The Grand Ballroom of the Malacañan Palace was a cavern of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and the stifling heat of concentrated power. Today, the air-conditioning struggled against the warmth of a thousand bodies—the elite of the Philippines, dressed in intricate Barong Tagalogs and designer Filipinianas that cost more than a common worker's yearly salary.
At the center of the room, the presidential seal hung prominently behind a mahogany dais. This was the National Achievement Awards, a ceremony televised live to every household in the archipelago. From the bustling streets of Manila to the remote provinces of Mindanao, the nation was watching.
President Ferdi Cramos, a man whose public persona was built on the image of a grandfatherly statesman, stood at the podium. To his right, two women stood like twin pillars of modern intellect: Dr. Carmilla Crimson and Dr. Elenita Cunc.
"In the history of our great nation," President Cramos began, his voice echoing through the hall and into the homes of millions, "we have often looked outward for validation. But today, the world looks at us. Today, we honor those who have peered into the depths of time and brought back the light of knowledge. Dr. Crimson, Dr. Cunc—you have not only brought glory to Maxim University, but you have placed the Philippines at the very heart of the global academic map."
He turned to the side, where Mario Maxim stood with a stoic, almost pained expression. "And to President Mario Maxim, whose vision transformed a family institution into the world's leading authority on the divine and the ancient. We thank you for honing the talents that bring us such prestige."
The applause was thunderous, led by the front row—the "Power Row."
There, sitting with an air of untouchable grace, was Alyssa Gaye Soctrips. She was draped in a gown of shimmering silver silk from her own label, Goddess. Beside her sat Senator Alonzo Carlos, his hand possessively resting on her chair. Their presence was a statement: wealth and politics in a perfect, albeit hollow, union.
"Look at them," a young socialite whispered to her companion in the third row, her voice carrying over the polite clapping. "Carmilla and Elenita are breathtaking. But did you hear the gossip? They say they weren't the only ones on that project years ago."
Her friend leaned in, eyes darting toward the stage. "You mean the Kurogami boy? The one who went crazy? My brother was in his year at Maxim. He said the guy was a total freak. Genius one day, gambling his tuition away the next. A total waste of a bloodline."
"Trash is trash, no matter how much gold you wrap it in," the first girl giggled.
The camera panned across the audience, capturing the smug smile of Manfred Arc Oyo. The "Father of Philippine AI" leaned back, his eyes fixed on the stage. He was checking his watch—a custom piece designed by his own AI algorithms. He felt a surge of triumph. The world was celebrating the "Voided Millennia," but his companies were the ones providing the digital infrastructure for the university's new global database. He had stolen the foundation, and now he was selling the house back to the owners.
President Cramos stepped forward with the heavy gold medals.
"Dr. Carmilla Crimson, for your unparalleled contribution to the deciphering of the Gilgamesh texts..."
As the President looped the ribbon around Carmilla's neck, she leaned in slightly. Her face was a mask of professional gratitude, but her voice was a whisper meant only for the man in front of her. "Thank you, Mr. President. But the truth is a heavy thing to wear."
Cramos blinked, a momentary flicker of confusion crossing his face before he moved to Elenita. "And Dr. Elenita Cunc..."
Elenita didn't speak. She merely nodded, her eyes briefly locking with Mario Maxim's. In that look, there was a shared grief. They were being awarded for a miracle they hadn't performed alone. They were receiving the crown for a king they had let fall.
After the medals were bestowed, the floor was opened for a brief reception before the formal banquet. The media swarmed. Camera flashes turned the ballroom into a strobe-lit dream.
"Senator Carlos! Alyssa!" a reporter from a major network cried out, thrusting a microphone toward the Power Row. "As the nation's most prominent couple, what is your reaction to this academic triumph?"
Alonzo Carlos stood up, smoothing his Barong. He possessed the practiced smile of a man who knew how to hide a shark's teeth. "It is a proud day for the Philippines. My wife and I have always been patrons of the arts and sciences. We believe that the strength of our nation lies in the brilliance of our youth—provided that brilliance is channeled through the right... traditional values."
Alyssa stepped forward, her smile as radiant as the diamonds at her throat. "Exactly as my husband says. Maxim University has always been dear to me. It's where I learned that true power comes from the ability to adapt and lead."
"Speaking of Maxim, Alyssa," the reporter pushed, "there are rumors circulating again about your former connection to the Kurogami family. Some are saying the 'Voided Millennia' project was actually started by Kramark Kurogami before his... departure. Any comment?"
The air around the couple seemed to chill. Alonzo's eyes hardened, a dangerous glint appearing behind his designer spectacles.
