Return of the Northern War God

#6

Chapter 6

Orthon's face was drained of color. All the arrogance, all the confidence — gone in an instant. His legs trembled. A wet stain spread across the front of his expensive trousers.

"You…" His voice came out high, thin. "You can't… I'm Orthon Castellan! I have connections! Money! You can't just…"

Adrian looked at him. 

Orthon's words died in his throat. His mouth opened and closed like a fish drowning in air. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the fear that had turned his skin a sickly gray.

"What do you have left to rely on?" Adrian asked quietly.

The question hung in the air. 

Orthon's knees buckled. "Please." He dropped to the stage floor, his expensive suit soaking up the dust and grime. Fat tears rolled down his fat cheeks, leaving clean tracks through the sweat. "Please, I'm sorry. I didn't know she was yours. I'll pay you — name your price — ten million? Twenty? I can wire it right now… I have accounts all over… whatever you want…"

Adrian's fist crashed into Orthon's face.

The man's nose shattered with a wet crunch. Blood exploded across his features, spraying onto the stage floor. He fell backward, hands raised to protect himself, but Adrian followed him down.

Each strike is precise, brutal, methodical. 

Orthon's grunts for help filled the auction hall.

When Adrian finally stood, Orthon lay in a crumpled heap, wheezing through broken ribs, his face a mask of blood and swelling. 

Adrian turned away from him like he was garbage.

The crowd erupted into chaos.

"Jesus Christ…"

"We need to get out of here…"

"Call the police! Call someone!"

Men scrambled for the exits, chairs clattering as they shoved past each other. Women screamed, their heels clicking frantically on the floor. Some people trampled over others in their panic to escape. The auctioneer crawled toward the side door on her hands and knees, leaving a trail of blood from her split lip.

"EVERYONE STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

The voice boomed through the hall like thunder. Like the voice of God himself commanding obedience.

The panicked crowd froze mid-step. Some people were halfway out of their seats. Others had their hands on the exit doors. All of them stopped.

The Rodrigez patriarch descended the main staircase slowly, deliberately. His silver hair gleamed under the lights like a crown. 

Behind him, Jasmine followed at a leisurely pace, wine glass still in hand, watching the scene unfold with detached curiosity. She looked like someone watching an interesting theater performance.

The patriarch reached the main floor and swept his gaze across the terrified audience. His eyes were cold, calculating. "Sit down. All of you. Nobody leaves until I say so."

People scrambled back to their seats like scolded children. Some were crying. Others kept their eyes fixed on the floor, afraid to meet the patriarch's gaze.

The patriarch turned to Adrian, who stood on the stage beside the cage where Celeste still huddled, her arms wrapped around her knees.

"You crippled my disciple." The patriarch's voice was controlled, measured, but rage simmered beneath every word like magma beneath stone. "You're formidable, I'll grant you that. But you're young. Martial arts require decades of cultivation. Discipline. Training. Blood and sweat and sacrifice." He clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of martial arts mastery. "If you kneel now and beg for mercy, I might show leniency."

Adrian tilted his head slightly. "I've heard of you."

"Oh?" A hint of satisfaction crept into the patriarch's voice.

"You're one of Greenville's three great masters." It wasn't a question.

The patriarch's chest swelled with pride. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "So you're local. Good. Then you understand what that means. The three great masters stand above all others in this city. We've trained for over forty years each. We've mastered techniques passed down through generations, refined through centuries of combat." His eyes narrowed. "Surrendering now is still an option, boy. Your last option."

Adrian's expression didn't change. His voice remained flat, emotionless. "The three great masters are no different from street performers in my eyes."

The crowd gasped. The sound rippled through the auction hall like a physical wave.

Someone whispered, "Is he insane?"

"He just insulted the patriarch…"

"He's dead. He's actually dead."

"Nobody talks to the patriarch like that and lives."

The patriarch's face went from white to red in an instant. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles cracking. A vein throbbed in his temple. "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"You arrogant little…" The patriarch's control snapped like a breaking rope. He stepped forward, and his entire demeanor changed. His stance shifted into something practiced, refined, honed over decades. His feet found perfect balance. His hands positioned with precision. "I was going to make this quick. Now I'm going to break every bone in your body. Slowly. One by one. And you're going to beg me to finish you."

He moved faster than Luther had been. Faster than the security guards. Faster than anyone in the crowd thought possible for a man in his sixties.

His fist shot toward Adrian's face like a bullet, the air whistling around it. Before the punch could land, he was already pivoting, following with a spinning kick aimed at the ribs — a combination attack that had defeated champions that had broken masters half his age.

Adrian blocked the punch with his forearm. The impact echoed like wood striking wood.

And caught the kick with his other hand mid-air. Like it was nothing.

The patriarch's eyes widened. 

Adrian twisted.

The patriarch spun in midair, his own momentum and strength used against him. He had no control. 

He crashed onto the stage. The impact drove the air from his lungs with an audible whoosh. The wooden platform cracked beneath him.

Before he could recover, before he could even process what had happened, Adrian was on him.

An elbow to the ribs. A knee to the liver. A palm strike to the sternum that echoed through the hall like a gunshot.

The patriarch lay gasping on the stage, clutching his chest, his face twisted in pain and disbelief. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His breathing came in short, desperate gasps.

Adrian stood over him, not even breathing hard. "You wanted more moves? Should I have made it last longer?"

The patriarch coughed blood onto the stage floor. "Who... who are you? I've never heard of anyone like you. Not in Greenville. Not anywhere in the region. Not in forty years of fighting. How…"

Adrian crouched down, meeting the old man's eyes. His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. "I'm the brother of the woman you tried to auction."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, covered in blood. He held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the light.

The tracking device.

"And I killed your son."

The patriarch's face went white. All the blood drained from his features. His hands trembled. "Trevor? You… Trevor is…"

"Dead." Adrian dropped the device on the patriarch's chest. It landed with a soft clink, rolling slightly before settling in the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt. "He told me where to find my sister. Right before the end."

"No…" The patriarch's hands scrambled for the device, checking it with shaking fingers, as if confirming its authenticity would somehow make this nightmare less real.  "No, that's impossible. Trevor had fifteen men with him. Trained fighters. He had…"

"He had nothing." Adrian stood, looking down at the broken man. "Just like you."