Outside Law Manor, a black, sleek Rolls-Royce waited silently, its presence commanding without being loud.
A middle-aged man in a perfectly pressed suit stepped forward. His posture was straight, his movements disciplined—clearly not an ordinary chauffeur.
The man bowed respectfully.
"Mr. PK," he said. "May I see the card?"
PK took out the simple card—the one with nothing but a ten-digit number—and handed it over.
The butler glanced at it for barely a second before his expression changed. The faint professionalism on his face deepened into something closer to reverence.
"It is confirmed," he said, stepping aside and opening the rear door.
"Please."
Under the watchful gazes of Lana, Luna, and Eve, PK entered the car. None of them spoke, but their eyes followed the Rolls-Royce until it disappeared beyond the gates.
The engine hummed smoothly as the car merged onto the road.
For nearly thirty minutes, the ride was silent and steady. No music. No conversation. Only the soft rhythm of controlled power beneath the hood.
Then, the car slowed.
Ahead stood a massive iron gate, dark and imposing, stretching wide like the mouth of a sleeping beast. Armed security personnel stood at attention on both sides. Cameras were embedded seamlessly into the walls, overlapping fields of vision without a single blind spot.
The butler spoke into a concealed device. PK's identity was verified again.
With a deep metallic echo, the gates began to open.
The car moved forward.
For ten full minutes, they drove through private roads lined with ancient trees and stone pathways. Multiple internal gates opened one after another—each heavier, thicker, more reinforced than the last.
PK's eyes narrowed slightly.
Every iron door bore the same engraved symbol:
BW
Interlocking letters. Sharp edges. Absolute authority.
PK committed it to memory.
Finally, the manor came into view.
No—palace was the more accurate word.
An enormous structure stood proudly ahead, its architecture carrying the weight of centuries. Ancient stone blended seamlessly with modern reinforcements. It radiated history, wealth, and power that had never been challenged.
"This isn't just a residence," PK thought.
"This is a declaration."
The car came to a smooth stop at the entrance.
As PK stepped out, he immediately noticed the density of security—hidden cameras, discreet patrol routes, pressure-sensitive flooring. Everything was layered, subtle, and lethal if needed.
The butler gestured politely.
"This way, please."
PK followed him through a side path that led into a vast garden.
The air changed.
It was calm—unnaturally so.
At the center of the garden, beneath an old pavilion, several elderly men sat around a stone table. A chessboard lay between them, pieces mid-game. Their conversation was low, measured, and heavy with meaning.
These were not retirees enjoying leisure.
These were men who had once—or still did—decide the fate of cities.
One of them looked up.
Silas Blackwell.
The old man's sharp eyes locked onto PK instantly. Then, he smiled and lifted his hand in a casual wave, as though greeting an old acquaintance rather than a young man stepping into a lion's den.
PK returned the smile—calm, respectful, unhurried.
He walked forward with steady steps, the gift Eve had carefully wrapped held securely in his hand.
As he approached the table, the surrounding elders paused their discussion.
Every gaze shifted toward him.
The board, the garden, the palace—everything seemed to still.
Silas leaned back slightly, studying PK from head to toe, his smile deepening with interest.
"So," Silas said warmly, tapping the chessboard once,
"the young man who chose the timing of our meeting has finally arrived."
The game, it seemed, had officially begun.