The other two bodyguards who'd exited scrambled back toward the SUV, forming a defensive barrier. Weapons appeared from concealed holsters—pistols, one submachine gun, professional firepower wielded by professionals.Another dart whistled through the air. The second bodyguard dropped, the projectile embedded in his throat."At least two attackers!" the remaining guard outside called. "Front and rear positions! Hidden weapons—darts or needles! Standard cover won't help!"Miguel's driver threw the vehicle into reverse, but the fallen pillar made maneuvering impossible. They were boxed in—trapped between the obstruction ahead and whatever waited behind."Stay in the car," Marcus ordered, his hand already on the door handle."Are you insane?" Miguel grabbed his arm. "They're using poison darts! Professional assassins! You can't just—"Marcus pulled free and kicked the door open. "Yes, I can."He emerged into the abandoned street, his dragon aura flaring to full strength. The pressure made

The guard handed over the small container that held the poison darts. Marcus examined it briefly, his dragon senses cataloging weight, balance, aerodynamic properties. Then he made a subtle adjustment to the container's configuration—something that transformed it from storage into a launching mechanism."What are you doing?" Miguel asked.Marcus didn't answer. His dragon eyes scanned the surrounding buildings, calculating distances, angles, wind patterns. Then he found what he was looking for—a distant rooftop, approximately two hundred meters away, where a slight reflection suggested glass or binoculars.He raised the dart box, aimed with dragon precision that transcended normal human capability, and fired.The dart crossed two hundred meters in less than two seconds, its trajectory perfect, its target impossibly small.On the distant rooftop, binoculars exploded. A figure jerked backward, the shattered lenses cutting into their face, blood spattering across their expensive surveilla

A man stepped forward from the group of foreigners—early twenties, expensive designer clothes, the kind of face that had never been told "no" in his entire life. This was the one who'd encouraged Tyson's chopstick game earlier, who'd laughed at the staff's humiliation.Young Master Springs."Do you have any idea who we are?" Springs demanded, his face flushed with outrage. "Do you know what organization we represent? You just assaulted our people! Humiliated us in this backwater province! You need to apologize immediately! Get on your knees and beg forgiveness before I—"Marcus's slap cut off the tirade mid-sentence.The Dragon King's palm connected with Springs's face with enough force to snap his head sideways and send him staggering. Blood trickled from his split lip."Before you what?" Marcus asked calmly."You... you hit me..." Springs touched his bleeding mouth with disbelief. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in? I'll—"The second slap was harder. Dragon power infus

Celeste turned the phone toward Marcus, who looked directly into the camera with complete calm."I'm Marcus Steel," he said simply. "And your son came to my territory acting like he owned it. He disrespected my people. Injured my staff. Thought his family name made him untouchable. I'm teaching him otherwise."The white-haired man's face flushed red with rage. "You arrogant insect! Do you have any comprehension of what you've done? Willson Pavilion has existed for centuries! We've toppled empires! Crushed armies! Destroyed anyone who dared show us disrespect! And you—some provincial nobody—you dare lay hands on my son?""I dare," Marcus confirmed. "And I'll keep daring until he learns some humility.""You're dead," the old man said with absolute certainty. "You, everyone in that hotel, everyone in your pathetic city—all dead. I'll send forces that will make what happened tonight look like mercy. You have six hours to commit suicide. Do it publicly, film it, and maybe—maybe—I'll let yo

Back at Pearl on the Water Hotel, the dining hall had been cleared. Springs's blood still stained the expensive flooring, but the staff was already beginning cleanup. Miguel's bodyguards maintained heightened security, knowing retaliation was inevitable.Marcus stood alone in a private conference room, his phone in hand, scrolling through contacts until he found the one he wanted.Amadeus Fairbanks. Pavilion Master of Willson Pavilion.He pressed dial.The call connected after two rings. Background noise suggested Amadeus was somewhere public—voices, movement, the sound of scissors."This is Fairbanks," the Pavilion Master's voice came through, calm and authoritative. "Who's calling?""Marcus Steel," Marcus replied simply.The background noise cut off instantly. Amadeus must have gestured for silence because the next words came through in complete quiet."Mr. Steel." Amadeus's tone had shifted—not fearful exactly, but significantly more careful. "This is... unexpected. To what do I ow