Alyssa didn't flinch. She laughed—a light, musical sound that dismissed the question as an absurdity. "Oh, that old ghost? Kramark was a tragedy of his own making. He had potential, yes, but he chose the path of a degenerate. To link his name to the magnificent work of Dr. Crimson and Dr. Cunc is an insult to their hard work. Kramark Kurogami is a name that belongs in the past—in the gambling dens where he presumably spends his nights now. Let's focus on the winners, shall we?"
A few feet away, Archie Kurogami and Jessielor Gum Kurogami stood in a circle of fellow politicians. They hadn't flinched at the mention of their son's name. To them, Kramark wasn't a son; he was a redacted line in a campaign biography.
"Archie," a fellow senator remarked, swirling a glass of champagne. "Your son's former school is the talk of the world. Bittersweet, isn't it?"
Archie Kurogami adjusted his cufflinks, his face an immovable slab of political stone. "Maxim is an institution. My family has always supported institutions. As for individual failures, they are regrettable, but they do not reflect the pedigree. My focus is on the Saint Dominic infrastructure bill, not the fantasies of a disowned gambler."
Jessielor nodded, her voice sharp and authoritative. "A leader must know when to prune a dying branch to save the tree. We have moved on. The country should too."
Amidst the sea of self-congratulation, Dr. Valliant Maxim moved like a shadow. He approached the refreshments table, where Professor Alexander Dawn was standing, nursing a glass of water and looking as though he wanted to set the entire room on fire.
"They're vultures, aren't they, Alexander?" Valliant murmured, not looking at the younger man.
"Vultures at least wait for the body to be dead, Doctor," Alexander hissed, his eyes tracking Manfred Arc Oyo as the AI mogul shook hands with a group of investors.
"These people are eating the man while he's still breathing somewhere out there. Look at Manfred. He's talking about 'innovation' while he's standing on Kramark's stolen logic."
"The world loves a polished lie over a messy truth," Valliant replied. He looked over at his brother, Mario, who was trapped in a conversation with the President and a group of university donors. "Mario is at his breaking point. He hates this. He hates the medals, the cameras, and the fact that he has to smile while Alyssa Gaye Soctrips calls Kramark a 'ghost'."
"She's a 'Goddess' now, apparently," Alexander said with a sneer. "The Goddess of Fashion. I wonder if her customers know her clothes are stitched with the thread of betrayal."
Suddenly, a commotion broke out near the entrance. It wasn't a fight, but a wave of whispers that traveled from the door toward the center of the room.
"Is he here?" someone whispered.
"Who?"
"The one from the gossip columns... the gambler!"
For a heartbeat, the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Carmilla and Elenita froze on the dais. Mario's head snapped toward the door, his heart hammering against his ribs.
But it wasn't Kramark.
It was merely a group of late-arriving delegates from the Saint Dominic state, led by a local official. The tension in the room snapped like a taut wire. The elite went back to their champagne, laughing at their own skittishness.
"Why are we so nervous?" Manfred muttered to himself, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "He's gone. He's a nobody. He's probably face-down in a casino in Macau for all I know."
But the seed of doubt had been planted. The very mention of the name 'Kramark' had caused the most powerful people in the country to flinch.
Lizzy Maxim, standing by the press cordons, watched it all. She saw the way Alyssa's hand had tightened on her clutch. She saw the way Manfred's eyes had darted toward the exit. She saw the fear behind the masks.
"They're afraid," she whispered.
"They should be," a voice said behind her.
She turned to see Professor Alexander Dawn. He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the grand portrait of the President hanging on the far wall.
"They think they've buried him," Alexander continued, his voice low and dangerous. "But they forgot that he knows the language of the gods. He knows how to rewrite the world. Five years of gambling? If I know Kramark, he isn't playing against the house. He's becoming the house."
The reception continued for hours. Speeches were made, toasts were raised, and the "Voided Millennia" was officially consecrated as a national treasure. The media broadcasted images of a united, brilliant Philippines, led by the "Goddess" Alyssa, the "Genius" Manfred, and the "Visionary" Kurogamis.
But as the live broadcast ended and the cameras were packed away, the silence that followed was heavy.
In the back of the room, Mario Maxim finally found a moment of peace with Valliant.
"Did you hear the whispers, brother?" Mario asked, his voice weary. "Even here, at the height of our glory, they can't stop talking about him. They call him trash, but they say his name with a shudder."
Valliant looked out at the emptying ballroom, the gold decorations now looking like tarnished brass in the dimming lights. "They remember the light he cast, Mario. And deep down, in the places they don't show the cameras, they know that the darkness they pushed him into is the perfect place for a man like him to grow."
"Alexander thinks he's coming back," Mario said.
"He never left," Valliant replied, turning to walk away. "He just moved to a different table. And I suspect the game he's playing now has stakes that this room couldn't even begin to comprehend."
