The smell of grilled Lava Drake still hung in the soft, magical air of Tre Sorelle, like the last note of a beautiful symphony—warm, primal, and deliciously bold.
This wasn't just wine.
This was liquid wealth, a ritual for only the elite—warriors, nobles, or disguised kings.
And Charles—masked, mysterious, and more dangerous than most suspected—drank it like it was a familiar friend.
A staff member in black-gold livery set a leather bill and jade payment box, silver glyphs of House Sorelle gleaming, on the table.
Charles flicked open the folder with steady confidence.
Eighteen gold coins.
He raised a brow, amusement flickering over his features, a subtle satisfaction at the extravagant price—his composure betraying just a hint of wry humor.
In Davona, eighteen gold could fund a militia, pave a border road, or pay a clerk's salary for eighteen months. Here, it covered a magical brunch.
Unfazed, Charles placed twenty-one gold coins in the folder—eighteen for the meal, three for service. He showed a noble's generosity and a ruler's ease.
Just as he was about to seal the folder closed, a sharp noise cracked through the gentle ambiance.
A slap.
Not the polite kind that made cheeks pink at a dance.
No, this one rang out—loud, sudden, and wrong. It silenced the lilting music, stilled the clinking of utensils. Even the flame orbs flickered.
Then came the shatter.
Glass—maybe crystal—shattered, sharp edges falling with the last grains of respect.
Charles's fingers halted above the folder. He angled his head, tension sharpening his posture—instinct overriding etiquette.
Qi pulsed from across the room. Hostile. Disruptive. Sloppy.
Then came the voice—dripping with wine, anger, and wounded pride.
"You dare slap me, you wench?!"
Charles's gaze slid toward the commotion like a sword leaving its sheath.
Two booths down, three noble sons sprawled in seats of entitlement, their expressions glazed with arrogance and drink. Fine silks wrapped their limbs, embroidered with the crest of House Hayde—serpentine and Southern.
One of them, the loudest, had golden-blonde hair tousled by ego and alcohol. Wine stained his lap, though it looked less like a spill and more like karmic retribution. His obsidian eyes blazed not with cultivation clarity, but petulant rage. And in his hand was a wrist.
Micah's wrist.
Micah, the poised waitress, stood rigid, chin raised, one hand on her tray. Irritation, not fear, showed beneath duty. Her pinched wrist trembled—subtle, but telling.
The young man's grip glowed faintly with qi. Charles noted just enough pressure to cause pain, not enough to cause breaks.
Yet.
[SIGMA SYSTEM – ALERT: Wrist compression detected. User: Micah Sorelle. Vital integrity down 17%. Fracture risk rising.]
The system's ping echoed coldly in Charles's mind.
"That didn't take long," he muttered under his breath, tension tightening his jaw despite the calm pivot of his routine.
[Would you prefer 'smash and silence' mode or a diplomatic table flip?] SIGMA asked dryly.
"Neither," Charles whispered, rising from his seat. "I'm going for the slap that ends dynasties."
He straightened his mask with unhurried precision and strode into the aisle.
Earlier…
Micah's approach was perfect—tray level, steps measured, balance assured despite underlying qi. She was velvet-wrapped steel.
"Your wine, sirs," she had said, bowing lightly, her voice as crisp as autumn twilight.
Malfor, if the drunken praise meant anything, grinned and swung his leg over the seat, eyes shamelessly scanning Micah.
"Ahh, finally," he said, but rather than reach for the wine, his fingers brushed hers. Purposefully. Slowly.
"Tell me, lovely… are all the flowers in the North this divine?"
Micah didn't flinch. "Please refrain from touching the staff, Lord Malfor."
"Oho! She knows my name," he crowed. "She's been paying attention, boys."
His friends laughed. One of them raised a goblet in salute. "Part of their training, eh?"
"Would you like anything else from the kitchen?" Micah asked evenly.
Malfor leaned in, breath tainted with wine. "A taste of you."
Micah's lips thinned. "Please behave yourself."
"You should be in silk, massaging noble shoulders—mine, especially," he said, tracing the wine glass.
Micah set the wine down with clipped resolve and pivoted to leave.
That was when the hand landed.
The grope.
And the slap.
A sound that deserved a standing ovation.
Wine spilled. Pride shattered. A line was crossed.
"You dare ruin my clothes, slap me in front of others?" Malfor hissed, rising.
He gripped her wrist, qi-laced, his pride more bruised than his cheek.
"I asked you a question, girl."
"Let go," Micah said firmly, her voice steady despite the flare of pain.
"Sir Malfor, you groped me. I merely defended myself."
"Oh, one of those stubborn types?" he sneered. "Good. Breaking you will be more fun."
Across the restaurant, Charles's hand clenched the bill folder.
The drake's aroma turned to ash in Charles's mouth.
Micah lifted her chin. "My service ends at your table, sir. Not in your bed."
It was too much.
For a moment, the tension was a thread stretched between fury and justice.
Then Charles moved.
A shadow uncoiled from velvet.
And the world braced for the storm.
Malfor leaned forward, breath thick with wine, letting go of Micah's wrist only to drape an arm around her shoulder. The gesture was too casual—predatory, heavy with presumption. He pulled her close as if her dignity was just another coin to gamble.
