Chapter 441
Three years earlier, Alex was on his knees in the cold marble hall of the Rosenheim mansion, pressed down by a trio of chrome robots and a pale-faced servant.
The light from the chandelier carved hard lines across his face. The machines made no sound but their grips were insistently mechanical.
“Who are you, thief?” Otto Rosenheim barked, stepping forward. “Why are you trespassing on this property p>
Alex kept his chin up. “I’m Alexander Saint-Claire,” he said. “Son of Logan Saint- Claire. I believe this property belongs to my family p>
Otto let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You say you’re the child of Logan Saint- Claire p>
“Yes.” Alex’s voice didn’t waver. “The blood test proved it. The Prussian Government hospital ran it p>
With deliberate calm, Alex tapped the three-dimensional bracelet on his wrist and the document bloomed in a pale hologram. He pushed it toward Otto.
Otto’s eyes flicked over the projection as if it were a curious insect.
“So you claim the Marquis Saint-Claire’s estate,” he said slowly, savoring the words. “Interesting p>
“Yes.” Alex swallowed.
Otto’s laugh was sharp and cruel, echoing through the hall like a crack of a whip.
“Maybe if Logan himself rode through that door, we’d hand it all back on a silver platter,” he sneered. “But you-” he jabbed a finger at Alex, venom in his tone, “— you’re half-blood, aren’t you? Xia blood running through your veins p>
He took a step closer, eyes burning with disgust.
“Do you even know what that means here? It makes you filth. A servant. A dog born to obey. In Prussia, your kind doesn’t own land-you serve the ones who do p>
His lip curled in mock pity.
“So tell me, boy, what gives you the right to stand in my house and claim anything as yours p>
Alex’s jaw tightened in silence.
Otto circled him like a predator. “Listen, lad. I knew Logan once. We were close- children running over these grounds p>
He paused, then smiled with the cruelty of a man offering poison. “I’ll make you an offer. Marry my daughter, Katarina Rosenheim. She’s the finest match in this house. Marry her, stay here, and we’ll let you keep your head-and a roof p>
Alex glanced at the robots and then at the servant. He read the motion in Otto’s eyes: the promise folded inward to a threat.
Refuse, and those mechanics would obey another order.
“So,” Alex said, low and careful, “you’ll give me Katarina if I stay. Thank you— father-in-law, I suppose p>
“Excellent.” Otto clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and smug. He turned toward the adjoining room, his boots echoing across the marble floor.
From beyond the crack, voices leaked through a conversation never meant to be heard.
Most men would’ve missed it.
But Alex’s hearing was ten times sharper than ordinary, every whisper as clear as if the speakers stood beside him.
Katarina’s voice burst out like breaking glass. “I will never marry such a lowlife p>
“Katarina, listen,” Otto snapped. “We are not the legal owners of the Saint-Claire lands. We care for them. We were once servants to that family. This can’t last. We must secure what’s ours p>
“By marrying that-thing?” she spat.
“Yes.” Otto’s voice was cold, clinical. “He is not fully Prussian. He has no right to inherit. For him to claim the estate he must marry a Prussian woman, live under Prussian law for three years, and receive approval from a noble baron. Only then would his claim be legal p>
“Then what do you want, Father?” Katarina snapped.
Otto leaned in, eyes like hammered steel. “You marry him for three years,” he said, voice flat as a blade. “After three full years, Katarina, you’ll be legally tied to the Saint-Claire name and the estate becomes yours. After that, we remove him. You inherit everything. You run this house p>
He shrugged, cruel and casual. “Treat him like a mutt – keep him in the servants’ quarters, feed him kitchen scraps. He’s just come from Xia; he knows nothing of our ways p>
Silence dropped between them like a heavy curtain. Katarina drew a slow, steady breath, her eyes narrowing as she turned toward the door. Then, with the soft rustle of silk, she began to walk away.
“Three years for the Saint-Claire property,” she said, her voice cold and measured. “Fine. It’s worth it p>
“Good,” Otto said, satisfied. “Put a smile on your face. Let that fool think he’s won something p>
“I will—if you make sure he’s insured and that I get the payout when he’s gone.” Her voice was cold business, the kind that closed deals and buried men.
Otto trailed behind her, whispering, “Agreed p>
She swept from the room and found Alex still on his knees in the hall, metal hands at his shoulders, robots poised like statues.
“You’re lucky,” she said, the words a sting.
“People have begged to marry me. I’ve always said no. You-” she laughed softly, cruel and warm at once, “-you’re a lucky dog. Live like a dog. I’ll feed you well p>
And so the next month was simple and savage: Alex was treated like a dog.
He slept in a small, damp room by the garden-a space so lowly even the servants refused to use it.
He ate whatever scraps were tossed his way, bowed when spoken to, and moved through the mansion with the quiet obedience of someone born to servitude.
The Rosenheim household watched him like spectators at a cruel play-half in cruelty, half in amusement.
One night, Alex slipped out through the servant’s gate. The moon cut the garden into black and silver.
He walked down an empty street that smelled of coal and wet stone.
Five figures stepped out of the shadows.
They dropped to their knees in unison, their movements sharp and practiced. The oldest spoke, his voice roughened by years of smoke and grit.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head low. “We are the Kingswell-frontline men, from Estoria to Prussia. We live to serve p>
Alex lifted a hand, a small motion meant to stop the absurdity. “We’re on a mission. Don’t call me king or ‘majesty.’ You’ll draw attention p>
The men glanced at one another, “Then may we call you Young Master p>
Most of them were older than Alex by years.
“Fine. Call me whatever you like,” Alex said, terse. He scanned them-stiff shoulders, hands that had worked for years, ragged coats. “Now show me who runs this i this place Who’s the boss, the gangster p>
The five men straightened, a raw pride in their posture.
“We’ll guide you,” the oldest said. “We’ve been in Prussia few years now-working illegal, sleeping in alleys, sending reports back to our homeland. We know the lanes the men with knives, the ones who keep the city’s money moving. We can take you to them p>
Alex nodded.
They stopped in a narrow, ragged corner of the slums where the air hung thick
with oil and rot.
The streetlights flickered like dying stars. One of the Kingswell men blew out the
name as if it were a warning.
“The boss here is Jack Chambers,” he said. “He runs people-trafficking, drugs, and illegal sims. He sells virtual sex so real it steals a life He forces people to keep producing some chemical-makes users feel heaven while it drains them dry p>
Alex stood before a heavy iron door, scarred and rusted. “So I kill everyone inside
and we will control everything, right?” he asked, voice flat.
“Yes.” The Kingswell answered in a single, low chorus.
“Young Master, we can pick the lock,” one offered, fingers twitching like men used
to metal and patience.
“No need.” Alex stepped forward.
“Do you have the key code?” another asked, cautious.
Alex let a slow smile cut across his face. “Better,” he said. “I have bad manners p>
He planted his boot and sent the iron door flying from its hinges—metal screamed, bolts shredded, a spray of rust dusted the floor. He didn’t care about wrecking the place;
‘We are all equal in the dark p>