KING OF THE NORTH

Chapter Six: The Three Great Masters

Roland Vance's face turned deathly pale as he stared at his bodyguard's broken body lying motionless on the platform.

“K-Killian…” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The legendary body guard – his insurance policy – was destroyed, and now he had nothing left. 

Navine turned toward him slowly.

“What do you have left to rely on now?” Navine asked.

Roland stumbled backward until his back hit the cage bars. He raised his trembling hands in front of him like they could somehow protect him from what was coming.

“Please,” He sobbed desperately, “Please! I didn't know that was your sister. If I'd known, I'd never –”

He was cut off as a punch from Navine landed squarely on his jaw. 

The bone shattered instantly. Teeth flew from his mouth like white pebbles scattering across the platform.

Blood poured from his ruined mouth. Navine grabbed him by his expensive suit and lifted him off the ground. 

Then, he drove a punch to his gut. 

Roland's eyes bulged as he tried to scream, but only a strangled wheeze came out.

Navine hit him again and again. 

He broke Roland's nose, shattered his cheekbone, caved in his orbital socket. He pulverized ribs, ruptured organs, turned the man's torso into a mass of broken bones and internal bleeding.

When he finally ally dropped Roland's body, the man was unrecognisable. 

His face was a swollen, bloody mess. His breathing was shallow and ragged. He was barely alive. 

The crowd sat frozen in their seats, their faces white with terror.

“Oh God,” a woman gasped. “Oh God, oh God…”

She scrambled to her feet and ran for the exit, her expensive heels clicking frantically on the marble floor.

That single movement broke the spell.

Suddenly everyone was moving. Panic spread through the auction house like wildfire.

People were shoving each other, trampling over chairs, desperate to escape. 

Women were screaming. Men were cursing. The orderly crowd of wealthy elites transformed into a panicked mob in seconds.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. 

“Everyone remain calm!”

It echoed through the entire chamber and somehow, despite the panic, people stopped and turned towards the source of the voice.

The Patriarch was standing at the top of the grand staircase that led down from the luxury suites. 

Behind him stood Victoria, her beautiful face pale but composed.

The Patriarch descended the steps slowly, his attention focused on the platform where Navine stood over Roland's half-dead form. 

“You,” He said, “You dare to cripple my disciple in front of me?”

“I'll admit, you're formidable. Your strength is impressive for someone so young. But you've made a critical error in judgment.”

George Caldwell stopped at the base of the platform and looked up at Navine. 

“Martial arts mastery requires decades of cultivation. Long-term dedication. You have raw power, yes – but power without experience is just noise. If you kneel and beg for forgiveness now, I might show you some leniency.” His tone was generous, like he was offering a gift.

Navine looked down at him with those cold, empty eyes.

“I've heard of you,” he said quietly. “George Caldwell. One of Newton's three great masters.”

The Patriarch looked satisfied, “"Ah, so you do know who I am. That's good. I can tell you're a local,”

He clasped his hands behind his back again, his posture straightening with pride.

“Yes, the three great masters of Newton City. We represent the pinnacle of martial arts in this region. Our skills are in a completely different tier from ordinary fighters. We've spent our entire lives perfecting our craft.”

He gestured magnanimously.

“So you see, young man. Surrendering now is still an option,”

Navine's expression remained the same. 

“The three great masters,” he said slowly, “are no different from street performers in my eyes.”

The words hung in the air like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. 

For a moment, nobody said anything. 

Then, whispers rose from the crowd.

“Did he just –”

“He's insane!”

“Nobody insults the three great masters!”

“The Patriarch is going to kill him!”

The Patriarch's face transformed. The calm, confident expression vanished, replaced by a furious look. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed to slits.

“You arrogant child,” he hissed. "I was going to show you mercy. I was going to give you a chance to walk away. But you've thrown that gift back in my face."

His stance shifted into a classic martial arts position. 

"Now I'm going to teach you the difference between a street brawler and a true master."

Then he attacked.

The Patriarch moved with speed that was unnatural for his age, his palm thrust aimed at Navine's gut. 

But Navine stepped to the side and the strike hit empty air. 

The Patriarch’s eyes widened slightly in surprise but he recovered instantly, flowing into his next attack – a spinning kick aimed at Navine's ribs.

Navine blocked it with his forearm.

The Patriarch attacked again and again with different strikes and different angles but Navine blocked them all casually as if he was swatting away flies. 

The Patriarch was breathing hard now, sweat beginning to form on his brow. His attacks were becoming less precise, more desperate.

On the sixth move, Navine stopped blocking.

The Patriarch threw a straight punch at Navine's face with everything he had.

Navine moved like lightning.

He ducked under the punch, spun behind the Patriarch in a blur of motion, and grabbed the old man's arm. 

Before the Patriarch could react, Navine twisted the arm upward and bent it backward at the elbow joint.

SNAP!

The elbow dislocated with a wet popping sound. The Patriarch howled in pain.

Navine kicked the back of the Patriarch's knee, forcing him down to the ground. The old man dropped hard, his kneecap shattering against the platform floor.

CRACK!

Another scream ripped from the Patriarch's throat.

Still holding the dislocated arm, Navine placed his boot on the Patriarch's back and pulled upward with savage force.

RIP!

The shoulder tore completely out of its socket. 

Tendons snapped like rubber bands. The Patriarch's arm hung limp and useless, barely attached to his body.

The Patriarch was sobbing now – tears and snot running down his face, mixed with blood from where he'd bitten through his own tongue.

Navine released the ruined arm and grabbed the Patriarch by his steel-gray hair, yanking his head back violently.

"This is the difference," Navine said coldly, "between a master and a king."

Then he drove the Patriarch's face down into the platform floor. 

The old man's nose exploded on impact. His front teeth shattered. Blood pooled instantly beneath his head.

Navine stood up and stepped back, looking down at the broken legend twitching on the ground.

“Who... who are you?” he wheezed. “How... how have I never heard of you? Someone with your skill should be famous... legendary…”

His voice trailed off into a cough.

“I'm the brother of the woman you tried to sell,” Navine said coldly, “That's all you need to know.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled a small, electronic device out. 

It was covered in dried blood.

The tracking device that had been sewn into Aunt Miriam's body.

Navine held it up so the Patriarch could see it clearly.

“I also killed your son,”