"Come now," he purred, breath warm against her cheek, "name your price, baby. You serve food so gracefully. I'd pay double to see you serve in my room."
The other nobles burst into crude laughter. One of them whistled low; another clapped slowly, mock applause dripping with malice.
Micah's eyes, usually steady with professional detachment, flared with raw fury, her voice trembling with defiance as she said, "Let me go."
Malfor's grin sharpened, lips curling into a leer. "Oh, I will," he sneered, "after I've had my fill of—"
Snap.
A dry twig snapped—precise, surgical.
A hand—not Micah's—clamped Malfor's wrist, pressing his pressure point and cutting the smugness short with white-hot pain.
"W-What the—?!" Malfor choked, eyes bulging.
Malfor turned, nose-to-mask with a cloaked figure, eyes cold steel, mask a silverwood sneer: elegance forged as intimidation.
Charles. Silent. Calm. Coiled.
His voice was low and razor-sharp. "Enough."
The power in the word was not volume, but conviction. It cut cleaner than any sword.
Micah stumbled back, finally released, clutching her sore wrist as if anchoring herself to reality. The storm had broken, and the masked figure had walked out of the eye.
Malfor shook his arm, wincing. "Who the hell are you?!"
Charles tilted his head. "Someone who values peace and good food. You, however, are disturbing the ambiance."
That mock-courteous tone. That imperturbable chill. It enraged Malfor more than any insult.
"Ambiance—?! You little—!"
With a roar more suited to a bar fight than a noble's hall, Malfor lunged. His right arm blurred, wind qi coiling around his knuckles like a cyclone.
But Charles was already moving. No flare. No wasted motion. Just inevitability.
His foot anchored.
His shoulder pivoted.
His breath aligned.
"Heaven-Crushing Fist: First Form—Sky Breaker."
Flesh met force.
The thunderclap of impact cracked through the restaurant like a war drum. Plates rattled. Goblets spilled. Half the dining room flinched.
Charles's fist twisted through Malfor's wind-imbued strike like it was made of parchment. No resistance. No hesitation.
CRACK.
The sound of bone yielding. The golden-haired noble shrieked, stumbling backward. His forearm flopped uselessly, grotesquely bent—like a puppet whose string had been cut.
He dropped to one knee, gasping, disbelief and panic warring across his face—his pride shattered before he could even process the pain.
"My arm! You broke my—"
The words dissolved into a scream.
His companions shot to their feet. One of them drew a thin enchanted blade, trembling more from panic than fury. "You bastard! You'll pay for that!"
Charles stood still, not brushing off the strike. His cloak settled, curtain falling on act one.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Enemy Defeated – Foundations Rank 5 Wind and Metal Warrior. Rewards: +500 Gold Coins, +5 Attribute Points, +5 Skill Points.]
SIGMA's dry voice echoed in his mind. "Would you like that pain gift-wrapped? We're running a courtesy service tonight."
Charles didn't reply, but the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. He flexed his fingers, quietly observing the battlefield.
Two viscount sons: Foundations Rank 5 and 6. Two guards: Core Realm Rank 2 each. This could get messy—politically and physically.
"Kill him!" Malfor shrieked, tears streaking his flushed face. "I want him dead!"
The guards hesitated for only a moment—then drew their curved blades with mechanical precision, mana glinting along their runes. Trained. Efficient. Loyal… but not to him.
Charles stepped back half a pace, heart calm, breath controlled. He had over twenty skill points banked and had just unlocked two additional flows of the Heaven-Crushing Fist earlier that morning. He could take them. He could crush them.
But not without consequences.
The moment he revealed too much, nobles would start digging. The wrong kind of attention would follow.
"Please don't make me embarrass you," he said softly.
The guards advanced.
BOOM.
The grand doors of Tre Sorelle exploded open with a blast of force. A gust howled through the chamber, extinguishing half the flame orbs overhead and tossing napkins and silken menu scrolls into the air like confetti.
Every head turned.
Every breath froze.
Then came the voice. Deep. Controlled. Utterly absolute.
"That is enough."
It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. The air itself obeyed.
Footsteps rang—measured, regal, the sound of inevitability wrapped in velvet. A man emerged from the entry's smoke and light, dressed in dark crimson and black velvet, lined with enchanted battle-thread. Reinforced shoulder plates of storm-forged alloy gleamed faintly under the chandeliers.
His hair was regal silver, pulled back into a warrior's tail. His eyes—the color of molten stone—pierced through the room like judgment itself.
Charles's eyes narrowed. The aura this man exuded—it wasn't just power. It was lineage. Dominion.
Unity Realm Level 9… no, beyond. His level is unfathomable.
Behind him marched five black-uniformed elite enforcers—Victor Sorelle's personal guard. Each one crackled with qi pressure so dense it sucked the breath out of the room.
Even the two Core Rank guards faltered. The one holding his blade actually stepped backward.
Malfor's face turned from rage to ash. "I-I didn't know—"
The man didn't look at him.
He looked at Micah.
She stared at him like a drowning girl seeing the shoreline.
"…Father."
Victor Sorelle raised a single eyebrow.
Malfor, pale as a grave-worm, turned toward his companions.
"Oh shit," one of them whispered.
The storm had arrived.
And now… it would decide what remained.