CHAPTER 82: CHAPTER 82: UNFORGIVABLE

The so-called party ended.

If it could even be called one. To Julian, it felt more like a parade of numbers and polished words than celebration.

Each speech blended into the next, voices droning about markets, mergers, and growth forecasts. The smell of wine and perfume had grown cloying, pressing against his nose like a weight.

For a warrior who once measured time by the rhythm of combat, the hours here crawled like chains

The real festivities—the countdown to the new year—wouldn’t begin until 11:00 PM.

But all Julian wanted in that moment... was sleep.

"Julian, remember," Crest reminded, her tone calm but edged with command. "After the break, you’ll need to meet with your father."

Julian gave a short nod. No argument, no complaint. Just acknowledgment.

He rose from his chair, stretching his arms behind his head as he strolled toward the elevator. His gaze skimmed the room once more. His family—his supposed family—mingled with the wealthy and powerful as if they were monarchs in their own empire.

Laughter chimed like glass breaking, hollow and brittle to his ears. Every handshake was rehearsed, every smile sharpened like a blade.

Julian didn’t linger. He pressed the elevator button.

"Really... that was boring," he muttered, rolling his shoulders.

"Really?" Crest’s eyes narrowed beside him, the kind of look that pierced deeper than words.

Julian smirked, raising two fingers and pinching them close together. "Maybe one thing was... a little interesting."

The elevator chimed. A smooth ride, a handful of seconds, and he was back in his suite.

"Can we get a ball in here, Crest?" Julian asked half-seriously, eyes flicking around the spacious living room.

That look again. Sharp. Cutting. A silent answer that said more than words ever could.

"Okay, okay. Maybe some video games instead," he surrendered, raising his hands like a guilty soldier.

Crest’s reply was curt. "It’s in your room. Check it. But if your father calls for you—"

"Be ready. Yes, ma’am." Julian snapped a salute, lips quirking.

Crest’s expression didn’t change, but he thought—just maybe—he caught the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes.

He pushed into the bedroom, and for a moment, it felt less like a hotel and more like a private apartment. Sleek walls, glowing fixtures, an atmosphere of futuristic wealth.

Then his eyes landed on the far wall—no, not a wall at all. A screen. An entire projection system, waiting, alive.

A gaming console had already been synced. The AR interface shimmered across the expanse, swallowing the room in a digital landscape.

Julian whistled low. "Well... let’s try it."

He picked up the controller, grin tugging at his lips, ready to dive into yet another world.

...

Julian played for maybe twenty, thirty minutes before the illusion shattered. His phone buzzed.

Crest.

He didn’t even bother answering. He stood, set the controller down, and walked out of the room. Crest was waiting.

"Let’s go," she said simply.

"Okay."

They moved into the elevator. Crest pressed the button for the very top floor.

Julian’s brow arched. Penthouse. Of course.

As the numbers ticked upward, Crest turned to him. "You’ll walk alone from here. That’s what your father requested."

Julian chuckled under his breath, a sound edged with disdain. "Really? What is this—some kind of cult ritual?"

The elevator doors slid open. The air up here was different. Quiet. Heavy.

It pressed against his lungs with a gravity of its own, the kind of silence found only in places of power.

Julian stepped out.

The suite stretched wide, modern and lavish. His father sat silhouetted against the glow of a massive screen. A glass of wine in one hand. Football on the TV.

"Ah. You’ve arrived," Edmund Ashford said, without rising. His voice carried a calm authority that filled the room. He gestured lazily with his glass. "Sit."

Julian sat—not too close, not too far. A measured distance.

"So," Edmund began, eyes still fixed on the screen, "you’re playing football too?"

"Yeah," Julian replied, steady. "Somehow... I chose that path."

Edmund chuckled, and for the first time, his gaze softened. "Hah. Maybe it’s fate. My first dream was to be a footballer. I always loved the game." His voice dipped, touched with something Julian almost mistook for nostalgia.

But then his tone sharpened. "I didn’t call you here to apologize. Or to make excuses. I know what I did—and what I didn’t do. Do what you want. If you want to be part of this family, the door is open. If not, that’s your choice."

Julian blinked. He had expected the cliché: threats, veiled words, demands to stay hidden. Instead, his father... admitted it.

No masks. Just truth.

"My only purpose is to play football," Julian said at last, voice polite but edged with steel. "I hope you don’t block my path."

