In the high-ceilinged, glass-walled office of his villa, Georgy Voskresensky stood before the window, carrying the exhaustion of long years and the heavy burden of life upon his shoulders. He leaned both hands against his desk, his gaze drifting across the garden and toward the distant horizon.
"I have grown too old," he murmured to himself, his voice deep and worn.
Then, turning to one of his guards, he spoke with unmistakable seriousness.
"Call my son. Tell Sylas to come here immediately."
Sylas Voskresensky was swimming in the pool of his own villa. His platinum hair floated effortlessly through the water, sunlight gliding across his porcelain like skin as if he were a statue carved from marble. He seemed lost in his thoughts, detached from the world around him.
From below, the guards approached, their voices polite yet firm.
"Sir, your father wishes to see you."
Sylas clenched his teeth, muttering under his breath,
"Why hasn't this old man died yet…?"
Water streamed down his shoulders as he climbed out of the pool. He showered, dried himself, and dressed carefully. The tailored suit fit him perfectly every movement elegant, every glance commanding attention. He descended the stairs and stepped into the car.
As the driver started the engine, Sylas stared out the window, sinking once more into his thoughts.
Back in the office, Georgy Voskresensky opened one of his drawers. His fingers brushed against old photographs, pausing for a long moment. He came across a picture of his late wife, Natalia. He gazed at it silently, his eyes filling with emotion, before carefully placing it back inside the drawer.
An hour later, Sylas stepped through the gates of the villa he had not visited in a long time. The guards bowed respectfully, and the servants greeted him with practiced politeness.
"Welcome, Master Sylas."
Sylas ignored them, his expression cold and arrogant.
"Where is my father?"
At that moment, Georgy Voskresensky descended the stairs slowly, leaning on his cane, assisted by a servant. The years weighed heavily upon his face, yet determination still burned in his eyes.
"Sylas… you've grown," Georgy said softly. "I'm glad to see you. We need to talk."
Sylas looked at his frail father without a trace of concern. Soon after, they moved into the sitting room. The moment Sylas sat down on the sofa, he spoke with a twisted smile.
"Why did you call me after all this time? I'm flattered it finally crossed your mind."
He smiled but not out of amusement. It was a smile born of deep resentment.
Georgy coughed before speaking.
"Sylas, you're no longer a child. You've grown up. The past… many things happened. But now, you are the only one left to carry the Voskresenskybloodline forward."
At first, Sylas listened with a condescending, indifferent expression. Then suddenly, his eyes sharpened.
"…What?"
Georgy continued, his tone firm.
"That is why the leadership of the state will soon be in your hands. Prepare yourself, Sylas. As you can see, I am far too old to govern now. The responsibility will fall upon your shoulders."
Sylas recoiled in shock and resistance.
"No… I can't do this!"
Georgy's voice rose, echoing through the room with unwavering authority.
"There is no other choice! You will carry on the Voskresensky name, or everything will be lost! You are grown now accept your responsibility!"
Sylas fell silent. Anger, fear, and reluctance swirled violently within his eyes. After a moment, he drew a deep breath, met his father's gaze, and shouted,
"I won't do it! I don't care about your bloodline at all do you understand?!"
Seeing Sylas's defiance, Georgy grew even more furious.
"You will take your place at the head of this state! How dare you show such disrespect to our lineage?!"
He coughed violently, then roared,
"You will lead this nation! This discussion is over!"
A storm raged inside Sylas's mind. He snapped back angrily,
"I'm not even ready! Why me—?!"
Georgy cut him off sharply.
"Whether you are ready or not is irrelevant, Sylas. This is not a choice it is a duty. Continuing the Voskresensky bloodline is your responsibility. You cannot refuse."
Sylas fell silent once more. His arrogant gaze softened into distant contemplation as the weight of pressure settled heavily upon him.
Noticing this, Georgy spoke again, his voice gentler now.
"Sylas, I am not forcing you. I am preparing you. The future of the state, our family, and our past rests in your hands. This is inevitable."
Sylas bit his lip, then lifted his gaze staring at his father with arrogance and hatred intertwined.
"Let's say I take control of the state. What do I gain from it? I can't even put my own life in order am I supposed to carry everyone else's future too?"
Georgy took a deep breath, exhaustion and resolve mingling in his eyes.
"Both," he replied quietly. "From now on, the future of our bloodline and this nation rests upon your shoulders. Be prepared, Sylas. This path will not be easy."
After a long silence, Sylas slowly raised his head.
Beneath his cold, arrogant mask, a deep and dangerous determination began to surface