The Invincible Full-Moon System Chapter 1971: A Calculated Visit

It was silent again.

Nothing but emptiness and dark corners where unseen beings lurked.

The meeting that was held with all the high-ranking people within the department had already been over for almost an hour—and yet the man sitting inside this office had not moved a muscle. High Lord Rashal sat in silence.

Unlike an hour ago, there was only he now inside the cubicle office.

Beyond the glass walls, figures moved through the adjacent rooms—clerks and adjutants and also lesser officials walked left and right, arms full of documents and mouths formed words he did not hear. They existed. They worked.

All had already received the news of what happened in the Cavity.

Received the news that High Lord Rashal’s position was filled with uncertainty.

None of them cared about him.

Most were sent to the main office because they were already accustomed to the work, competent—and already existed within the system. Loyalty isn’t a part of the requirements to work in this office. People who took the safest route.

High Lord Rashal didn’t care that they were already asking for information from other offices.

Didn’t care that they had already prepared their backup plan if he was ousted from his position.

It was the path they chose in life.

One that was safe, thereby, wouldn’t get them to the very top.

Regardless, in this moment, those workers outside did not exist for him.

In the silence, there was only he and his mind.

In the background, the air conditioner hummed a low, steady ambience that filled the silence without disturbing it. High Lord Rashal sat behind his desk with his spine a straight line of discipline, both of his elbows planted on the polished wood, and fingers interlocked in front of his face.

His eyes stared across the room at the closed door, seeing through it, beyond it, into the deep void where thoughts crystallized and decisions hardened.

He had done this since he was nothing more than a boy in the suburbs.

A child with barely any family, no money, and no strength.

In the darkness of a cramped room riddled with all kinds of insects that find a home in the crevices and cracks in the rotting walls, he would sit alone and contemplate. No distractions. No noise. Just his own mind and himself, staring ahead into nothing.

And somehow, in that emptiness, he found clarity.

This habit had been his anchor; the ritual that sharpened him into who he was now.

Since becoming a High Lord, he had done it less and less. There was no time. He was always moving. Always dealing with problems. Always something screaming for his attention inside his skull. And this meditation had become a luxury.

Luxuries for men who still had to prove themselves.

But now, with everything on the line—the evaluation looming, High Lord Ursa’s tariffs, the big battle at the borders, and the delicate machinery of his ambition—he had returned to the old way. Sitting alone in the silence, staring into the void.

It’s like returning to the past.

Like being a kid again who dreamed of conquering the realms.

Having gone this far to become a High Lord, he knew—he understood the truth of pressure. Great things could only happen if he endured these kinds of situations. The universe demanded more than talent. It demanded more than cunning. It demanded a man who could stand against the wall and not break when the pressure pushed harder.

This silence. This stillness. Perhaps it was exactly what he needed.

A reminder that if he wanted to achieve his ambition, the price had not yet been fully paid.

The universe would demand far more from him.

More than the current him could give.

He needed to grow. Stronger. Sharper. Colder. And this is his opportunity to achieve greater heights.

"In order for me to become a God," He mumbled with determination. "I need to become better."

But things are going to get a lot worse first before it gets better, and the universe had a way of refusing him even a single breath of respite. High Lord Rashal turned his gaze toward the side door—as a knock sounded from the other side.

It was his assistant.

High Lord Rashal blinked and gestured for the assistant to come in.

"Sir," the assistant greeted him as he pushed the door open and closed it behind him.

"What’s the problem now?" High Lord Rashal asked—reclining back on his seat with newfound fervor that had been waning up until an hour ago. He was now ready to tackle anything. "If it’s something that isn’t urgent in a day, then tell me later tonight."

"I’m afraid it’s urgent in five minutes, Sir," the assistant replied. "High Lord Ursa is downstairs."

Almost instantly, High Lord Rashal’s eyes narrowed.

A minute later.

Downstairs, an old man stood in the center of the lobby like he already owned it.

His suit was a deep, dark blue, tailored so precisely that the fabric seemed to pour over his frame rather than being stitched. A shark-head cane rested beneath one palm. Not leaned upon, but held, the same way an emperor holds a scepter.

Slowly, he turned his head around, surveying the lobby.

Blatantly, the old man inspected the marble floors, the high ceilings, the glass walls, the chandelier that dripped with crystal particles, and the people. Especially the people. His gaze crawled over them—with the cold, evaluative patience of a man inspecting livestock.

He stroked his beard, nodding faintly, as if pleased with the value of this entire place.

Just his presence alone radiated something sharp.

A sharpness that made necks turn and conversations falter.

Even though he was old already, the dominating air that he was emanating, which demanded nothing and received everything, was stronger than any strong youths out there. Respect wasn’t requested in this old man’s presence.

It was assumed.

One that even the owner of this building would need to show.

Beside him, two massive men stood like unbreakable pillars of discipline and muscle.