Edmund smirked faintly. "Then continue. I won’t stop you. Before you go... visit your mother. She’s in the next room." He raised a hand and pointed.

Julian inclined his head. "Alright."

For all the coldness, for all the distance, at least there was this—acknowledgment. He had been born because of these people. They had abandoned him, yes.

But they had supported him financially too. And besides... he was not truly their Julian. So why cling to resentment?

He walked to the room. Knocked.

"Come in," a soft voice answered.

Julian pushed the door open.

Meiling Ashford stood there in the same elegant dress from the ballroom. But when she saw him, the mask fell. She crossed the room in an instant and wrapped him in her arms.

"How are you?" she whispered. Her voice trembled with a mother’s warmth.

Julian stiffened. He felt the weight of it, but chose to bury the feeling.

"I’m fine. Good." His tone was flat, mechanical.

She pulled back, her eyes scanning every detail of his face as though trying to memorize it. "You look so much like us... How were you cured? Do you want to come live with us again?"

Julian shook his head lightly. "It’s okay. I’ll continue like this."

Tears welled in her eyes. She hugged him again, tighter, as though afraid to let go. "It’s enough... It’s enough as long as you’re cured."

Julian allowed it for a moment. Then he stepped back. "I’ll excuse myself."

He left the room, closed the door gently, and walked back toward the elevator. His expression didn’t change, but inside—questions lingered.

Her arms had felt warm. Real. Her tears, genuine. But warmth did not erase abandonment. If they had loved him so fiercely, why had they left him to rot? Why had Crest been the only one?

The doors closed, carrying him down, away from the family he both belonged to... and didn’t.

...

Julian stepped back into his suite. Empty.

"Crest?" he called.

No answer.

He frowned, scanning the room. She wouldn’t leave without telling him. Not her.

Something tugged at his instincts. A whisper in his marrow. The same sixth sense that had saved him countless times in his past life.

He slipped out into the hall, quiet as mist, and found the emergency stairwell. The pull grew stronger with every step downward.

Then he heard it.

"—You think a couple of street dogs can harm me? Really?"

Crest’s voice. Cold. Steel.

Julian descended another flight and stopped. Through the narrow gap of the stairwell door, he saw her—standing tall, her blouse flecked with dust, two men groaning on the floor at her feet.

Their suits torn, blood dripping from split lips. The sharp tang of iron filled the stairwell, mixing with dust and sweat. The faint buzz of the overhead light flickered above, throwing jagged shadows across the walls.

Julian’s lips curved, but his eyes were ice. They dared...

He pressed himself into the shadows, breath vanishing.

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]

Skill: Shadow cloak – Presence concealed, body one with darkness.

The world folded around him. His heartbeat slowed until even silence seemed too loud. He became absence. A shadow.

Crest walked past, sharp eyes scanning. She didn’t notice him.

Julian stayed still. Watching. Waiting.

Moments later, heavy steps echoed down the stairwell. Mr. Alistair emerged, kneeling beside the crumpled men. His thick fingers pressed their necks.

"They’re alive," he muttered. "Barely." He exhaled, low, almost impressed. "Crest... you nearly killed them."

Julian’s skill ended. The weight of his presence bled back into the air.

Alistair’s head snapped toward the corner where Julian stood. "Who—?"

"It was me," Julian said, stepping out of the shadows, his voice like a blade scraping free of its sheath.

Alistair’s brows furrowed. "You were here the whole time?"

Julian ignored the question. His gaze dropped to the unconscious men. His jaw tightened. "Who sent them?"

Silence.

Julian took a step closer, aura slipping loose. The faint hue of blue flickered in his eyes, sharp and unnatural in the dim stairwell. His voice dropped, cold as winter steel.

"Don’t bother lying. Tell that kid... if he dares try something like this again—" His aura surged, rattling the stairwell railings. "—I won’t leave bodies breathing next time."

Alistair froze. For a heartbeat, words failed him. He had seen soldiers, killers, men drenched in battlefields. But this aura... this smell...

Blood. Death. War.

It didn’t belong in a seventeen-year-old boy.

Alistair swallowed. "...I’ll make sure he remembers."

Julian’s aura vanished as abruptly as it came. He turned on his heel. "Good."

He walked back up the stairs, every step calm, every line of his body composed. But inside, a storm still burned.

They dared touch Crest. Dared try this under his nose.

His eyes narrowed, voice barely above a whisper.

"Unforgivable."