Loser Man Returns As God Of War

Chapter 4

The airport buzzed with activity as people hurried through the terminal, but most of the crowd's attention had shifted to the massive fleet of luxury cars lined up outside. The vehicles gleamed under the afternoon sun, each one looking more expensive than the last, with tinted windows and polished chrome that screamed wealth and power.

Passengers, airport staff, and onlookers whispered among themselves, curiosity filling the air like static electricity.

“Whose convoy is that?” someone whispered, their voice barely above a breath.

“I heard it's Charlie Hamilton's,” another person replied, glancing around nervously. “He’s the head of the city's biggest mafia.”

“No way,” a woman gasped. “Charlie Hamilton? Here?”

As the crowd murmured, the doors of the leading car opened, and Charlie himself stepped out. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, with slicked-back hair and a sharp, commanding gaze, he radiated danger and authority. His mere presence made people shrink back, their eyes wide with fear and fascination.

And then, the sliding doors of the terminal opened, and Davion walked out.

He carried no luggage, dressed in simple black jeans and a plain shirt, with his hands casually stuffed into his pockets. His hair was slightly messy, and he moved with the kind of effortless confidence that made people stop and stare without even knowing why.

The crowd’s whispers grew louder.

“Who is that guy?”

“He just walked out like he owns the place…”

Before anyone could process the sight, Charlie Hamilton — the ruthless mafia boss, a man known for crushing his enemies without mercy — stepped forward.

And bowed.

“Boss,” Charlie greeted, his voice filled with respect. He lowered his head slightly, a gesture so out of character it sent a ripple of shock through the onlookers. “It’s been a long time.”

Charlie hadn’t always been the feared mafia boss people whispered about. There was a time when he had lived in the shadows — hiding in an abandoned quarry, covered in dirt and bruises, just trying to survive. He had fled there to escape his enemies, powerful men who wanted him dead. Days turned to weeks, and Charlie lived like a ghost, constantly on edge, waiting for the inevitable moment they would find him.

But fate had other plans. One by one, his enemies met unexpected deaths — freak accidents, unsolved murders, disappearances that no one could explain. It was almost as if someone had silently wiped them out.

Charlie eventually left the quarry, climbing out of the darkness and rising to power. But no matter how high he climbed, he never forgot the one person he owed everything to.

He never forgot Davion

Charlie never asked how it happened — never questioned the coincidence of his enemies vanishing right when he needed it most. All he knew was that Davion had been there once, watching over him like a phantom in the night. And from that day on, Charlie’s loyalty to him became unshakable, built on a foundation of awe and fear.

Because Charlie understood better than anyone — Davion wasn’t just a man.

He was a force of nature.

Davion smirked and patted Charlie on the shoulder, like greeting an old friend. “Charlie,” he said, his tone light, “you look like a successful man now.”

Charlie’s eyes gleamed with admiration. “It’s all because of you, Boss,” he said humbly. “I’ll always be your most loyal servant.”

Gasps filled the air.

“Did he just call that guy ‘Boss’?!”

“Charlie Hamilton has a boss?!”

Davion chuckled, unconcerned by the commotion. “Let’s go,” he said, sliding into the back seat of Charlie’s car like he hadn’t just broken half the city's perception of reality.

Charlie bowed again and quickly followed, and the convoy sped off, leaving behind stunned bystanders who would be talking about what they had seen for weeks.

But among the shocked crowd, one person stood frozen in place.

Irene.

She had just stepped out of the terminal, her suitcase rolling quietly behind her, when she saw the last car disappear down the highway. Her heart pounded, and her fingers tightened around the suitcase handle.

“That… that was Davion,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Her subordinate, a young woman who had been shadowing her for months, frowned. “Ma’am?” she asked carefully.

Irene shook her head, rubbing her temple. “I swear I saw Davion in that car…”

Her subordinate blinked, then let out an awkward laugh. “That can’t be right, ma’am. That was Charlie Hamilton’s convoy. Why would Davion be in his car? You must be tired.”

Irene forced a chuckle, though her mind buzzed with questions. “You’re probably right,” she muttered, but her gut told her otherwise.

*****

The convoy arrived at the Norton family residence — a sprawling estate with towering gates and intricate stonework that screamed old money and aristocratic influence.

The guards at the entrance immediately stepped aside when they saw Charlie’s car, bowing their heads respectfully.

Davion stepped out, stretching his arms like he’d just woken up from a nap.

“You can leave,” he told Charlie. “I’ll handle the rest myself.”

Charlie bowed low. “As you wish, Boss,” he said, signaling for the rest of the convoy to leave.

The cars pulled away, leaving Davion standing alone in front of the massive wooden doors of the mansion. He knocked twice, the sound echoing like a judge’s gavel.

After a few moments, the door creaked open, and a middle-aged man stood there. His hair was streaked with gray, but his posture was firm, and his sharp eyes softened the moment he saw Davion.

“Davion? Is that you boy?” the man gasped.

Davion’s face broke into a rare, genuine smile. “Wesley,” he greeted, stepping forward and pulling the man into a hug.

Wesley Norton — the head of the Norton family — embraced Davion like a long-lost son. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s been years…”

Davion pulled back, still smiling. “Figured I’d drop by,” he said, glancing around the grand entrance hall. “Place hasn’t changed much.”

Wesley chuckled. “It still stands because of what your father did for us,” he said. “You’re always welcome here.”

But before Davion could respond, a sharp, venomous voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Is that the stray dog coming to our place?”

Davion turned, his expression unreadable as a woman descended the grand staircase.

She was dressed in expensive silk, her fingers dripping with gold rings, and her heavily powdered face twisted into a sneer.

“I really don’t know why you agreed to let him marry our precious daughter,” she spat, glaring at Davion like he was dirt beneath her shoe.

Davion tilted his head, his smile fading. “Nice to see you too, Mrs. Norton,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Margaret Norton scoffed. “Spare me the pleasantries,” she snapped. “I don’t know what you did to worm your way back into this house, but you’re not marrying my daughter. I’ll die before I let that happen.”

Davion stuffed his hands into his pockets, completely unbothered by her hostility.

“That can be arranged,” he said casually.

Wesley’s eyes widened. “Davion!” he scolded, but Davion just shrugged.

Margaret gasped, her face turning red with rage. “How dare you—”

Her eyes widened, and she took a hesitant step back, her heart pounding.

And just like that, the game had begun.