Crisp dark blue suits with sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms corded with strength. Their dark brown hair was sleeked back, immaculate and tidy. Combat gloves wrapped their fists with hard steel covering the knuckles. And dark straps crossed their chests, disappearing under their arms where swords rested in leather sheaths against their backs.

Both of their faces held no expression—completely neutral. Completely still.

But their eyes moved constantly, scanning the lobby, the exits, the faces, the hands—everything.

Nothing can escape their attention.

Like a hungry tiger waiting for anything worth their time to pounce on.

Just then, the executive lift chimed. The assistant instantly locked eyes with the old man and then came out with wide, practiced strides. His smile was already fixed in place as a proper host would. He crossed the lobby and stopped before the old man with a respectful dip of his head.

"My apologies, High Lord Ursa." He bowed deeper. "Just a few more minutes. High Lord Rashal will see you shortly."

"Of course." High Lord Ursa placed a hand on the assistant’s shoulder. "I am sure it has been a stressful day for High Lord Rashal, so I don’t mind waiting. Besides, I’m not in a hurry to go anywhere. Please, show me where I can wait comfortably."

"Yes, Sir." The assistant’s smile tightened a fraction—before he gestured toward the lounge. "Right this way, Sir. We have an excellent lounge for the executives where you and these two gentlemen can wait until High Lord Rashal is ready."

He then led them to plush seating; leather chairs and low tables of polished glass.

"Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Still water for them." High Lord Ursa sat down and gestured for the two bodyguards who remained on their feet. His voice was calm, unhurried. Each word was placed with the precision of a man who knew they would be obeyed. "And carbonated water for me."

Smoothly, the assistant turned to fetch the drinks.

But his wrist was seized by High Lord Ursa.

It wasn’t a painful grip, but a demanding one, silently telling him to stop for a second.

He turned to High Lord Ursa as his smile turned brittle.

"What is your name?"

"You can call me Henry, Sir."

"Okay, Henry," High Lord Ursa released his wrist, reached into his breast pocket, and produced a sleek business card. Cream-colored, embossed, and no title. Only a name and a number. He placed it firmly on Henry’s hand. "If you ever find yourself in need of a better position, I have several that would suit a young man of your abilities. Far more than whatever you have here."

Henry didn’t say anything.

And even if he wanted to, he wasn’t given any time to say anything.

High Lord Ursa already settled back into his chair as if the conversation had never happened.

He could only flash a polite smile and turned away to fetch the drinks.

A few minutes later.

Once Henry received the message that High Lord Rashal was ready, he brought High Lord Ursa to the executive lift. Before entering the executive lift, High Lord Ursa turned to the two bodyguards, "Please wait here. No need to follow me. Relax in the lounge until I return."

"But Sir..." One of them protested.

Even though it’s unlikely that anything would happen, he still wanted to be by High Lord Ursa’s side.

He changed his mind and nodded in understanding when High Lord Ursa’s gaze fixed on him.

A chilling gaze that was a warning for him.

"I understand." The bodyguard finally stepped back and bowed.

High Lord Ursa turned and stepped into the executive lift, positioning himself behind Henry without a word. The doors sealed with a muted thud, and the lift rose in near silence. It took only a moment for it to stop at the top floor, where the main office waited.

Right from the executive lift was a hardwood desk with High Lord Rashal behind it.

He wasn’t sitting on his chair but looking out to view the scenery instead.

Henry placed a hand to block the lift’s door and make way for High Lord Ursa to walk out.

As soon as High Lord Ursa set foot in the office, High Lord Rashal turned around—revealing a warm, almost welcoming smile curling on his lips. "High Lord Ursa," He spread his arms aside—and walked around the desk, reaching his hand for a handshake. "It’s been a while since we met alone like this."

"It really has been a while." High Lord Ursa accepted the handshake. "It’s really good to see you."

"Please, sit down."

"Thank you."

High Lord Ursa sat down in the chair and couldn’t help but look around the office.

"Last time we met was when we were having a meeting in the Greater Crystal Hotel. How many years had it been?"

"It has been five years. Time flies."

"Right... You look more like a man now than you did back then."

"I take that as a compliment. Being a High Lord had made me a greater man; it seemed."

"I’m sure it had a huge impact," High Lord Ursa laughed, and then paused deliberately, letting the deep silence stretch longer than most were comfortable with. But it did not seem to faze High Lord Rashal. "Aren’t you wondering why I’m here?"

"Of course," High Lord Rashal nodded. "But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me."

"I came because I felt guilty for sending you the invitation to my humble banquet through my assistant. I should’ve come here and invited you myself. After all—it’s a social gathering. And as the youngest and most talented High Lords, I should at least give you some face by coming here."

"Please, there’s no need to trouble yourself by coming here. I’m not offended in the slightest. I’m quite understanding when it comes to this. After all, your generation has its own traditions, and I must be patient enough to respect them."

"No, no. It’s no trouble at all." High Lord Ursa smiled—but the curve of his lips carried a cynical edge, sharp as a blade beneath silk. "After all, I’ve never set foot in your office before. I thought I might visit while the opportunity still exists."