No Fortune Can Buy His Mercy

Chapter 004

Julian Sterling had only just received the report from his men. Someone had visited Rat Vance's grave, and the two operatives stationed there had been crippled, their legs shattered, forced to kneel before the headstone. He had received that phone call from Elias Vance earlier and dismissed it as some kind of prank. It never crossed his mind that it could actually be real.

At that moment, a silver-haired old man emerged from the inner hall. He wore a brilliant crimson ceremonial robe, prayer beads threaded between his fingers, his posture as straight as a man half his age. His stride was powerful and deliberate, carrying the weight of authority accumulated over decades, and his expression darkened the instant he took in the scene before him.

"We welcome guests from afar," Reginald Sterling said, his voice deceptively calm but edged with steel, "but it seems our two distinguished visitors have no intention of showing this old man any respect. Causing this kind of commotion at my birthday banquet, crippling a man's legs in my own hall. Perhaps you think I'm the forgiving type?"

Elias Vance turned his cold gaze toward the silver-haired patriarch. "You're Reginald Sterling?" he asked, his tone flat and utterly indifferent.

The old patriarch's eyes narrowed as he took a single step forward, his voice dropping to something closer to a threat. "You know who I am, and you still dare speak to me with that tone? If you can't give me a satisfactory explanation today, you'll be carried out of here on a stretcher."

Preston Montgomery and Chloe Sinclair both exhaled in visible relief at the old patriarch's appearance. With Reginald Sterling personally stepping in, surely even these two madmen would have to back down.

Gideon's fingers twitched at his side, the urge to act coiling through his muscles. But Elias's earlier words echoed in his mind, and he forced himself to remain still. The Vance family's debts were for the Vance family to collect.

When both Gideon and Elias settled into silence, Chloe let out a cold laugh. "Now that my uncle is here, you're suddenly quiet? Afraid?" She straightened, her confidence visibly restored. "You're going to pay the steepest price for your arrogance."

Julian Sterling leaned close to his father's ear and murmured, "Father, the report about someone visiting Rat Vance's grave. It has to be these two."

Reginald's brow rose sharply. "So they really did come to my banquet looking for death. How utterly inauspicious." A humorless smile spread across his weathered face. "In all my years, I've never encountered anyone this foolish."

Elias was about to speak when the main doors burst open with a bang. A broad-shouldered man stormed in, a machete gripped in his right hand, his frame built like a mountain. Every step he took displaced the air around him, and the sheer force of his presence made several guests instinctively shrink back.

The crowd recognized him immediately: Silas Carmichael, the third son of the Carmichael family, one of Cresthaven's most feared legends. Silas was the very foundation upon which the Carmichael family had built their empire. Rumor had it that a wandering monk had taken notice of him as a boy and trained him in combat for eight brutal years. After his return, the Carmichael family's rise had been unstoppable. Years ago, he had single-handedly chased over thirty gang members through six city blocks with nothing but that machete in his hand.

"Whoever crippled my nephew Trent," Silas bellowed, his voice crashing through the banquet hall like a thunderclap, "step forward. Now."

His gaze swept the room like a searchlight, and not a single person dared meet his eyes. Gideon stood with his arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed, while Elias glanced at the newcomer once, then looked away as though he'd already forgotten the man existed.

A security guard hurried in from the entrance, pointing directly at Elias and Gideon. "It's them. That big one crippled Mr. Carmichael. I saw it with my own eyes."

Preston felt the blood drain from his face. So he wasn't even the first one to lose his legs tonight. Trent Carmichael had gone down before him. He wanted to slap himself. If he'd known these two were this dangerous, why had he bothered playing the hero?

Silas locked his gaze onto Gideon and Elias, murderous intent radiating from his eyes. But he was aware this was Reginald's banquet, so he checked himself and turned to the patriarch first, offering a slight bow. "Mr. Sterling, today is your birthday, and I apologize for the unpleasantness that's about to follow. But my nephew's legs were destroyed, and that debt must be repaid. Once I've dealt with these two, I'll drink three cups as penance."

Reginald laughed heartily, the sound rich with satisfaction. "A man who avenges his kin is a man I respect. Go ahead, Silas. You have my blessing." Having Silas handle the problem was a perfect arrangement. It was Reginald's birthday after all, and having the Sterling family do their own dirty work would look unseemly.

Silas turned his full attention to the two men, killing intent pouring off him in waves. "Which one of you wants to die first?"

Gideon stepped forward, and Silas immediately sneered. "Eager to go, are you?"

But Gideon didn't walk toward Silas. Instead, he moved to the side, picked up a chair, carried it back, and set it down directly behind Elias. "Marshal Vance, please sit," Gideon said with deep reverence. "Watch me deal with this dog."

Elias smiled faintly, then sat down with absolute composure, settling in as though he were watching a routine drill.

The guests stared, hearts hammering. Who was this man? To show this kind of confidence against Silas Carmichael, either he had no idea what he was facing, or he had something far more terrifying backing him up.

"You little bastard," Silas snarled, his machete catching the light. "I'll teach you what happens when you don't leave yourself a way out. You won't even know how you died."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. "Provoking Silas Carmichael with a chair and a bow? They're dead." "Remember that assassin two years ago? Took a ten-million-dollar contract on the eldest Carmichael brother. Silas killed him with a single stroke before the man even got close."

