Suit sharp. Tie in place. Expression cold. The city outside still shimmered in quiet ignorance — unaware that its new king was already watching from the tower.
He still had fifteen minutes before the board meeting and the press conference.
Enough time to let everyone arrive first, get seated, let the whispers grow.
Then make an entrance.
He walked to the kitchen and toasted a simple piece of bread. Ate it standing, absent-mindedly scrolling through his phone.
A message blinked into view.
"Hey, is that you on TV? From broke-ass nobody to owning half the city? Damn. Save a devil deal for me next time."
(attached photo: Jane holding Naya’s hand in the hospital)
Dirga stared at the screen, lips twitching into something close to a smile.
He had told Jane earlier that he wouldn’t be able to visit today. But she understood. She always did.
He replied with a simple emoji: a simple saluting emoji
And a message beneath:
Lilith stepped in, crisp and excited. A folder in one hand, a phone in the other.
"Just got the call. Vantasio’s lawyers confirmed it — the final transfer went through. You now officially own 100% of the empire."
"Good. Arrange the redistribution. Give twenty percent to the board. Consider it a feeding trough — something to keep them fat and quiet."
Lilith’s grin was sharp.
"Already ahead of you. Got fifteen percent spoken for. That last five?"
She tapped her temple.
"Mine. For my loyalty, of course."
Dirga raised an eyebrow.
She leaned against the doorframe with a small cheer, sipping her coffee like it was champagne.
But Dirga’s focus shifted.
"The last problem," he said. "What’s his name again?"
Lilith’s grin vanished.
She pulled a thin file from her folder and handed it over.
"Lucian Marruk. Started as a bodyguard for Vantasio. Earned his trust through... let’s say, brutal efficiency. Vantasio eventually handed him full control of the underground assets — clubs, gambling, backdoor deals. Loyalty without a leash."
Dirga looked at the photo.
Lucian’s face was lean, weathered — like a coyote that had seen too much and slept too little. Thin mustache, eyes like rusted blades. Not tall, but coiled. Every inch of him said silent violence.
"After the conference," Dirga said, folding the photo. "I’ll pay him a visit."
"Want me to arrange security?"
Dirga shook his head.
She opened her mouth, but then stopped.
For a moment, she looked at him not like a man — but like something else.
She remembered the weight of his presence. The warning in his voice.
Dirgantara didn’t need protection.
The clock ticked past 09:10 a.m.
Lilith tapped on the door, poking her head in.
Dirga stood without a word, suit already perfect. He walked ahead, and Lilith followed — flanked by two silent, well-dressed bodyguards she’d personally arranged. Not for safety. For presence.
To amplify the gravity that already clung to Dirga like smoke.
The hum of conversation and media chatter grew louder as they neared the conference hall. Then—
Dirga opened the door.
And silence fell like a guillotine.
Dozens of board members. Corporate heads. Senior executives.
All of them fell quiet at once.
They didn’t even know why.
They just felt it — the weight of something unnatural in the room.
Dirga had practiced this.
He had used karma to train it.
A subtle, crushing aura.
He walked calmly to the end of the long, polished table.
Tapped the mic with two fingers.
Smooth. Cool. Absolute.
"You know who I am. I’m the one Mr. Domiscus Vantasio chose to inherit this empire before his passing."
No long introduction.
Just truth — spoken with blade-like simplicity.
The board remained silent. Whether it was because of Lilith’s maneuvering, or the echo of Vantasio’s name, or simply Dirga himself, none of them interrupted.
Then came a single clap.
Then the room joined in, unsure why they were applauding — only that it felt safer than not doing so.
And the reporters entered.
Within seconds, Dirga’s face was being live-streamed to every major network across the country.
The first question came fast.
"Mr. Dirga," a reporter started, holding a phone and notepad, "We did a background check. Until recently, you were a total unknown. Then you won the lottery, and now... you’re leading one of the most powerful corporate empires in the world. Can you explain that?"
Dirga leaned forward slightly.
"And your question is?"
His tone didn’t change — but the reporter flinched all the same.
"W-We’re just curious... how did that happen?"
Dirga offered a ghost of a smile.
"The long version would take a book."
"Short version: after I won the lottery, I approached Mr. Vantasio for investment advice. He saw my potential. My ideas. He gave me his trust. I gave him results. And eventually... he made his choice."
The room buzzed with quiet awe.
A teenager with nothing had taken the throne.
Another reporter stepped up.
"What’s your next move, Mr. Dirga?"
"There is no next move," Dirga said.
"I’ll run this empire the way it’s always been run — but in my own way."
"And what is your way?"
He met the reporter’s eyes.
He paused, then added,
"Just like Mr. Vantasio had his way."
Lilith stepped forward, signaling one last question.
Then came an older reporter. Crisp suit, old notebook, cold tone.
"Isn’t it strange?" he asked. "You just met Vantasio. Then you were named his heir. Then... he died."
Dirga’s voice didn’t change.
"I’m grateful to Mr. Vantasio. And deeply saddened by his passing. But that’s not a question for me."
"That’s a question only he could have answered."
Lilith nodded. "That’s all for today."
By nightfall, Dirga’s name was everywhere.
Photos. Videos. "From Nobody to King."
Speculation. Myth. Praise. Fear.
The press fed the story — and Dirga let them.
He had already arranged Naya’s transfer to a private wing of the Vantasio-owned hospital. Jane’s people were now officially employed as her personal security. Everything was falling into place.
That evening, after the parties, the handshakes, and the stares, Dirga returned to the penthouse.
He peeled off the designer suit. Tossed it on the couch.
Changed into something more comfortable — black shirt, dark jeans.
He stared at the ceiling.
So many things had happened. And more were coming.
That wasn’t a doorbell.
Soft. Calm. Measured.
Dirga reached beneath the table and retrieved the hidden pistol he’d stashed there.
Slowly, he walked to the door.
Standing in the hallway. Still smiling. Still wearing that crimson suit and the rabbit head. Eyes glowing faint red beneath bone.
Voice like silk wrapped around razors.
"What a marvelous performance, Patron."