Caesar froze when he heard those words, but John, walking by his side, leaned close and whispered urgently:
"Please, keep moving. There are several level-ten geniuses here, and the guards are all much stronger than me!"
He tried to nudge him forward, but it was useless. John sighed inwardly—he knew this would not end peacefully.
Caesar turned, fixing his eyes on the young man at the head of the table. His voice was calm, but cutting:
"And insulting your guests as trash… is that what you call good hospitality here?"
The prince's brows tightened, but before he could speak, Michael leapt in again, raising his sword with a sneer.
"You ungrateful dog! Prince Henry Dolev himself offers you protection, and yet you dare talk back?! If he calls you trash, then trash you are!"
"No," Caesar's fist lit with a white glow, his voice steel-cold. "I am not. And I certainly don't need your prince's blessing. If any of you have a problem with me, come forward and fight. Don't hide behind guards while wagging your filthy tongues."
Laughter erupted around the hall.
"Hah! Where does this arrogance come from?"
"Does he think he's peerless beneath heaven? What a joke!"
The jeers spread quickly—mockery, sarcasm, and cruel amusement filled the air. Their gathering had been dull before; now, Caesar was their entertainment.
Michael's voice cut through the noise. "So the Black Sun Kingdom not only sent trash, but an arrogant fool as well! Do you know how many worthless earls' sons exist in this world? I could kill you here and toss a few coins at your family to shut them up!"
With that, he advanced, killing intent rolling off him. His sword gleamed as he raised it over his head. "Hyaaaaa!!" He lunged.
Caesar didn't flinch. He slipped to the side, white energy blazing from his hand—and in one fluid motion, clamped his glowing fist around Michael's throat.
"Aaaaaaagh!" Michael's scream was shrill, porcine. His sword clattered to the ground as his hands clawed desperately at Caesar's grip, to no avail.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Guards rose in alarm, even Prince Henry pushed back his chair, his face twisting with fury. Michael's protector stepped forward, veins bulging in his neck.
"Don't move!" Caesar's voice thundered as he lifted Michael higher, tightening his grip. The boy's shrieks grew wilder, echoing through the restaurant.
The guard froze. He knew full well he could cut Caesar down in an instant—but not before Michael's neck snapped, or his body was crippled beyond repair.
Caesar's gaze swept the room. His voice was calm, unhurried, as though the squirming youth in his grasp were nothing but a prop.
"If I am only the offspring of an earl, just trash... then what does that make all of you? Look at him! With a flick of my wrist I could end this fool, and I know I can stand against each and every one of you."
The hall fell into stunned silence. The nobles, their guards, even the servants stood frozen.
Because deep down, they knew the truth: Michael was not weak. Among the level-ten youths of Dolivar, his strength was average at worst. None of them could defeat him so decisively, so humiliatingly, in a single move.
One thought burned in every mind: What monster is this Caesar?
"I don't care about your little rivalries between kingdoms," Caesar continued coldly. "I came here for one reason—to claim first place in this tournament and return home. Am I clear?"
The crowd clenched their jaws but held their tongues. No one dared provoke him further.
Except Henry. The prince's voice cut sharp through the silence:
"You're stronger than expected… but do you think Michael is the best we have? Do you think you can beat me as well?"
Caesar's dark smile spread. "If you're confident in yourself… come and try me."
Henry's teeth ground audibly, his pride screaming for him to act. But reason chained his steps. He wasn't blind—Caesar's strength was real, and the risk of losing in front of so many witnesses was too high. His prestige would be shattered.
At last he spat, "You want me, a prince, to dirty my hands in a restaurant brawl? That's what the tournament is for! Don't worry—we'll meet soon enough. Now release Michael! If you kill him, neither you nor your family will survive the consequences!"
Caesar chuckled darkly. "Kill him? Relax. I'm good at keeping pigs squealing without letting them die. He doesn't deserve death… though, maybe he does?" He tightened his grip deliberately, making Michael shriek even louder. "But fine. I'll release him—if you swear, as a prince, before everyone here, that no harm will come to me until I return to the Burton residence."
Henry's face twisted. He wanted to order Caesar's death right then—but Michael was a duke's heir. If the boy died under his watch, Duke Tinley's wrath would be unbearable. It could cost Henry the throne itself.
Finally, through clenched teeth: "You have my word."
Satisfied, Caesar flung Michael aside like garbage. The body smashed into a nearby table, splintering it. His guard rushed to his side, panic in his eyes, until he saw that Michael was merely unconscious.
The guard turned back, his gaze murderous, but Henry lifted a hand and stopped him. Instead, the prince stepped forward, his eyes smoldering.
"Keep that arrogance, Caesar. When the hunting event begins, we'll see how long you can survive. Watch your back."
"Self-defense is arrogance now?" Caesar scoffed, brushing past. "Hunting event, tournament, whatever. It doesn't matter. Let's go, Uncle John."
Without a backward glance, Caesar strode to the door, John hurrying behind him. Dozens of furious, humiliated gazes burned into his back—but not one dared to stop him.