Whitemore Villa
1824 Words
Marcus Reed drove straight toward Whitemore Villa, the towering stone walls looming like a fortress. Floodlights illuminated the massive iron gates, where several armed security men stood guard.
The Lincoln slowed.
Then stopped.
A tall guard stepped forward, baton tapping lazily against his palm. His name badge read Gavin Crowe.
“Hold it right there,” Gavin said flatly. “Present your access pass.”
Marcus lowered the window halfway, his eyes sharp.
“Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to?” he asked coldly. “You’re demanding a pass from the Dragon Lord.”
Gavin laughed.
“This is Whitemore Villa,” he scoffed. “The greatest household in all of Ravenport. Not some roadside checkpoint you can just force your way through.”
His gaze slid mockingly over the car.
“And you’re talking like you escort a big shot,” he added with a smirk. “Tell me—what kind of important person still rides in this… rusted relic?”
He dragged out the words with exaggerated disgust.
The guards behind him burst into laughter.
Marcus’s patience snapped. “The Dragon is in a hurry. Move aside. Or I’ll clear this road myself.”
Gavin spat to the side, “how insolent,” he sneered. “You’re just a driver, yet you dare speak to me like this?”
He stepped closer, voice dripping with contempt.
“Leave now, quietly, or you’ll be thrown out before you even understand what happened. Tonight is the engagement of the Whitemore patriarch’s youngest daughter. Every powerful figure in Ravenport is inside.”
His eyes flicked over Marcus and the darkened back seat.
“Looking at you,” he said smugly, “you don’t belong here. You’re clearly nobodies trying to get close to people above your station.”
The air suddenly shifted.
A calm, deep voice spoke from the back seat.
“So this household never learned.”
The laughter stopped.
Gavin frowned. “Who said that?”
“The Whitemores,” the voice continued evenly, “still measuring people by wealth. Still degrading anyone they think doesn’t qualify.”
The rear window remained closed, but the authority in that voice pressed down like a weight.
“What a shame,” it went on. “Celebrating tonight… after poisoning a child and mistreating her mother.”
Gavin’s face darkened instantly.
“Watch your mouth,” he snapped. “No pass, no entry. Turn that car around. Now.”
Inside the car, Ethan’s eyes turned glacial.
“Marcus.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Drive.”
Marcus didn’t hesitate.
The engine roared.
The Lincoln surged forward violently.
Gavin barely leapt aside in time, stumbling backward as the car blasted past the gate. Shouts exploded behind them.
“Stop them!”
“Intruders!”
“Alert the inner security!”
Guards rushed forward, raising their batons, voices barking into communicators as they sprinted after the car.
“Suspicious vehicle heading to the grand hall!”
The Lincoln tore through the estate grounds, gravel spraying. Marcus maneuvered cleanly, relentlessly.
Seconds later, the car screeched to a halt before the front hall.
Security poured in from every direction.
They surrounded the vehicle completely.
Weapons raised. Faces tense.
“Come out!”
“Reveal yourself!”
Ethan opened the car door and stepped out.
The cool night air did nothing to calm the storm burning in his eyes. Marcus exited immediately after him, positioning himself half a step behind close enough to protect, far enough to obey.
The security men tightened their circle.
One of them barked, “Who the hell are you to cause trouble here?”
Ethan’s gaze didn’t linger on the man. He spoke calmly, almost indifferently.
“I’m here for my daughter. Tell me where she is, and I’ll leave.”
The guards exchanged puzzled looks.
“Daughter?” one muttered.
They scanned Ethan from head to toe. His clothes were simple, dark, unadorned—nothing that screamed wealth or pedigree. Certainly nothing that suggested ties to the Whitemore household.
“You?” another scoffed. “Have a daughter here? Impossible.”
Before the murmurs could grow louder, hurried footsteps echoed from behind.
Gavin Crowe burst into the circle, breathing hard, sweat streaking his face. He pointed angrily at Marcus.
“Why didn’t you stop the car?” he snapped. Then his eyes shifted to Ethan. “You. Who are you?”
Ethan didn’t answer.
Gavin’s temper flared. “When someone asks you a question, you respond!”
He stepped closer, invading Ethan’s space.
Marcus moved instantly, stepping between them.
“Step back,” Marcus warned.
Ethan’s voice cut in, quiet but commanding. “Marcus.”
At the sound of his name, Marcus hesitated then stepped aside.
Gavin stood directly in front of Ethan now, trying to meet his gaze.
The moment their eyes locked, Gavin froze.
Ethan’s eyes were dark, too dark. There was no emotion in them. No fear. No hesitation. Only a cold, bottomless fury.
Gavin felt a chill crawl up his spine.
For the first time in his life, he felt fear just looking at his fellow man.
He swallowed, forcing himself to scoff. “Trying to scare me?” he said, reaching out to shove Ethan’s arm aside.
That was his mistake.
Smack!
Marcus’s hand shot out like lightning.
Crack!
The sound was sharp, sickening.
“Aaaarghhh—!”