Outside, the Philippine night was vast and humid. The lights of the city twinkled—millions of people unaware that the foundations of their society were built on a series of thefts. In a penthouse overlooking the bay, Alyssa Gaye Soctrips stood on her balcony, looking down at the world she supposedly ruled.
Her phone buzzed. A news alert: TRASH TO TREASURE: MAXIM UNIVERSITY CELEBRATES DISCOVERY.
She deleted the notification. "You're dead to me, Kramark," she whispered into the wind. "Stay in the dirt where you belong."
But for the first time in five years, she found herself locking the balcony door.
The neon lights of Manila's skyline felt distant and artificial compared to the warm, amber glow of the private sanctuary within the Maxim Estate. While the rest of the country was still buzzing from the live broadcast of the National Achievement Awards, the true architects of Maxim University's soul had retreated.
In a secluded dining hall, away from the prying eyes of the press and the fake smiles of the Kurogami clan, a large circular table of polished mahogany had been set. Seven high-backed chairs surrounded it, yet only six were occupied. The seventh chair stood empty at the head of the table—a silent, haunting reminder of the man whose absence was more palpable than the presence of everyone else in the room.
Mario Maxim sat at the foot of the table, his tuxedo jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up. Beside him, Dr. Valliant Maxim stared into the deep red depths of his wine glass. Dr. Carmilla Crimson and Dr. Elenita Cunc sat close together, their fingers intertwined beneath the table, their medals from the President discarded on a side sideboard like worthless trinkets. Lizzy Maxim and Professor Alexander Dawn rounded out the group, the air between them thick with the residue of the day's deceptions.
"I feel like a thief," Elenita whispered, breaking a long silence. Her voice was brittle. "Every time the President smiled at me, every time the camera flashed... I felt like I was robbing a grave."
Carmilla squeezed Elenita's hand. "It wasn't a grave, El. It was a gift. He told us to take it. He told us to use it to protect the university."
"But at what cost to him?" Mario asked, his voice heavy. He poured a generous amount of vintage Cabernet into each glass, stopping before the empty seventh chair. He hesitated, then filled that glass too. "Five years. Five years of letting the world call him 'trash'. I watched Archie Kurogami tonight. The man didn't even blink when the reporters brought up Kramark's name. It's as if he never had a son."
"Archie Kurogami doesn't have a son," Alexander Dawn said sharply, his eyes flashing with a cold, intellectual fury. "He has a political legacy. Kramark was an anomaly in their bloodline—a star that burned too bright for their dim little world. They didn't just disown him; they tried to extinguish him."
"And failed," Valliant added softly. The elder Maxim leaned back, his gaze fixed on the empty chair. "You cannot extinguish a fire by throwing it into the wind, Mario. You only spread the embers. I spent twenty years studying the greatest minds in history, but Kramark... he was the first one who made me feel like a student. When he translated the Voided Millennia in a single night, he didn't just read the words. He understood the heartbeat of the people who wrote them."
Lizzy leaned forward, her eyes wide. "I remember the day he left. He didn't look like someone who had lost everything. He looked like someone who had just shed a skin that was too tight for him. But everyone at school—they really believe the stories. They think he's just a degenerate gambler wasting away in some basement."
"Let them think that," Alexander said. He took a slow sip of his wine, his expression becoming uncharacteristically grave. "The more the world looks down on him, the less they see what he's actually doing."
"What do you mean, Alexander?" Mario asked, sensing a shift in the professor's tone.
Alexander set his glass down with a precise clack. He looked around the table, ensuring he had their full attention. The usual ruthlessness in his eyes had been replaced by a deep, analytical concern.
"I need to tell you all something," Alexander began. "As you know, I keep my ear to the ground—not just in academic circles, but in the digital and global fringes. I've been tracking certain... anomalies over the last eighteen months."
Carmilla leaned in. "Anomalies? Regarding the texts?"
"No," Alexander replied. "Regarding power. There is a trend in the global underground that is starting to terrify the people who think they run the world. It starts with a name: Shinnox Mikado."
"The ghostwriter?" Elenita asked. "I've heard that name in the literature circles. They say Shinnox Mikado is a phantom who writes the most complex geopolitical strategies and philosophical treatises for world leaders, but never appears in person."
"More than just a ghostwriter," Alexander corrected. "Shinnox Mikado is being credited with the sudden, inexplicable rise of three minor European nations' economies. The logic used in the white papers attributed to Mikado... it's eerily similar to the linguistic structures Kramark used in his theology papers. It's a way of looking at the world as a series of interlocking sacred texts."
The table went silent. The implication hung in the air like a lightning bolt waiting to strike.
