---
The room had gone tense, yet the president refused to let go of his arrogance. His pride was heavier than the crown he wore. His eyes burned on the silent guard—Chris—who stood tall, unbending, like an unshaken pillar.
The president's hand moved. From beside his throne, one of his attendants handed him a long ceremonial rod—black iron tipped with gold, a symbol of his authority.
He rose slowly, his voice cold.
"If loyalty blinds you, then pain will open your eyes," he said, stepping down from his dais.
Gasps filled the chamber. No one expected him to go this far. Even his own ministers whispered, urging him to stop, but the president ignored them. He walked straight to Chris and, without warning, struck the rod hard against his shoulder.
The crack of the blow echoed in the marble hall.
Chris didn't flinch. Not a twitch. He stood like the strike had been nothing but a passing breeze. His eyes, hidden beneath the helmet, locked forward. Silent. Dangerous.
Classic shot up from his seat instantly, fury flashing across his face.
"Enough!" he thundered, his voice carrying across the hall like a storm breaking the sky. His fist slammed against the table so hard that glasses rattled and wine spilled.
Everyone froze.
Classic's eyes locked on the president with a deadly sharpness.
"You dare raise your hand against one of mine? In my presence?" His voice dropped, colder, calmer—but infinitely more terrifying. "Do you realize what you've just done?"
The president smirked bitterly, though his knuckles were white around the rod.
"He is a guard. A servant. Servants kneel or they are broken. That is the way of power."
Classic stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Each step echoed like a drumbeat of judgment. He stood between Chris and the president, towering with raw authority. His smile was gone, his face carved in steel.
"My men are not servants," Classic said. "They are lions. And lions do not kneel to jackals… no matter what stick they carry."
The hall erupted in whispers, some of the president's own advisors turning pale. The tension was a knife to the throat.
Chris, still silent, remained in place—but behind his helmet, his lips curved in the faintest, dangerous smirk. He didn't need to move. Classic's rage was enough to shake the very pillars of the tower.
For the first time, the president's confidence wavered. He tried to laugh it off, but his eyes betrayed him—nervous, darting, unsettled.
Classic leaned closer, his voice low, lethal.
"You think that rod makes you powerful?" He glanced at Chris, then back at the president. "Strike him again… and I promise, you'll learn what real power feels like when it crushes you."
The president's hand trembled. The rod suddenly felt heavier than iron.
-