CHAPTER 81: CHAPTER 81: THE ASHFORD CONFRONTATION

Julian and Crest followed Mr. Alistair through the hushed corridors. His steps were heavy, each one carrying a weight that seemed to part the crowd ahead of him.

Even passing staff straightened against the walls, as though the old man’s presence alone forced discipline back into their bones

They entered the elevator, the golden doors closing with a soft chime, carrying them upward.

When the doors opened, the world shifted.

The grand ballroom stretched wide before them—crystal chandeliers spilling light like waterfalls, polished floors reflecting the glow of a hundred candles, and long tables draped in white silk.

Every corner breathed wealth: violins in the distance playing a soft, lilting melody; glasses clinking faintly as waiters poured champagne; perfume mingling with the deeper musk of cigar smoke clinging to old money.

Guests were already seated, their laughter muffled, voices sharp and measured. Suits gleamed. Dresses shimmered. Eyes turned as Julian stepped in.

"Tonight begins with presentations and business matters," Mr. Alistair explained in his low, commanding tone. "At ten, a short recess. Then at eleven, we resume. Midnight—the New Year toast."

Julian grunted. "Copy that."

He trailed after Alistair, Crest gliding at his side with her usual composed grace.

They arrived at a table tucked away from the main clusters, opposite the long stretch where the Ashford name was etched in gold.

"You’ll sit here with Crest," Alistair said firmly.

"Thank you, Mr. Alistair," Crest replied with a polite bow.

Julian dropped into his chair, stretching his legs under the linen. "Three hours of speeches? Shit," he muttered, leaning closer to Crest. "I’d rather be training right now."

Her eyes flicked toward him, cold steel with the faintest tremor beneath. "...Please. Don’t make trouble." It almost sounded like a plea.

Julian lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I’ll behave."

The tables filled quickly. Each bore a mark—names of companies, family crests, emblems carved in silver. Titan families of industry. Monarchs of finance. Dynasties in everything but crown and throne.

Except his.

Their table was nameless. Only him and Crest, seated in plain sight, like a quiet challenge. And still, eyes drifted toward him. Curious. Measuring. Whispering.

The lights dimmed. A hush fell.

Spotlights converged on the stage, and a figure stepped forward—broad-shouldered, his every movement deliberate.

His voice carried with the easy confidence of someone used to commanding nations of men, not just a room.

...

"Good evening. Before we begin, allow me to introduce myself. I am Edmund Ashford."

He looked barely past his thirties—black hair combed to ruthless perfection, an eagle’s eyes surveying the crowd with cold calculation. His suit, midnight black, fit like armor.

Polite laughter rippled across the ballroom. They all knew him. The architect of this empire. The man who had carved Ashford Industries into a titan.

Julian sat straighter, jaw tightening. So this is the man who abandoned me.

Edmund’s lips curled faintly. "I introduce myself tonight... because I believe someone, in particular, needs the reminder."

His gaze swept the hall. Searching. Pinning. Until it stopped.

Their eyes met.

Father and son. The same sharp gaze. The same unyielding weight. A mirror split by years of silence.

Julian’s pulse slowed to a steady rhythm, like a fighter’s before battle. No tremor. No flinch. Only the old fire waiting to be unleashed.

Julian felt his pulse slow instead of quicken. That old fire smoldered beneath his calm expression.

Edmund turned back toward the crowd. "Now... please welcome the Ashford family."

A woman emerged first. Tall, graceful, her figure framed in a gown that glittered like liquid silver.

Her features carried a delicate Asian beauty untouched by time, her posture serene yet commanding.

Meiling Ashford. His mother.

Julian’s chest tightened, but he held his face unreadable.

Next, a man stepped out. Younger, but not by much—dark hair, sharp jaw, a body sculpted by years of careful discipline. At least 180 centimeters tall. His presence was polished, refined.

Adrian Ashford. The adopted brother. The golden son.

He wasn’t alone.

