The rain fell gently over New York City, painting the skyline in silver streaks and golden reflections. Beneath the thunderclouds, the Jefferson Estate gleamed — a palace of glass, steel, and ego, standing tall in the heart of Manhattan.
Inside the mansion, laughter echoed.
It wasn't kind laughter.
"Elsa, I don't care what Grandpa said. That man you married... he's a ghost. No status, no background, not even a LinkedIn profile. Did you marry a hallucination?"
Laughter roared louder. Crystal glasses clinked. The Jefferson family, wrapped in luxury and self-righteousness, circled their target like predators in designer suits.
Chess Golding sat at the corner of the table.
Unmoving. Calm.
A plain black suit clung to his lean frame. No watch. No name tag. No visible brand. Just a man with sharp eyes and a colder silence than anyone in the room could comprehend.
He didn't flinch when they insulted him.
He didn't respond when they questioned his worth.
He simply watched.
"You know what I heard?" a cousin sneered. "He used to mop floors in Chinatown! Must've impressed old man Wallace with his mop-fu."
More laughter.
Elsa Jefferson didn't laugh. She was stiff, jaw clenched, face unreadable.
Her eyes flickered toward Chess.
Why aren't you saying anything? she wondered. Why do you let them walk over you?
What she didn't know — what none of them knew — was that every insult was being logged. Memorized. Categorized.
In the deepest chambers of his soul, where ancient qi danced in silence, the dragon stirred.
They had no idea who he really was.
Not the Jeffersons.
Not Elsa.
Not even the world.
Chess Golding, the abandoned son-in-law they mocked… was the hidden dragon who once stood above nations, the silent heir to a legacy forged in blood and fire. The world's richest man. The last disciple of the Supreme Sect. The bearer of a destiny they wouldn't understand until it was too late.
But for now… he stayed silent.
After all, what's the point of roaring in a room full of sheep?