The Marvel Industries boardroom was a fortress of glass and steel, perched high above the restless city of Shanghai. The skyline glittered like a promise, but inside the sleek, minimalist chamber, the air was thick with unspoken tension. The polished obsidian table reflected the stern faces gathered around it—each a player in the corporate game, eyes sharp and calculating.
Li Feng Marvel entered with slow, deliberate steps. The years of ruthless empire-building had left their mark on him—his hair now streaked with gray, his once-broad shoulders narrower, and his posture less commanding. Despite the tailored suit, there was a frailty beneath the surface, a shadow in his eyes that few had ever seen.
Vivian Park, the company's ruthless COO and a board member with a reputation for icy precision, caught Li Feng's arrival and gave a subtle nod, her lips pressed into a thin line. Li Wei, the charismatic yet cunning Vice Chairman, shifted his weight nervously. The others looked on, their expressions a mixture of concern and calculation.
Li Feng cleared his throat, the sound hoarse. "Let's begin," he said, his voice betraying a hint of fatigue.
The CFO started his quarterly earnings presentation, the usual numbers and charts scrolling across the screen. But just as the room began to settle into business as usual, Li Feng's composure shattered.
A sudden, violent cough ripped through the quiet. It was raw and desperate—a coughing fit so harsh it seemed to shake his entire frame. He reached for the table, fingers trembling. The polished surface was cold beneath his palms.
Blood stained the pristine white napkin he instinctively grabbed from his breast pocket, dark and stark.
The room froze.
Vivian's eyes flickered with something unreadable—was it alarm, or opportunism? Li Wei's jaw tightened, and the board members exchanged sharp glances. The mask of corporate calm cracked.
Li Feng managed a weak smile. "I'm fine," he rasped, but his voice was thin, worn.
No one dared question him. The meeting resumed, but the energy had shifted irrevocably. The chairman's health was no longer a secret, even if the press remained blissfully unaware.
Outside the glass walls of the boardroom, Tian Marvel waited in the cavernous Marvel lobby. His sharp red tie was slightly loosened, a cigarette smoldered between his fingers, and his eyes flickered with restless fire.
He could hear muffled voices beyond the heavy oak doors—whispers of doubt and conspiracy.
"The chairman's health… failing."
"Tian's a liability, not a successor."
"He's a PR stunt. Nothing more."
The words stung, each like a needle pressed under the skin. Tian crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, anger and frustration bubbling beneath his surface bravado.
He muttered, "I'm more than just a mascot."
Later that afternoon, the grand ballroom of a luxury hotel was transformed into a corporate spectacle. The annual Marvel Industries Charity Gala glittered with Shanghai's elite: politicians, celebrities, and top executives. Chandeliers sparkled, champagne flowed, and the carefully choreographed PR event was in full swing.
Vivian Park found Tian hovering near the entrance, reluctant to dive into the polished social whirl.
"You're late," she snapped, her tone sharp but not unkind.
"I'm fashionably late," Tian replied with a crooked grin.
"You're supposed to be the face of this company," Vivian said. "Smile, shake hands, pretend to care. It's simple."
Tian's jaw tightened. "Watch me."
When it was his turn on stage, Tian stepped into the spotlight, the cameras flashing like a storm of fireflies. He was supposed to pose perfectly, laugh politely, and deliver a rehearsed speech about corporate social responsibility.
Instead, Tian lit a cigarette right there, the smoke curling defiantly as the audience gasped. Then, with a sardonic smile, he muttered, "What's charity without a little chaos?"
The room fell into stunned silence.
He leaned over to shake hands with a child, then whispered something sharply inappropriate that caused a few nearby guests to stiffen. The headlines tomorrow would scream scandal.
Backstage, Vivian cornered him, eyes blazing. "One more stunt like that, and your place here will be reconsidered."
Tian shrugged. "I'm not here to be a mascot."
"You think that's power? Influence?" she said, voice cold. "You're barely a shadow."
"Then give me something real," he challenged, voice low.
Their eyes locked, a silent war waged between two very different visions of power.
That night, Tian retreated to his office overlooking the city lights. The room was a minimalist shrine to wealth: dark wood, black leather, and a panoramic view of Shanghai's neon heartbeat.
His phone buzzed relentlessly—texts from aides, PR teams, reporters fishing for dirt, reminders for charity events and board meetings.
He sank into his chair, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. The golden throne he was supposed to inherit felt like a cage lined with razor blades.
A quiet knock interrupted his brooding.
Mr. Zhi stepped in, the senior assistant who had long served Li Feng and now Tian. His expression was grave.
"Your father's condition is worse than you've been told," Mr. Zhi said, his voice low.
Tian's eyes narrowed. "How bad?"
Mr. Zhi pulled a thin, confidential folder from inside his coat. He laid it on the desk.
"Reports say the illness is terminal. The board is already planning succession—without you."
Tian's fists clenched the edges of the folder as he scanned the documents. Medical assessments, internal memos, and carefully redacted notes spilled out like secrets meant to be buried.
Mr. Zhi continued, "If you want the truth, you'll need to fight for your place in this war."
Tian stared out the window at the city sprawling beneath him, a kingdom both familiar and hostile.
The stakes had shifted overnight. The game was no longer about appearances or rebellion. It was about survival—and power.
Lighting a cigarette, Tian inhaled deeply, the smoke filling the room with the scent of defiance.
He whispered to himself, "I'm no mascot. I'm the Red Heir. And I'm coming for the crown."