"Ashes of Crestfall: The Rise of Aaron San Agustin"

The man walking out of Citadel Hills today carried an entirely new name, and behind that name waited an empire that would either welcome him… or try to destroy him.

Aaron descended the grand marble steps, morning sunlight blazing across Velmont's towering skyline. The weight of the card pressed against his chest pocket—a simple slab of black obsidian metal, featureless save for a single embedded diamond that gleamed with a charred brilliance. No insignia. No printed bank name. Its silence spoke louder than any engraved logo.

For the first time in his life, he felt the suffocating chains of poverty dissolve, replaced by a quiet, unsettling freedom.

He walked briskly through Citadel Plaza, Velmont's most exclusive commercial district. Towering luxury boutiques flanked both sides of the marble-tiled boulevard, each with their name emblazoned in gold leaf: Armand Lux, Theon & Hartwell, Monarch Atelier. Their window displays showcased tailored suits, handcrafted leather shoes, and platinum watches worth more than the average person's annual salary.

Aaron paused in front of Monarch Atelier, gazing at the mannequins dressed in pristine bespoke suits. Taking a breath, he stepped inside. A crisp chime sounded overhead, drawing the attention of sales staff stationed behind polished counters.

A young blonde associate with sharp crimson lipstick glanced up, eyes flicking from his dusty boots to his worn jeans and faded military shirt. Her polite smile faltered into thinly veiled disdain.

"Welcome to Monarch Atelier," she said, her voice dripping sweetness that barely masked her contempt. "May I… help you today, sir?"

Aaron nodded calmly. "Yes. I'd like to buy a suit."

She blinked, forcing a brittle laugh. "Of course. Our starting line begins at twenty thousand dollars. Are you sure you're in the right place today?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward, running his fingers along a navy cashmere suit jacket, feeling the softness of the fabric beneath his calloused fingertips.

Behind him, two other sales associates whispered with smug smirks.

"Look at his clothes. Probably wandered in from a shelter," one murmured.

"Or a delivery boy trying to look rich," the other chuckled.

Nearby, a middle-aged man in an ivory trench coat scoffed loudly. "Pathetic," he said under his breath. "Some people just don't know their place."

Aaron ignored them, inspecting another charcoal suit with silent appreciation.

The blonde associate sighed dramatically. "Sir, please refrain from touching the merchandise unless you intend to purchase it. These aren't for display selfies."

Aaron turned to her, voice calm. "That's exactly what I intend to do. Purchase."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "And how… will you be paying, sir?"

"Card."

"May I see it?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his battered wallet, sliding out the obsidian-black card. It was unlike anything they had seen: no logo, no text, no bank insignia. Just a charred brilliance of an embedded diamond that caught the recessed lighting, gleaming like a shard of a dying star.

The saleswoman frowned, eyebrows knitting. "What… is this? Where's the bank name or chip registration number?"

Behind her, the trench coat man let out a dry laugh. "Probably stolen. Or fake."

The other associates gathered closer, whispering in open suspicion.

"This isn't a real card," one said. "No card company issues something like that."

"Security should check this out. Might be a scam attempt."

The blonde saleswoman crossed her arms smugly. "I'm sorry, sir. We cannot process… whatever this is."

At that moment, a woman stepped forward from deeper within the store. She wore a graphite-gray blazer and black slacks, her hair tied in a precise bun, eyes calm behind thin silver glasses.

"Is there a problem here?" she asked, her voice cool and precise.

"Ms. Price," the blonde stammered. "This… customer is trying to pay with some unregistered card. It doesn't even have a bank name."

Ms. Price's eyes flicked to the card. Her gaze sharpened instantly. She extended her hand. "May I examine it, sir?"

Aaron handed it over silently. Ms. Price held it delicately under the overhead light, studying its flawless matte surface and embedded diamond. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly before she regained composure.

"Please follow me, sir," she said softly, handing the card back with a bow of her head. "Allow me to personally assist you today."

The blonde saleswoman gaped. "Ms. Price, what are you—"

"That will be enough," Ms. Price snapped, a steel edge slicing through her professional tone. "Return to your post."

She gestured for Aaron to follow her deeper into the showroom. As they passed the accessories counter, the trench coat man scoffed again. "Ridiculous. Catering to con artists now? Watch—he won't buy a single thing."

Ms. Price paused mid-step, turning her head slightly. "Sir, I advise you to remain silent if you wish to complete your own purchase today."

The man flushed crimson but said nothing.

Ms. Price led Aaron to a private fitting lounge lined with mirrors framed in gold and polished teak wood. "Forgive my staff, sir. They do not understand that appearances… rarely reflect truth."

Aaron shrugged slightly. "It's fine. Bring me your five most expensive suits. Include shoes, ties, belts, and your premium watches."

Her eyes widened momentarily before she bowed. "Right away, sir."

Within twenty minutes, the table before him was lined with immaculately folded suits in charcoal, navy, and obsidian, their fabrics whispering luxury under the recessed spotlights. Italian leather shoes gleamed beside platinum cufflinks and three Monarch Atelier timepieces encrusted with black opals.

The register read $5,086,900.

Silence fell over the entire boutique. Staff watched with bated breath. The trench coat man smirked. "Let's see him try."

Aaron slid the unmarked black card across the counter. The blonde saleswoman hesitated, her hands trembling as she placed it into the reader. A soft electronic chime filled the room.

"Transaction approved," announced the register in its bright synthetic voice.

The room seemed to exhale at once. The trench coat man staggered back, eyes wide with horror. The blonde saleswoman's face drained of all color, knees nearly buckling. Customers nearby whispered in stunned reverence.

Ms. Price bowed deeply. "On behalf of Monarch Atelier, we thank you for your patronage, sir. Your purchases will be tailored immediately and delivered wherever you wish within the hour."

Aaron nodded, expression calm and cold. "Good."

As he turned to leave, he felt dozens of eyes sear into his back—some in awe, others with envy or shame. Near the jewelry case, a group of young women watched him with wide, desirous eyes. But he didn't spare them a glance.

Because to him, money was simply another weapon. One of many. And the war he was preparing for demanded far more than silk and diamonds.

Behind him, Ms. Price turned to her staff, her voice ringing like a blade drawn from its scabbard. "All personnel involved in today's misconduct—report to HR immediately. Effective now, you are terminated. As for you, sir," she addressed the trench coat man icily, "your membership is revoked. You are no longer welcome here."

His jaw dropped as gasps echoed around him. Wordless, he staggered out, clutching his coat like a shield.

And as Aaron stepped into Velmont's blinding sunlight, duffel bag slung casually over his shoulder, his shadow stretched long across the polished marble sidewalk. Because now, wherever he walked, the world itself bent around him—not out of love or fear, but out of sheer, undeniable power.