The grand lounge of the Veyron estate hummed with quiet opulence, its walls adorned with off-world gems that glowed under holo-lights.
Lord Elias Veyron stood by the holo-table, his silver-streaked hair catching the light, his silk suit sharper than the city's skyline.
His presence filled the room, a patriarch whose authority was unquestioned, even by his son, Lian, and Rylan Halstead, who stood before him.
The Kryon Phantom's key fob in Lian's hand—a 9,200,000 AR supercar lent by Young Master Evan Quillian—seemed to pulse with the weight of their story.
Elias's eyes, sharp and calculating, studied the two young men as they recounted their encounter with Evan, the sealed records, the Valthorne Chronograph, and the suspicion of a hermit family's influence.
Elias Veyron had been patriarch of the Veyron side branch for over two decades, a role he'd carved with relentless ambition.
The Veyrons, a side branch of one of the capital's four major families, held a coveted seat in the upper circle—the elite sphere where power shaped the nation's unseen currents.
Since taking the helm, Elias had woven a web of connections, pulling families like the Halsteads, Drayces, Norrens, and Calders into his orbit. Elias's influence was a quiet force, his favors binding these families to his vision of power.
The name "Quillian" stirred a faint memory in Elias's mind, like a whisper from a long-forgotten meeting in the upper circle's shadowed halls.
He couldn't place it—perhaps a misheard surname or a fleeting reference—but it carried a weight he couldn't dismiss.
He leaned forward, his fingers tapping the holo-table, its projections of market data flickering. "Quillian," he said, his voice low, testing the name.
"I've heard it before, or something like it. But that's irrelevant for now." His gaze fixed on Lian and Rylan, his tone firm but measured.
"You two, and your friends, will not pull any stunts with Young Master Quillian. No reckless digging, no provocations. Maintain a good relationship—respectful, cautious. I'll handle acquiring his identity through my own channels."
Lian nodded, his polished demeanor unwavering, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of awe.
"Understood, Father. We'll keep things cordial with Young Master Quillian."
Rylan, his silver earpiece glinting, gave a quick nod, his usual charm subdued.
"Got it, Lord Veyron. We're not looking to cross him. Just… trying to understand who we're dealing with."
Elias's expression softened slightly, a rare shift. He straightened, his gaze lingering on Rylan.
"On another note, Rylan, your birthday banquet is next week, isn't it?" he said, his tone almost warm. "The Halsteads always throw a fine event. My congratulations in advance. I trust Young Master Quillian will be attending?"
Rylan's grin returned, a touch of pride breaking through. "Yes, sir. Young Master Quillian's confirmed. It'll be at our Cresthaven estate. Should be a big night."
Elias nodded, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Good. Keep him close, but careful. A man with his influence—hermit family or not—is a variable we must navigate wisely." He waved a hand, dismissing them. "Go. I have work to do."
Lian and Rylan bowed slightly, retreating from the lounge. The Kryon Phantom waited in the garage, its holo-paint shimmering as they slid inside, Lian taking the driver's seat.
As they pulled out into Elysian Heights' pristine streets, the weight of Elias's words—and the mystery of Young Master Quillian—hung heavy between them, a puzzle with stakes higher than they'd ever faced.
Meanwhile, Evan stood in the grand foyer of his villa at 7 Elysian Crescent, the polished stone floor reflecting the soft glow of holo-lights. The Kryon Phantom's purr had faded as Rylan and Lian drove off, leaving the villa's quiet opulence to settle around him.
The System's suggestion to gift a mystery box key at Rylan's banquet lingered in his mind, but another thought took precedence:
'I can't keep living in Cinder Hall,' he thought, running a hand through his hair.
The villa, with its maids, chefs, and sprawling comfort, was his now—a 45,000,000 AR reward from the System.
'Time to move out.'
He grabbed a hovertram back to the dorms, the city's neon blur a stark contrast to Elysian Heights' serene cliffs.
Cinder Hall's concrete facade greeted him, its cracked walls and humming vending drones a reminder of his old life.
Inside, Marcus, Liam, and Torren were sprawled in their shared room, Marcus fiddling with a holo-game on his dataslate, Liam eating a cheap noodle pack, and Torren sketching on a cracked tablet.
The room smelled of instant coffee and worn socks, a far cry from the villa's floral air.
"Back already, rich boy?" Marcus said, glancing up, his dreadlocks swaying. "Thought you'd be sipping Cryon infusions by now."
Evan grinned, tossing his jacket on his bed. "Nah, just slumming it with you losers one last time."
He pulled a duffel from under his bed, starting to pack—clothes, his battered dataslate, a few old books. The Valthorne Chronograph gleamed on his wrist, drawing Liam's eye.
"Man, that watch," Liam said, pointing with his chopsticks. "You gonna tell us how you got it, or we gotta keep guessing? What's the deal, Evan?"
Evan deflected, his tone light but practiced. "Just a gift," he said, shoving shirts into the bag. "Anyway, I'm moving out. Got a place lined up."
Torren's pencil stopped, his quiet gaze sharpening. "Moving out? Where to?"
Evan kept it vague, the System's hum urging caution. "Somewhere closer to the city. Better setup."
He zipped the duffel, avoiding their eyes. 'Can't exactly say Elysian Heights,' he thought. 'They'd lose it.'
Marcus leaned forward, his game paused. "Hold up, you're ditching us? After all our late-night ramen runs? Cold, man."
Liam laughed, but his voice had an edge. "Yeah, what's this place got that we don't?
