Somewhere far away in an eastern country, inside the grand drawing room of a majestic estate known as The Resistance, an older-looking man sat in a lavish high-back chair.
Clad in crisp, dark clothes, his hair fully turned gray, he exuded an aura of commanding authority—one that could make anyone submit without question, despite his age.
His light gray-blue eyes narrowed at the television screen, where a young, handsome man was declaring himself as Aiden Handrix.
The man's hand, resting on the armrest, bore expensive, ancient-looking jade rings. His fingers tapped the armrest in a steady rhythm, echoing his deep focus.
"He is the one?" the man murmured, his voice firm and laced with king-like command.
A younger man in a suit, standing beside his chair, replied, "Yes, Mr. Riverdale. Based on the information we received from an anonymous source—and now that he has declared himself as Aiden Handrix—there's no doubt. He even resembles the late young master."