Gavin screamed as his wrist bent at an impossible angle. His body collapsed to the ground, howls of agony tearing through the courtyard as he clutched his broken arm.
The surrounding guards stumbled back in horror.
“What… what kind of people are these?” someone whispered.
Marcus’s voice rang out, cold and merciless.
“Anyone who disrespects Major General Ethan Anderson should consider it their last mistake.”
Watching Gavin roll on the ground, screaming and begging, the other guards felt their legs weaken.
Ethan spoke again, his voice steady.
“I’m not in the mood to see blood tonight,” he said calmly. “Especially not innocent blood like yours.”
His eyes swept across them, heavy with warning.
“I only want my daughter. Once I have her, I’ll leave.”
He turned toward the brightly lit grand hall.
The guards hesitated.
Then two of them rushed forward.
Before they could even raise their batons,
Bang!
Marcus struck back.
One punch sent the first guard flying backward into a pillar. The second followed immediately, crashing to the floor. Within moments, more rushed in only to be dropped one after another.
In less than two minutes, ten men lay groaning on the ground, clutching ribs, arms, and pride.
Silence fell.
Marcus straightened, adjusting his cuffs as if nothing had happened.
“This way, sir,” he said, gesturing toward the grand hall.
Ethan nodded once and walked forward without looking back.
Meanwhile, the grand hall of Whitemore Villa was lively.
Laughter rose and fell like waves as servants moved through the crowd with trays of wine. The city’s elite had gathered in full force.
Five powerful households stood out among the rest.
From the Harrington Family, Victor Harrington—chairman of Ravenport’s largest shipping consortium—spoke in hushed tones with his wife.
Nearby stood Eleanor Blackwood, matriarch of the Blackwood Family .
The Kingsley Household was represented by Arthur Kingsley.
Across the hall was Sebastian Vale of the Vale Consortium a media tycoon and kingmaker laughed softly as he exchanged pleasantries.
And at the center of it all stood the Whitemoores.
The old patriarch, Edmund Whitemoor, basked in the attention. His cane rested lightly against his palm as he accepted congratulations one after another, his smile wide and satisfied.
Arthur Kingsley lifted his glass, nodding toward him.
“Mr. Whitemoor looks especially pleased tonight,” he said. “Marrying his granddaughter into the mayor’s extended family at last. Quite an achievement.”
Victor Harrington smirked.
“I heard his son, Calen, plans to contest the mayoral seat once Julian Hawthorne steps down. Fifteen years is a long reign. The old man is clearly laying the groundwork.”
Arthur chuckled dryly.
“Sly as ever. Always wagging his tail where the power is strongest—family first, city second.”
Victor laughed into his glass.
“Speaking of power, have you heard about the big shot rumored to be returning to the city today? They say he’s incredibly influential despite his age. Every major household wants to curry favor with him.”
“You two should watch your tongues,” a cool voice interjected. “No matter how powerful someone is, respect for elders still matters.”
Eleanor Blackwood stepped into their circle.
Arthur raised a brow.
“And what prompted that warning?”
Eleanor’s lips curved faintly.
“I heard about the reception at the airport today. Generals, commanders—even the mayor—standing under the sun, waiting.”
Victor leaned closer.
“Where did you hear that?”
Eleanor smiled knowingly.
“I have ears in many places.”
Arthur frowned.
“Then the rumors are true. The Dragon Lord has returned.”
Victor nodded slowly.
“The strange thing is no one knows what he looks like. Some say he’s barely in his twenties. Others swear he’s a seasoned veteran in his fifties. His records are sealed. His face—classified.”
Before Eleanor could reply, another voice joined them.
“That mystery,” Edmund Whitemoor said as he appeared beside them, “is part of tonight’s surprise.”
The trio turned sharply.
“I’ve invited the Dragon Lord himself,” Edmund continued calmly. “The world wants to meet him. Why shouldn’t Whitemore Villa host such a moment?”
A ripple of shock spread through the nearby guests.
Eleanor frowned.
“You think he’d come? A man bold enough to keep the mayor and generals waiting?”
Arthur shook his head.
“If he felt insulted, he wouldn’t spare you, Edmund.”
Others nearby murmured in agreement.
What none of them knew was that twelve hours earlier, as Ethan prepared to fly back to Ravenport, a message had reached him through Director Samuel Vance.
Edmund Whitemoor had sent a personal invitation, sealed with the Whitemoor family crest, hoping to curry favor with the city’s newest legend.
What Edmund never imagined—
was that the Dragon Lord was the very boy he had enslaved for fifteen years.
The slave he believed had vanished forever.
The doors suddenly burst open.
A heavy thud echoed through the hall as the body of a Whitemoor security guard crashed onto the marble floor. All conversation died instantly.
Then—two figures stepped inside.
One in front.
One half a step behind.
The air changed.
The man in front walked with calm authority, his presence heavy and suffocating. His cold gaze swept across the hall.
Marcus Reed stood beside him like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
A killing aura rolled through the grand hall.
- Writer
