Adrian Cole Return of the Lost Heir novel Chapter 47

CHAPTER 47

A hush fell over the banquet hall as all eyes shifted toward Adrian, whose calm expression stood in stark contrast to the crackling hostility radiating from Vice President Aldric Arvan.

Arvan’s gaze swept over him with open disdain.

“Who,” he demanded coldly, “are you supposed to be?”

His tone made it clear:

In this hall of presidents, elders, and renowned physicians, Adrian was the one person Arvan saw as unworthy of standing here.

Adrian didn’t blink.

His answer was so simple, so light, it cut sharper than any shout.

“Someone you can’t afford to offend.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Several younger doctors stiffened. Even Catherine froze, pulse racing. Only Arvan’s expression shifted–from irritation… to dangerous amusement.

“Oh?” Arvan tilted his head. “Is that so?”

Before he could mock further, a voice spoke up from the crowd.

“That’s Adrian,” one of the association’s doctors said loudly. “He’s the one who saved Mr. Morrittis a few weeks ago.”

The hall stirred again.

Arvan’s smirk vanished.

For the slightest fraction of a heartbeat, something flashed in his eyes–sharp, violent, murderous.

He recovered quickly, the expression smoothed over so fast that anyone not paying attention would’ve missed it. But Adrian noticed. So did Catherine.

Arvan spoke slowly, voice dripping with skepticism.

“He cured Morrittis…? Him?”

He studied Adrian again–this time more carefully.

In the past week, Arvan had raged in private, convinced that some elusive, hidden master must have interfered with his decades–long plan.

His poison wasn’t ordinary.

It was a culmination of his years of research–designed so that even Level 2 mental power users couldn’t completely decipher it.

To think someone had undone it so cleanly…

Arvan had imagined a reclusive grandmaster.

A gray–haired elder with terrifying medical prowess.

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A hidden expert whose name was never spoken lightly.

Instead…

Standing before him was a young man who looked utterly average.

No pressure.

No aura.

No sense of seniority or cultivation.

He didn’t even dress like someone from a powerful family.

Arvan felt the tension in his chest melt into something else relief.

So this was the one who ruined his plan?

A boy.

A lucky brat who probably stumbled onto the cure by accident.

Arvan almost laughed.

This child wasn’t worth his anger.

He wasn’t worth fear.

He wasn’t even worth a proper grudge.

Someone like this could be erased whenever Arvan felt like it.

His killing intent quietly retreated.

No need to be impatient.

When the banquet ended—and his position as Grand President was secured–he would “deal with” this inconvenience at his leisure.

Arvan gave Adrian a dismissive glance.

“Then you are nothing more than a fortunate amateur,” he said. “Don’t mistake a single lucky encounter for true ability.”

Adrian didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

His silence irritated Arvan even more.

But before the tension could escalate further, President Renford stepped between them, trying to stabilise the hall. “Vice President Arvan,” he said firmly, “this is neither the time nor place for personal grudges. You declared a mental power challenge. If you insist on making a spectacle then follow procedure.”

Arvan raised a brow. “Procedure?”

Renford gestured toward the center of the hall.

“If you want to prove your superiority, then begin with the duels. The rules of a formal mental power competition still stand. Choose your opponent.”

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A smirk curled on Arvan’s lips.

“Gladly.”

He turned toward the gathering of visiting presidents–men who had served in their positions for decades and held immense prestige.

“I will fight three rounds,” Arvan announced loudly. “To prove that I alone deserve to lead.”

The crowd erupted again.

“Three?”

“Is he out of his mind?”

“That’s not a demonstration–that’s provocation!”

Arvan ignored every complaint.

Freya stepped forward gracefully, her elegant voice carrying across the hall.

“Please, don’t misunderstand. Vice President Arvan only wishes to show sincerity. His goal is unity, not conflict.”

The presidents weren’t fooled.

Unity was the last thing Arvan wanted.

Still, the challenge had been issued. And in this world, backing down meant losing one’s dignity–and future.

President Renford let out a breath.

“Very well. Choose your first opponent.”

Arvan chuckled darkly.

“I already have.”

His eyes sharpened as he pointed directly at the president of Westshore Medical City–the one who had spoken out the most earlier.

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