CHAPTER 80: CHAPTER 80: STORM IN SILK

Julian sat back into the leather seat of the private jet, the hum of the cabin almost too soft compared to the storm inside his chest.

A private jet—something he had only read about, never touched.

The leather smelled faintly of cedar and polish, smooth under his fingers. Overhead, hidden vents whispered cool air, and the muffled thrum of the turbines seemed to echo in his bones.

Everything felt too clean, too precise, too unlike the dusty arenas and bloodstained rings of his old world.

"When is the party?" he asked, voice low, his gaze drifting toward Crest.

"After we arrive," she answered without hesitation, hands folded neatly on her lap. "We’ll go straight to the hotel. The gathering begins at seven sharp."

Her tone carried no room for delay, no chance for excuses.

Julian tried to steady himself, but tension crawled through his body. The jet’s engines roared alive, deep and powerful, vibrating through his bones. His hand drifted to the window.

Los Angeles shrank beneath him, the sprawl of lights and streets turning smaller and smaller, as though the city itself were becoming just another memory.

Could he fly in his old world? Yes. He had flown before. But it was no simple thing. To fly required the furnace of his life force, torrents of mana burning like wildfire. He could rise into the sky, yes—but never high, never for long.

Flying fast drained him like blood spilling from an open wound. To stretch too far meant exhaustion. To stretch too long meant death.

This plane, though...

It carved through the sky with ease, carrying weight that should have been impossible. Steel. Fire. Human ingenuity made manifest. And it didn’t even flinch.

Julian pressed a palm lightly against the glass. The window was cold, almost biting, but beyond it stretched an endless ocean of cloud, painted orange by the setting sun.

For a moment, he felt smaller than ever before—like a single ember carried in a storm.

A hand pressed lightly against his arm.

"Julian. Do you hear me?" Crest’s voice cut through his thoughts.

His eyes blinked, his body returning to the cabin.

"Oh... sorry."

Crest shook her head faintly, lips pressing into a thin line. Not disappointment. More like silent acknowledgment. She had seen warriors lost in memory before.

"This will take four to five hours," she said calmly. "You can sleep. Or do anything you want. Food is available. Entertainment too—there’s a game room in your cabin."

Julian’s brow rose. "...Game room?"

"Yes."

The single word almost made him laugh. The absurdity of it—steel soaring through the heavens, a chamber for games and delicacies prepared at will.

"Okay," he murmured, leaning back, still half in disbelief.

But as the plane climbed higher, his curiosity stirred. How could this vessel—so heavy, so bound to earth—defy gravity and ride the sky like an eagle?

He pulled out his phone, thumbs tapping. How do planes fly?

The screen flooded with diagrams and explanations—lift, drag, thrust. Up force, down force, the angle of wings slicing air.

Julian leaned closer, eyes narrowing. So it’s the air itself... bent, pressured, carved into obedience.

"Interesting..." he muttered under his breath.

His old master’s voice whispered through memory—"The world is shaped by force. Learn the flow, and even stone will bend." He had always thought those words spoke only of martial technique.

Now he saw them in the curve of wings and the roar of engines. Different worlds, same principle.

For four hours, Julian fell into that rabbit hole—reading, absorbing, comparing. Planes. Cars. Even training regimens. His brain devoured the information like a desert drinking rain. Every word etched itself into memory, stored, layered, analyzed.

In his past life, he’d mastered centuries of martial wisdom. Here, he was becoming something else. A warrior with the mind of a scholar.

Across from him, Crest watched quietly, fork forgotten halfway to her lips. His brows furrowed, his lips moving soundlessly as if tracing equations in the air. She exhaled softly, almost amused.

"...Did something happen to this kid again?" she murmured.

Julian didn’t notice. His world had shifted into motion, gears and wings turning inside his head.

...

By 5:30 PM, the jet descended, smooth as silk. The skyline of New York bled into view, steel and glass spires reflecting the dying light.

On the tarmac, a car was already waiting. Sleek, polished black. No driver. Its lights flickered alive as they approached.