Evan chuckled, leaning against the bunk. "Something like that. Don't worry, I'll visit. You'll miss my dish-washing skills."
Torren smirked, setting his tablet down. "We'll miss your broke ass complaining about rent. New place better have room for us to crash."
"Deal," Evan said, clapping Torren's shoulder.
The banter eased the tension, but a pang hit him. These guys—his dorm mates, his friends—had been his anchor through years of scraping by as an orphan.
Leaving felt like cutting a tether, even if the villa's comfort beckoned.
Marcus stood, mock-saluting. "To Evan, off to his fancy new life. Don't forget us when you're rolling in AR."
Liam raised his noodle cup. "Yeah, and bring us some of that Vynara Reserve you're probably drinking now."
Evan laughed, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. "You're on. Take care, guys."
Their farewells were loud—Marcus's playful shove, Liam's exaggerated wave, Torren's quiet nod—but their sadness was clear, a mirror to Evan's own.
He stepped into the hall, the door clicking shut, and headed for the hovertram, the villa's promise pulling him forward.
Back at 7 Elysian Crescent, the maids greeted him silently, taking his duffel to the master suite. A chef, already preparing dinner, nodded from the kitchen, the aroma of off-world spices filling the air.
The System had paid their salaries for a year, ensuring every meal, every detail, was handled. Evan sank into a sofa in the sala, the city's skyline glowing through the windows.
'This is home now,' he thought, the comfort of the villa wrapping around him.
A perfect place to rest, to plan, to face the System's next challenge—investing 10,000,000 AR or losing it all.
Evan stood in the master suite of his villa at 7 Elysian Crescent, the morning sun streaming through holo-windows, casting soft light across the polished stone floor.
The past few days had been a blur of relentless training, the System's azure panel a constant companion as he transformed from a Cinder Hall orphan into a Young Master.
His duffel from the dorms sat unpacked in a corner, a relic of his old life dwarfed by the suite's grandeur—silk bedding, a walk-in closet of bespoke suits, and the faint hum of security drones outside.
The Valthorne Chronograph ticked on his wrist, its 2,500,000 AR weight a reminder of the stakes: the 10,000,000 AR investment mission, Rylan's upcoming banquet, and the mystery box gift.
As he adjusted his posture, chin high and shoulders back, he barely noticed how effortlessly his body complied, the System's lessons now etched into muscle memory.
The System's panel flickered, its voice clinical but approving.
[Etiquette and temperament training progress: 100% complete. Standards met in posture, speech, gesture, and demeanor. Brand memorization: 100% complete. Host has internalized high-society protocols. Evaluation: Optimal performance.]
Evan exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "A hundred percent," he muttered, glancing at the panel's data log.
The past few days had been grueling, each morning starting with etiquette drills in the villa's sala. He'd practiced dining protocols—selecting the correct fork for hydroponic salads, pacing sips of Vynara Reserve—until his hands moved with noble precision.
Temperament lessons followed, the System correcting his tone to balance authority and warmth, his gaze to hold steady without arrogance.
'Too stiff,' it would chide, or 'Smile subtle, not wide.' He'd stumbled at first, frustration flaring as he misstepped, but repetition burned the habits into him.
Brand training had been another beast. The System drilled him on elite names—Valthorne, Elara Gems, Vynix Motors, Kryon, Veyron Couture—their logos and price ranges flashing endlessly.
A Veyron suit: 300,000 AR. Elara cufflinks: 120,000 AR. Vynix Zephyr: 8,500,000 AR. The prices had shocked him, his orphan instincts recoiling at the excess, but he'd memorized them all, reciting under the System's strict scrutiny.
By the third day, he could identify a Valthorne tie (50,000 AR) at a glance, his voice steady as he listed its provenance.
The System's point deductions for errors had kept him sharp, his progress climbing: 85% on day one, 92% on day two, 98% on day three, and now, 100%.
What surprised him most was how his body adapted, even when his mind resisted.
Yesterday, a maid had offered a tray of Cryon infusions, and Evan had accepted with a slight nod, his posture impeccable, his "Thank you" carrying a refined lilt—unconscious, automatic.
'I didn't even think about it,' he'd realized, startled.
At dinner, his hands had selected utensils flawlessly, his back straight, his pacing deliberate, as if he'd dined in the Obsidian Suite his whole life.
Even walking through the villa, his steps were measured, his chin high, exuding the noble temperament of Young Master Quillian.
'This isn't me,' he'd thought, yet his body disagreed, molded by the System's relentless training.
He didn't always want to act this way.
The polished gestures felt foreign, a mask over the kid who'd scraped by with eight AR and instant noodles. But the System's missions—investing 10,000,000 AR, attending Rylan's banquet—demanded it, and Evan had quit his part-time jobs to commit fully.
'This is my shot,' he thought, staring at his reflection in a holo-mirror.
His hair, styled by a villa barber, the casual jeans were gone, replaced by a tailored Veyron shirt (80,000 AR) and slacks, chosen instinctively from the closet's luxury racks.
'I'm not just playing rich anymore,' he realized. 'I'm becoming it.'
The System's hum lingered, a quiet challenge. Evan's fingers brushed the black card on his nightstand, its 10,000,000 AR balance a ticking clock.
He'd memorized brands, mastered etiquette, but investing was still a blank. Rylan's banquet loomed, the mystery box key gift a bold move to solidify his status.
As he moved to the sala, greeting a maid with a flawless nod, his body carried Young Master Quillian's grace without effort, a transformation he both embraced and feared.