Martin leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he mulled it over. On one hand, he wasn't thrilled about the idea of stepping into upper-crust circles he had never been a part of.
But on the other hand, it made sense. If he wanted to succeed, and if this business was going to be as big as he envisioned, connections like Lucia's family could be helpful.
More than that, getting advice from someone born and raised in these elite circles could offer him insights he lacked.
"Alright," Martin finally said, a slow nod following. "I'll do it."
Lucia looked surprised for a moment, blinking as if she didn't expect him to agree so quickly. "Really?"
"Yeah," Martin said, though a slight smile crept onto his lips. "Might as well get used to it, right? Socializing, meeting new people... it's going to be part of the job eventually."
Relief washed over Lucia's face, and she let out a small, almost relieved laugh. "You won't regret it. My mom—she's intense, but she'll be glad to meet you. And hey, at least the food's good."
Martin chuckled softly. "That's a good start."
Lucia grinned, clearly happy with his answer. "I'll let her know, then. We can figure out a time that works for both of us."
Martin gave a final nod. As strange as the invitation seemed at first, he had a feeling that this dinner might be more important than he initially thought.
Socializing was inevitable, and aligning himself with the right people could only help him navigate the tricky waters of the upper-class business world.
Still, it would be a different kind of challenge—one he hadn't quite prepared for. But if anyone could adapt, it was him.
Lucia was still smiling as Martin stepped out of the conference room, her spirits lifted after his agreement to attend dinner with her family. It was a significant step, and she was glad Martin was starting to understand the importance of these connections.
However, Martin's mind had already moved on. His focus was elsewhere.
There was something far more pressing occupying his thoughts—the mysterious energy coursing through his body.
After a long day, he had come to realize that this energy regenerated passively while his body was at rest. Yet, passive regeneration wasn't going to cut it in the long run.
Martin needed to find a way for active replenishment—a method to restore this energy on command, especially if he planned on making use of it more often.
He bid a quick farewell to Lucia, leaving her to handle the rest of the day's work, and made his way down the empty lounge to the elevator.
As the doors slid shut, Martin leaned against the back wall, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. The head butler had prepared them in advance, knowing Martin's preference for something a bit more premium.
Martin placed a cigarette between his lips, his mind wandering as the elevator descended to the underground parking lot.
With a soft ding, the doors opened, and Martin stepped out, the faint clack of his shoes echoing in the stillness of the garage. He took a few steps forward, but something stopped him in his tracks—a metallic stench in the air.
Faint, but unmistakable. Alongside it came the suppressed groans of someone in pain.
His brow furrowed as his heightened senses picked up the sounds more clearly. His steps quickened, the source of the noise originating near his car. As he rounded the corner, the scene that greeted him was almost predictable.
A group of masked men lounged lazily against his car, their faces concealed by ski masks. Iron bats, crowbars, and other heavy-duty tools were scattered around them. They didn't move, didn't flinch, but simply stared at him as he approached.
At their feet lay the head butler, bruised and bloodied, his breath shallow and pained. He was still alive—but barely.
Martin's gaze darkened.
"Two choices," a man seated on the hood of the car said without looking at him, his voice casual, almost bored. "Obediently hand over your shares and stick to being the nominal Chairman, or…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The threat was clear enough.
Martin let out a long sigh, the cigarette still hanging from his mouth. He reached up and slowly removed his expensive jacket, folding it neatly before draping it over a nearby railing. His cold glare fixed on the man sitting on his car.
Martin unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, rolling up his sleeves as his anger from earlier that morning resurfaced with even greater intensity.
"So," the man spoke again, still not bothering to look at Martin. "You chose option two. Never mind. I like going through the motions."
The man snapped his fingers, signaling the start of something inevitable. He stood, jumping down from the hood of the car as his crew of thugs followed him.
They spread out, each armed with a metal bat or crowbar, clearly confident in their numbers.
Martin might have felt fear in a situation like this in the past. Growing up in rough conditions, he had dealt with bullying and street fights, but never anything this organized.
Back then, taking on two people was a challenge. Seven? It would have been impossible.
But not today. Today, Martin was different.
He felt his muscles coil, ready for the confrontation. His body hummed with power, and the anger burning inside him sharpened his focus.
The first thug lunged, swinging a crowbar at Martin's head. Martin ducked, the move so quick it was almost reflexive. He stepped to the side, using the man's momentum to disarm him with a swift twist of the wrist.
In one fluid motion, Martin slammed the crowbar into the back of the man's knee, sending him crashing to the ground with a thud.
The second and third thugs attacked at the same time, one from the left and one from the right. Martin's newfound strength and agility allowed him to dodge their swings with ease, his body moving like a well-oiled machine.
He grabbed one by the arm and flung him into the other, sending both men sprawling to the ground in a heap.
The rest of the group surged forward, but Martin was already in control of the fight. He parried blows, dodging and weaving between the thugs with an almost eerie precision.
The fight moved around the parking lot, with Martin using parked cars as obstacles, causing more than a few of the thugs to miscalculate their swings and slam into the vehicles, setting off car alarms that blared through the otherwise silent lot.
Each time Martin retaliated, he did so with ruthless efficiency. He disarmed one thug after another, using their own weapons against them. Crowbars and bats cracked against bones, causing fractures and breaks.
But Martin was careful—he used the blunt edges, ensuring that while the injuries were painful and debilitating, there was no bloodshed.
Before long, the parking lot was filled with the sounds of agonized groans. The thugs lay scattered across the ground, clutching their broken limbs, completely incapacitated.
The commotion had drawn attention, and within minutes, the distant sound of sirens filled the air. Security personnel and a few police officers rushed into the parking lot, surveying the scene with wide eyes.
Lucia arrived moments later, her face pale with a mix of anger and distress. She pushed past the security officers, her eyes scanning the scene before landing on Martin.
"Martin!" she called, rushing toward him.
Martin stood amidst the wreckage, breathing heavily but otherwise calm. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his muscles aching slightly from the exertion. As Lucia reached him, her expression shifted from shock to worry.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice shaky.
Martin looked around at the thugs groaning on the ground and then back at Lucia, a small smirk playing on his lips.
"Nothing," he said, his voice casual. "Just handling some... business."