"But that's not all," Alexander continued, his voice dropping an octave. "In the high-stakes casinos of Macau, Singapore, and Monte Carlo, there are whispers of a Masked Gambler. A man who appears only when the house thinks it's invincible. He doesn't play for the money—though he has reportedly won billions. He plays to bankrupt the people who use gambling to launder money for human trafficking and drug cartels. They say he never loses a hand. Not because of luck, but because he reads the cards like they're an ancient language."
Mario's hand trembled slightly as he held his glass. "Kramark never lost a hand since he was fifteen. We all knew that. We thought it was a hobby. A way to escape the pressure."
"And then," Alexander said, his gaze intensifying, "there is the most whispered legend of all. The Unknown Godfather. Over the last two years, three major international mafias—syndicates that have existed for decades—were annihilated in a matter of months. Not by the police, and not by rival gangs. They were dismantled from the inside. Their assets were frozen, their communications were leaked, and their leaders were found neutralized, with all their illegal holdings transferred to anonymous charities."
"Annihilated?" Valliant whispered. "That sounds like a war."
"It is a war," Alexander said. "A silent one. These three figures—the strategist Shinnox Mikado, the Masked Gambler, and the Unknown Godfather—they operate in completely different spheres. But if you look at the 'syntax' of their actions... the way they manipulate logic, the way they predict human behavior... it's all the same. It's the signature of a single mind."
"Kramark," Lizzy breathed, her face pale.
"It has to be," Carmilla said, her voice shaking with a mix of awe and fear. "Only he could juggle three different identities on a global scale. Only he could treat the world's economy, its vices, and its shadows like a text to be deciphered and rewritten."
Mario looked at the empty chair. The "trash" student. The "degenerate" gambler. "He told me he had debts to collect. He told me he had to become 'trash' to do it. I thought he meant he was going to hide. I didn't realize he was going to build an empire in the dark."
"If this is true," Elenita said, looking at the wine in the seventh glass, "then he hasn't just been surviving. He's been preparing. But Alexander, if he's taking down mafias and manipulating global politics, he's in incredible danger. The people he's targeting... people like Alonzo Carlos or the Kurogamis... they're nothing compared to the syndicates you're talking about."
"That's just it," Alexander replied. "The people in this country think they're the predators. Alyssa thinks she's a goddess. Manfred thinks he's a titan. But they're playing in a sandbox. If Kramark is indeed the one behind these shadows, he's already moved beyond them. He's not just coming back for revenge. He's coming back to settle the accounts of the world."
Valliant stood up, walking to the window that looked out over the darkened university grounds. "I told Mario earlier today that if Kramark changed even a little, the world would crumble. But looking at what you've told us, Alexander, I think I was wrong. He hasn't changed. He's simply... expanded."
"He's playing a game with the world," Mario mused. "And we're the only ones who know who's sitting at the table."
"But we don't know when he'll reveal his hand," Lizzy added.
"He already has," Alexander said, pointing to the medals on the sideboard. "He gave us the Voided Millennia. He gave us the glory. He's let his enemies climb as high as they can. He's letting them build their towers of gold and stolen AI."
"Because the higher they are," Carmilla whispered, completing the thought, "the more devastating the fall when the foundation is pulled out."
The conversation shifted then, moving into deep reminiscence. They talked about the nights in the lab, the way Kramark could explain the most complex theological paradoxes with a simple metaphor about the stars. They remembered his laughter—rare, but like music—and the way he always seemed to be looking at something just past the horizon.
"I remember," Elenita said, a small smile finally touching her lips, "when he told me that the gods didn't leave because they were tired of us. He said they left because they wanted to see if we could write our own stories without a narrator. He hated the idea of 'destiny'. He said destiny was just a lack of imagination."
"He certainly has imagination," Mario said, raising his glass. "To the man who is rewriting the world in the dark."
"To Kramark," they all whispered in unison, their glasses clinking together.
Mario then took the seventh glass—the one he had poured for the empty chair. He didn't drink it. Instead, he walked to the center of the room and placed it on a small pedestal beneath a portrait of the university's founders.
"When he comes back," Mario said, his voice firm, "he won't be a student. And he won't be 'trash'. He will be the storm that Valliant promised."
The night wore on, the wine flowed, and the six of them sat in the comfort of their shared secret. Outside, the world continued to celebrate the "Goddess" and the "Senator" and the "AI Inventor." They had no idea that in a private room at Maxim University, the real power was being discussed in hushed, reverent tones.
The seventh chair remained empty, but for the first time in five years, it didn't feel like a void. It felt like a throne, waiting for its king to finish his business in the shadows and step into the light.
As the clock struck midnight, Alexander looked at his phone. A new encrypted message had appeared. It was a single line of text from an untraceable source.