Crest opened the front door without hesitation, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Julian climbed into the back, stretching his legs as the engine purred to life.

He didn’t ask this time. He already knew.

AI-controlled. No human hands on the wheel.

Julian smirked faintly, fingers drumming against the leather seat. This world really has forged machines into servants... fascinating. Truly fascinating.

Through the tinted glass, New York unfurled before him. Towers stabbed at the sky, streets pulsed with traffic and flashing lights. Unlike Los Angeles, where glitz and entertainment reigned, this city bled business.

Men and women in suits marched with clipped steps, faces locked in focus, as if the world itself bent to their schedules.

Julian’s gaze snagged on one spire in particular. A skyscraper crowned with a giant emblem—an A, forged into the likeness of a crown.

Ashford Industries.

His jaw tightened. So that’s the empire I was born into...

"Julian," Crest’s voice cut through, crisp and cool. "Before the party—don’t leave your room. Understood?"

"Okay," Julian replied simply.

"And after the party, your father will call for you. Please... don’t make trouble." There was steel under her tone, but also something softer. Almost pleading.

"Hm. Okay," Julian answered in a low murmur, gaze still on the skyline.

The car veered, not toward the glittering front entrance, but into a quieter lane. Behind the hotel, a gate slid open to reveal a dimly lit passage.

"This is a private route," Crest explained.

Julian’s lips curled faintly. A hidden entrance. Just like a sect master’s hall... cloaked, reserved for the chosen few.

He noticed other vehicles tucked in the shadows. Limousines. Security convoys. Important people, concealed like secrets.

Inside, the hush deepened. Marble walls glowed with cold white light. Crest walked ahead, posture straighter, steps sharper.

Her presence shifted, like armor slipping into place. The air around her was that of a perfect attendant—disciplined, deferential.

Julian caught it instantly. A mask... for my sake.

"Thank you," he muttered under his breath.

Crest’s stride didn’t falter, but her ear twitched—she’d heard.

Moments later, they reached a door. She opened it smoothly, and Julian stepped inside.

A presidential suite stretched before him. Wide, sleek, gleaming with modern opulence. Futuristic screens built into the walls, glass panels shifting tint at a touch.

A bed large enough to swallow him whole. A view of the city like a kingdom sprawled beneath his throne.

Julian let out a slow breath. So this is how the Ashfords live...

Crest settled into a chair, eyes sweeping the room with a soldier’s instinct. "Rest before the party. And make sure you don’t ruin your clothes."

"Yes, ma’am." Julian gave a half-mocking salute.

A small chuckle slipped past her lips—rare, almost human.

For a moment, the weight of the empire outside the window felt distant.

But the reprieve didn’t last.

...

A sharp knock rattled the suite’s door.

Crest rose at once, every movement precise, and pulled it open.

An old man stood there. His hair was white, his beard thick, trimmed with military neatness.

Sunglasses concealed his eyes, but his presence was enough—shoulders broad as a fortress wall, his frame still carved with the power of a bodybuilder despite the years.

"Mr. Alistair," Crest bowed, her voice lower than usual.

"Hello, Crest." His reply was deep, steady, carrying the weight of command. Then his gaze shifted, the hidden sharpness behind those black lenses locking onto Julian. "Mr. Julian. The hall awaits. The party will begin in a few minutes."

Julian felt the stare lance through him, like a blade testing for weakness. His breath slowed, shoulders rolling back in instinctive defiance.

Even behind the shades, he knew those eyes had measured soldiers, killers, kings. Now they measured him.

Even through the shades, Julian felt the man’s stare cut through him, measuring him from the inside out. A silent test.

Julian straightened. With a slow brush of his suit sleeve, he rose to his feet. His steps were unhurried, every motion deliberate, a quiet current of confidence in the way he carried himself.

And with it came something more—an aura, faint yet undeniable, the kind born not of wealth or pedigree but of battles survived.

Not the Ashford heir. Not just another face at the banquet.

But something the empire wasn’t expecting.

A storm cloaked in elegance.

A storm cloaked in elegance.

A warrior wrapped in silk.

A shadow that would not bow.