Silas was no fool. He noticed the dynamic between the two and turned his attention to Elias. "Who are you? If you're a man, why hide behind someone else? Too afraid to face me directly?"

Elias finally spoke, his voice unhurried. "I'm nothing more than a wanderer with no home to return to."

"Enough of your cryptic nonsense," Silas cut him off with a cold glare. "I'll deal with you after." He turned back to Reginald. "Mr. Sterling, I'm afraid there will be blood on your floor tonight, and for that I offer my deepest apologies. The Carmichael family will send generous compensation afterward."

Reginald waved a hand, still smiling. "No need for apologies, Silas. Do what you must. This old man has seen plenty of blood in his time."

A dangerous gleam ignited in Gideon's eyes. "You dare interrupt Marshal Vance mid-sentence. That alone is a death sentence."

As Gideon's hand moved toward the small of his back, Elias raised a palm to stop him. Then he looked around the table beside him, picked up a single chopstick, and held it out. "It's an old man's birthday celebration," Elias said calmly. "We don't bring weapons to a party. He lacks manners, but that doesn't mean you should too. Use this."

"Yes, sir." Gideon accepted the chopstick with both hands, treating it as though he were receiving a decorated battle blade from a commanding officer.

Silas's face contorted with rage. He had drawn his machete, a weapon that had carved his legend across Cresthaven, and this man was facing him with a chopstick. The disrespect was beyond anything he could tolerate. "I'll kill your dog first," he spat, "then take your head."

Reginald leaned toward Julian with an amused smile. "This fool doesn't know what he's doing. Waving a chopstick in front of Silas. He's courting death."

Julian exhaled smoke through his nose and smirked. "Showing off a blade in front of the master swordsman. Nothing more than theater."

The crowd murmured agreement. Silas Carmichael had built his fortune, his reputation, and his terror on the edge of that machete.

Then Gideon moved, closing the distance in a single explosive step.

Silas sneered at the incoming chopstick, but the instant he engaged, his expression shattered. The man before him wielded that thin sliver of wood with a precision and fluidity that defied everything Silas knew about bladework. The technique was something he had never seen, never even heard of, an artistry of angles and speed that made his own machete feel clumsy in his hands. The chopstick danced and flickered like a living thing, appearing and vanishing faster than the eye could track.

Ten exchanges passed, and Silas was losing every single one.

The crowd watched in stunned silence. Even those who knew nothing about combat could see the truth clearly: Gideon was attacking relentlessly while Silas could do nothing but defend. A chopstick was overwhelming a machete.

Three more exchanges passed before Elias's expression cooled. "Are you done playing?" he said flatly.

Gideon's demeanor shifted instantly, all amusement vanishing from his face. The chopstick swept horizontally in a single devastating arc. The guests closest to the fight felt their skin crawl. That ordinary wooden chopstick seemed to radiate the killing aura of a legendary blade, cold and absolute, as though the very air around it had frozen solid.

Every hair on Silas Carmichael's body stood on end. In that fraction of a second, he understood with perfect clarity that the man before him had been toying with him all along, the way a cat bats at a mouse before the kill. This final strike was something he could not dodge, could not block, could not survive. The chopstick was going to punch straight through his throat.

"Standing up for his nephew," Elias said, his voice cutting through the silence at the exact instant Gideon's strike reached its apex. "Not a crime worth dying for."

The lethal flash that had been aimed at Silas's throat twisted mid-flight like a living serpent and sliced downward instead, carving cleanly through the thumb of his right hand. The severed digit spun through the air, trailing a ribbon of blood.

"Marshal Vance's order has been carried out," Gideon announced, bowing at the waist. He presented the chopstick to Elias with both hands, holding it before him like a soldier returning a weapon after inspection. "Awaiting review."

Elias took it back, set it casually on the table, and nodded. "Well done."

Gideon snapped upright, struck his fist once against his chest in a military salute, then stepped back to his position beside Elias, immovable as a mountain.

The room was deathly silent. Every guest stared with wide eyes and slack jaws. The man didn't just have presence. He had the skill to back it up. A simple wooden chopstick had severed a man's finger as cleanly as a surgical blade, and no one in the room could comprehend how that was possible.

Silas's machete slipped from his mutilated hand and clattered to the floor. He stumbled backward, clutching the bleeding stump of his thumb, his face drained to the color of formaldehyde-soaked flesh.

Julian's cigarette tumbled from his fingers and hit the marble floor, forgotten. Reginald's mouth hung open, his composure shattered for the first time in decades. Chloe collapsed onto the ground at the sight of blood, her legs giving out beneath her.

Preston's face turned even whiter than before. Gideon's earlier words crashed through his mind on repeat. If the Montgomery family refused to kneel and apologize, would they truly be wiped out to the last?

Silas stared down at his severed thumb lying on the polished floor, his voice barely a whisper, hollow and dazed. "Good blade... good blade..."

The man who had reigned undefeated across Cresthaven for years, the third pillar of the Carmichael dynasty, had fallen to an unknown warrior wielding nothing but a chopstick.