The explosion tore through the Zurich industrial district just before dawn. Flames climbed into the sky, devouring steel and smoke. By the time emergency crews reached the scene, the wreckage of a black SUV burned at the heart of the chaos.
Authorities confirmed what Harrison wanted the world to believe — John Raymond was dead.
News outlets ran with it instantly. Heir of The Imperial Crest Dies in Sovereign Pursuit. Images of the mangled car dominated global feeds. Commentators debated his guilt, his legacy, and his failure. The world mourned him for a day. Harrison toasted him for an hour.
Only Rita refused to believe it.
At The Imperial Crest, the atmosphere was split between panic and fury. The tribunal's investigation deepened. Half of the board had resigned, and the rest clung to what was left of their pride.
Rita stood in John's office — now her temporary command centre. The blinds were drawn, the air heavy with fatigue. Screens around her flickered with news of the explosion. Dalton entered quietly, holding a tablet.
"They've confirmed it," he said. "DNA match. It's over, Rita."
She turned, eyes sharp. "No. Harrison planted that. He's been controlling the narrative from the start."
Dalton hesitated. "Even if that's true, the tribunal meets in two days. Sovereign's lawyers are claiming full ownership of the Crest. Without John, we have no legal standing."
Rita's voice didn't waver. "Then I'll stand."
Dalton frowned. "You can't fight him alone."
"I won't be alone," she said. "Not forever."
Her conviction was so fierce it silenced him.
After he left, she looked at John's empty chair, the sunlight sliding across its polished arms. "You better be alive," she whispered. "Because if you're not, I'll burn his world myself."
Hundreds of miles away, deep in the Swiss countryside, John Raymond opened his eyes.
The room was dim and quiet, the scent of antiseptic faint but familiar. He tried to move, groaning as pain flared through his ribs. A hand pressed gently against his shoulder.
"Easy," a voice said. "You're not ready to stand yet."
He turned his head. Elara Voss sat beside the bed, her arm in a sling, exhaustion etched across her face.
"You …" he began.
"I should be dead," she finished. "You're welcome."
He tried to sit, grimacing. "How long?"
"Four days," she said. "Keller got you out before the explosion. He didn't make it."
John closed his eyes briefly. Keller's sacrifice hit him like a blade. "And the flash drive?"
"Gone," she said. "Harrison took it. But I memorised part of the data. Enough to hurt him."
He looked at her, disbelief softening into something like respect. "Why help me again?"
Her voice was low. "Because Sovereign murdered my brother. You're the only one who can make that mean something."
John nodded. "Then we finish this."
By the fifth day, he was back on his feet. The bruises had faded to shadows, but his mind burned brighter than ever. He and Elara worked from a secluded cabin, rerouting communications through untraceable networks.
She projected a holographic feed of global markets. "Sovereign's stock is dropping fast," she said. "The tribunal's freezing Harrison's accounts, but he's fighting it. The Crest is still in limbo."
John studied the data quietly. "He's vulnerable."
"Vulnerable isn't beaten," she replied. "He still controls the narrative."
"Then we rewrite it," he said.
He leaned over the table, sketching out a plan. "We leaked the original Crestfall records to the tribunal anonymously. That'll stall his ownership claim. Meanwhile, we broadcast his internal communications — the ones proving he engineered the Raymond assassinations."
Elara hesitated. "You're assuming we can reach the tribunal feed before Sovereign's cyberwall blocks it."
John gave a faint smile. "We don't need to break through. We'll use their own network. Harrison built Sovereign using Crest's systems. I know every flaw."
Elara smirked. "You're planning to hack the empire that tried to erase you."
"Not hack," he said. "Reclaim."
By evening, their operation began. Using a ghost server, Elara infiltrated Sovereign's encrypted backbone while John pieced together fragments of Shack's cypher code. Every keystroke brought him closer to the truth.
At The Imperial Crest, Rita prepared for the tribunal, unaware that the man the world thought dead was building his resurrection one byte at a time.
News outlets buzzed with anticipation. The tribunal would decide who owned the empire: the Sovereign or the last ghost of Raymond's bloodline.
In Zurich, Harrison West was a storm in a tailored suit. His office, usually immaculate, was littered with files and shattered glass.
"Find me that upload!" he roared at his aides. "Every trace, every leak — shut it down!"
One of them stammered, "Sir, the tribunal confirmed your testimony slot for tomorrow. Once you sign the transfer, The Crest will be…"
"Mine," Harrison finished, the fury in his eyes cooling into triumph. "And the world will forget the boy who thought he could defy me."
He poured himself a drink, the reflection of his face sharp in the glass. "Lions die. Crowns endure."
Night fell.
Inside the cabin, the final upload completed. The room glowed with the blue light of success.
Elara turned to him, breathless. "It's done. Every file, every proof — live on Sovereign's private server and mirrored across the tribunal's archive."
John nodded once. "Then by the time he speaks tomorrow, his words will bury him."
He walked to the window, watching the moon rise over the mountains. His voice was quiet but steady. "When the world sees what he's done, I'll finish the rest in person."
Elara hesitated. "If you go there, he'll try to kill you again."
"He'll fail again."
She stared at him for a long moment, then said softly, "I hope you're right."
He looked back, his eyes calm, dangerous. "I always am when I'm angry."
The next morning, the tribunal hall in Geneva overflowed with reporters, diplomats, and corporate leaders. The world's cameras focused on the polished marble podium where Harrison West stood, immaculate in his black suit.
"The Sovereign Holdings organisation," he began smoothly, "was founded on principles of transparency and innovation. The Imperial Crest, once a monument of corruption, now finds its rebirth under our guidance …"
The screens behind him flickered. The feed stuttered, distorted. Then the Sovereign insignia vanished, replaced by a flood of data.
Gasps echoed through the hall as files began scrolling across the displays: Project Crestfall, Assassination Orders, Shack's Testimony, Offshore Accounts.
Harrison froze, colour draining from his face. "Turn that off!" he barked.
The technicians scrambled, but it was too late. The files streamed globally, mirrored on every tribunal feed.
Rita, seated among the delegates, covered her mouth in shock as the truth filled the room.
A voice echoed from the speakers — low, steady, unmistakable.
"You wanted a crown, Harrison. You built it from bones."
The crowd turned, murmuring in disbelief.
Harrison's eyes widened. "No…"
The doors at the far end of the chamber swung open.
John Raymond stepped inside.
Alive.
The light caught his face as he walked forward, the room falling silent around him. Every camera turned. Reporters gasped.
Rita rose from her seat, tears filling her eyes.
John's voice carried across the hall, clear and calm. "This isn't your tribunal anymore, Harrison. It's your reckoning."
Harrison stumbled backwards, his mask of control cracking for the first time.
John stopped at the centre of the room, the world's eyes fixed on him.
And as the screens continued to bleed with Harrison's crimes, John said softly, "The heir you tried to bury just took back his name."
The tribunal fell into chaos.
Harrison's glass shattered against the floor.
And the lion had returned.