On his arm was a woman draped in a dress that caught every shard of light in the room. Blonde hair cascaded like silk, her beauty the kind worshipped in magazines, yet her eyes revealed something colder—precision, ambition.

Seraphina Law. Once a humble worker in Ashford Industries, now Adrian’s fiancée and the rising star who had dragged entire divisions of the company into a new era. A woman spoken of with both envy and fear.

The crowd erupted in applause, the sound echoing through the hall like thunder rolling off marble walls.

Julian sat still, hands folded, gaze unblinking. On the stage, his bloodline—his so-called replacements—stood bathed in light.

After the introduction, the Ashford family descended, every step rehearsed, every smile polished. They took their seats at the table beside his. Close enough to breathe the same air.

Julian barely moved. He didn’t care. Not about their wealth, their power, their careful smiles. As long as they left his football untouched, they could reign over their empire however they pleased.

The lights dimmed again. Screens lit the ballroom walls with a polished film—the Ashford empire displayed in glittering cuts of steel towers, roaring factories, ocean-crossing ships. Executives followed with charts, profits, forecasts.

Julian’s eyes lingered, not out of loyalty but curiosity. For a newcomer to this world, this was another battlefield. Not of fists or blades, but numbers, vision, control. Fascinating in its own way.

But amid the drone of voices and applause, he felt it.

Eyes.

He turned slightly.

Adrian.

The elder brother sat with perfect posture, lips curved in the faintest smirk, gaze sharp and deliberate. A look that wasn’t just acknowledgment—it was a spark thrown into dry tinder. A provocation.

Julian met it once. Blank. Cold. Then turned back to the presentation as if Adrian were no more than a shadow on the wall.

Try all you want. His thoughts burned quiet and steady. I’m not here for you.

...

When the clock struck 9:30, silver trays rolled out from the kitchen. Plates gleamed with a full-course meal, steam curling into the air. Conversation softened to the clink of cutlery and the hush of fine dining.

That was when Adrian rose.

He moved with polished arrogance, Seraphina on his arm, bodyguards flanking him like shadows. Step by step, until his shoes clicked before Julian’s table.

"It’s my first time seeing you," Adrian’s tone dripped with mockery, his smile sharp. "Should I call you brother?"

Julian’s eyes lifted, steady as stone. "Really? You came all this way just to say that?"

Adrian’s smirk deepened. "Getting cocky already?"

Julian didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Silence was its own blade. He had faced this type before—men who thought words were weapons.

In his past life, he’d broken warriors who carried themselves the same way. Adrian was just another voice in the storm.

"Hah. Ignoring me, then? Fine." Adrian leaned closer, his voice carrying for everyone near enough to hear. "Let’s settle it on the pitch. Next year, I’ll debut with FC Barcelona. Try to reach me, if you can."

The name hit like steel ringing against steel. Barcelona. One of Spain’s giants.

Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly. He had never cared to search his brother’s path. So Adrian played football too?

"Let’s decide who the real one is out there," Adrian continued, laugh curling cruelly. "But before that, you’d better climb high enough to even see me."

Then he turned, striding back to his table with his fiancée, leaving only the echo of his words behind.

Julian exhaled through his nose, voice low. "...He’s serious?"

Crest’s eyes lingered on Adrian before returning to Julian. "From what I’ve gathered, Adrian’s a prodigy. He’s only played football for a year, but he entered Barcelona’s academy, played for their Juvenil and B teams. If his form holds, his debut next season is almost certain."

Julian’s gaze lowered to his untouched plate. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, not in humor, but something sharper.

"Interesting," he murmured. Fate, or something crueler.

He had sworn not to care about this family. But Adrian on the pitch? That was different. That changed everything.

For the first time since his reincarnation, the two halves of his life—warrior and footballer—aligned perfectly into one path. Not bloodline. Not inheritance. But combat. A duel.

This wasn’t family anymore. This was war. Revenge, at last, with grass and ball as the battlefield.