Loser Man Returns As God Of War

Chapter 5

Davion’s face burned, not with shame, but with restrained fury. His fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, but he refused to bow his head. He met Margaret’s glare with an icy stare of his own, his jaw tight but steady.

Wesley noticed and shot Margaret a sharp look, his voice low but firm.

“That’s enough, Margaret,” he muttered, his eyes flashing with warning.

Margaret lifted her chin and her lips curled into a thin, contemptuous smile.

“I haven’t said anything wrong,” she said sweetly, feigning innocence. “It’s just strange for someone to show up after so many years... empty-handed. A little gift would’ve been polite, don’t you think?”

Davion swallowed hard and the weight of her words pressed against his chest. But he said nothing, keeping his posture rigid.

Wesley’s brows knitted together, and he placed a reassuring hand on Davion’s back, his voice gentler.

“Come inside, my boy.”

He guided Davion into the sprawling mansion — the place Davion had once called home. 

The air smelled of polished wood and old money, the marble floors gleamed like mirrors, and the grand chandelier overhead sparkled like a crown of ice.

On the couch, a beautiful woman sat with her legs elegantly crossed, scrolling through her phone.

“Beverly, how dare you be so rude?, don’t you see our guest?” Wesley asked with his voice carrying a stern edge.

Beverly didn’t even glance up.

“Father, I’m busy,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

“I don’t care,” Wesley snapped. “Look up and greet our guest. Now.”

Beverly sighed dramatically and set her phone down with exaggerated slowness. When she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes were colder than stone.

“What’s he doing here?” she asked, her voice sharp as glass.

Davion’s chest tightened as he stared at her, shocked. What has changed? Beverly used to be his closest friend. They’d chased fireflies in the garden, whispered childhood secrets, and made promises that felt eternal. But now... she looked at him like he was a stranger, like he was dirt.

“Where are your manners, young lady—” Wesley began, but Margaret cut him off with a dismissive wave.

“Leave her alone, Wesley. She greeted him, didn’t she?” Margaret folded her arms, her voice dripping with scorn. “And if he’s here to ask for money, he’s wasting his time. Wesley’s not running a charity.”

“Don’t you dare insult him, who do—” Wesley’s voice rose, but Margaret silenced him with a glare.

“Forget it, Wesley,” she whispered, though loud enough for Davion to hear. “Letting him and his father live here was one thing, but for him to come back now? It’s embarrassing and pathetic.”

Before Wesley could respond, the front door swung open with a loud bang and shattered the fragile tension.

“Trevor!” Margaret gasped, her face lighting up like fireworks.

A tall man strode inside, exuding smug arrogance. His designer cologne lingered in the air, and his impeccably tailored suit screamed luxury. Every movement radiated entitlement, like he owned the place.

This was Trevor Johnson, heir to the Johnson family — one of the city’s wealthiest. Wherever he went, people worshipped him.

Margaret practically melted at the sight of him.

“Look at you,” she gushed, rushing to greet him. “You’re always so polished. So successful.”

Trevor barely acknowledged her, his gaze locking onto Beverly like a predator eyeing prey.

“I heard you were back,” he said, voice slick with fake charm. “Thought I’d check on you.”

Beverly, who had looked utterly bored moments ago, suddenly brightened.

“Oh, Trevor, hi.”

Even with her radiant smile, something about it felt forced — a facade. She didn’t like Trevor. But she didn’t like Davion either.

Trevor’s eyes finally landed on Davion, and his grin twisted cruelly.

“And who’s this?” he asked, voice laced with mock confusion.

Davion ignored him.

“This is Davion,” Margaret said quickly, her lips curling.

Trevor chuckled, the sound sharp and cutting.

“Oh. Davion. The childhood friend, right?” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “How are you? What do you do for work?”

Davion’s jaw tightened. “I work in a quarry,” he said, voice steady despite the heat rising in his chest.

Trevor laughed louder, turning to Margaret.

“Did you hear that? He works in a quarry.” He clapped mockingly. “Wow. That’s... impressive.”

Margaret pressed her fingers to her lips, poorly hiding her smile.

“Well,” she said, voice syrupy sweet, “at least he’s working. Even if he is still poor.”

Trevor stepped closer to Davion, eyes gleaming with malice.

“You think you can crawl out of whatever pit you’ve been working in and catch up?” he sneered.

“That’s enough,” Wesley snapped, stepping between them.

Trevor lifted his hands in mock surrender.

“Just making conversation sir,” he said, smirking.

But Wesley’s face darkened but he kept quiet.

He turned to Beverlyn with his voice heavy.

“Davion’s not here for money,” he said carefully. “He’s here because... you’re getting married.”

Beverly shot to her feet like she’d been slapped.

“What?” she hissed, eyes blazing.

Trevor’s smug smile slowly evaporated from his lips.

“You can’t be serious, Wesley. This boy is a nobody,” Margaret whispered, clutching her chest.

“I made a promise to Davion’s father,” Wesley said, voice resolute. “That they would marry when they were ready.”

Beverly’s face twisted in rage.

“You’re forcing me to marry him? This lowlife?” she shouted, jabbing a finger at Davion like he was filth. “You want me to tie myself to someone like him?”

Davion’s fingers curled, but he stayed silent.

“This is ridiculous,” Margaret spat. “Trevor is perfect for Beverly!”

“Yes!” Trevor said arrogantly. “I can give her the best life imaginable. She doesn’t need a loser like him.”

Davion finally met his eyes and with a voice sharp as a blade, he said, “At least I earn my paycheck. I don’t depend on daddy’s money.”

Trevor’s face darkened, and he took a step forward, chest puffed up.

“Enough!” Wesley roared, stepping in with blazing eyes.

But the damage was done.

Beverly turned to Wesley. “But dad, I can't marry him. I only see him as a brother.”

But before he could say anything, the front door burst open with a thunderous slam.

Several men barged in, their heavy boots thudding against the pristine floor. They were tall and broad, with hardened expressions and an aura of menace that clung to them like smoke.

Their leader, a man with a jagged scar across his cheek, stepped forward. His black leather jacket creaked, and the cold glint in his eyes sent chills through the room.

“Wesley,” he growled, voice like gravel. “The money you borrowed for your company is due. Pay up... or face the consequences.”