rank veteran of the Old Era, and the man who had controlled the city’s commerce and shadow politics for forty years.

Unlike his hot-headed son, Lord Prescott showed no trace of anger or impatience. His posture was relaxed and composed and he carried an air of authority.

Lord Prescott’s cold gray eyes flickered with amusement and disdain as he looked at Evren’s casual sweater and sneakers.

"Chairman Evren. You didn’t even bother to put on a suit for our meeting. Please. Have a seat."

Evren walked across the marble floor, pulled out the chair, and sat down comfortably. "I wear suits for work, Lord Prescott," he replied smoothly. "You asked for a conversation, so here I am."

Mikay took a step back, standing at attention near the window.

Evren looked into the old patriarch’s icy gray eyes. "Speak."

Lord Prescott set his porcelain coffee cup down and leaned back, resting both hands on the silver head of his cane.

"A young delivery rider with dormant mana who suddenly awakens S-Rank physical strength, commands hundreds of millions in liquid capital, and cures an incurable Valkyrie," Lord Prescott said slowly, studying Evren’s face. "Quite an extraordinary rise, young man."

"I don’t believe you agreed to meet on the ninetieth floor just to compliment my resume," Evren said calmly.

A thin, humorless smile touched Lord Prescott’s lips.

"Direct. I respect that," Lord Prescott nodded. "My son is a fool. He allowed personal vanity and a cheap socialite to cloud his judgment, costing my family our face at the Grand Apex Gala. I have already stripped him of his executive titles and confined him to the ancestral home."

Lord Prescott leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table.

"However... business is business, Chairman Evren. You took our Sector 1 Exclusive Mining Rights with the Mayor’s backing. That was a clever move. But raw ores in the ground do not make an empire."

Evren remained impassive. "Go on."

"Veridia Metropolis operates on an interconnected supply web that my family spent forty years building," Lord Prescott continued. "The Prescott Clan controls the deep-water shipping docks in Sector 2, the high-rank mercenary garrisons in Sector 3, and we own over seventy percent of the heavy industrial smelting foundries in Sector 4."

Lord Prescott tapped his obsidian cane once against the floor.

"Without my shipping docks, your refined crystals cannot leave the city. Without my smelting foundries, your raw ores from Sector 1 are nothing more than useless rocks. You have wealth, kid. But wealth without infrastructure is a castle built on sand."

"And your proposal?" Evren asked, completely unbothered.

"A simple, sensible division of power," Lord Prescott said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Apex Conglomerate will sign an exclusive logistics and smelting partnership with the Prescott Dynasty. In exchange for processing your Sector 1 ores, my family will take a forty percent cut of all gross export profits. In return, we will allow Apex to operate in peace."

The four black-coated bodyguards by the elevator shifted subtly, their hands resting over their concealed holsters, waiting for Evren’s reaction.

Mikay’s brow furrowed and a flash of anger crossed his face at the extortionate demand.

Evren, however, didn’t show the slightest hint of irritation.

He reached forward, picked up the silver teapot from the tray, and calmly poured himself a cup of black tea. He lifted the cup, took a slow sip, and set it back down on the saucer quietly.

Then he looked directly into Lord Prescott’s eyes.

"You misunderstand our dynamic, Lord Prescott."

Lord Prescott’s silver eyebrows raised slightly. "Oh?"

"You speak as if you are holding all the cards," Evren said, leaning back in his chair. "You think you can threaten to freeze my supply chains and force me to hand over forty percent of my empire’s profits even before we commence full operations."

Evren held up a single finger.

"Let me make something very clear to you, Patriarch," Evren continued calmly. "If your shipping docks in Sector 2 refuse to move my cargo, I will not negotiate. I will simply buy the docks. If your smelting foundries in Sector 4 refuse to process my ores, I will not ask twice. I will buy every foundry and manufacturing plant right out from under your family."

What followed was complete silence.

The four bodyguards tensed, their mana flaring in suppressed shock at the audacity of Evren’s words.

Lord Prescott’s calm facade froze.

His fingers tightened around the silver skull of his cane until his knuckles turned white, and the metal groaned under the strain.

"You think your money makes you invincible?" Lord Prescott rasped. "Forty years I have ruled this metropolis, young man. I have buried generals, crushed rival syndicates, and bought city mayors. Many arrogant upstarts thought they could defy the Prescott Dynasty because they had a few hundred million in a bank account."

Lord Prescott rose slowly to his feet, leaning hard on his cane as his icy gray eyes locked onto Evren with murderous intensity.

"None of them lived to see the winter."

Evren didn’t flinch; he didn’t blink. He stood up smoothly, sliding his hands casually into the pockets of his dark trousers with composure.

A small smile played at the corner of his lips as he replied to the threat. "Then winter is coming early for the Prescott family, Lord Alistair."

Without waiting for any further response, Evren turned his back on the patriarch and walked calmly toward the elevator doors, leaving Lord Prescott standing alone in the glass lounge.