THE RETURN OF THE RED BUTCHER

THE WAR GOD WHO SELLS FISH

The four hulking men lunged toward Simon at once, their weapons were raised, and Simon did not move.

The first knife came for his chest. Simon only tilted his body aside and shook his head, as if he had just seen a child spill soup.

“Too slow,” he said.

His palm landed on the man’s face with a hard slap. The thug spun sideways and crashed into the man with the chain. Before the other two could stop, Simon stepped between them, grabbed both by the back of their heads, and jammed their skulls together.

Once.

Twice.

The sound made Paulo cover Mara’s eyes.

“Ah!” one thug cried, dropping his knife. “My head!”

Simon caught the wooden stick meant for his ribs and snapped it across his knee. “You brought sticks and kitchen knives to collect security f*e?”

The leader staggered up with blood at the corner of his mouth. “You… you bastard…”

Simon slapped him again. The man fell flat on his back.

Children from nearby stalls began laughing. One small boy pointed at the pile of groaning men.

“Uncle Simon beat them like goats!”

Another child shouted, “Iron Fangs are now Iron Chickens!”

“Shut up!” one gangster groaned.

Simon looked down at him. “You still have strength to talk? How brave of you.”

“No, sir,” the man said quickly. “Please, sir. We are sorry.”

The leader crawled back, his chain tangled around his arm. “We didn’t know you were like this.”

Simon grabbed him by the collar and threw him on top of another thug. Then he picked up the next man and dropped him on the pile. One by one, he stacked them like sacks of spoiled grain.

“Now you look organized,” Simon said.

Paulo and Mara stood frozen beside the truck. Mara was still shaking.

Simon bent and picked up the scattered hundred-dollar bills from the dust. He counted them with calm fingers.

“One thousand dollars,” he said.

Mara lowered her head. “That is all we have left.”

Simon looked at their old clothes, Paulo’s swollen knees, and Mara’s trembling hands. His face softened. He reached into his apron pocket, brought out three hundred dollars, and added it to the money.

The three hundred dollars was more than half of the profit he had made that day.

He handed it to Paulo. “Take it.”

Paulo blinked. “No, sir. We cannot take your money.”

“You can,” Simon said. “And you will. Come on, you two need it more than I do.”

Mara’s eyes were filled with tears. “May God bless you, son.”

“Just be careful next time,” Simon said. “Do not travel this road late again.”

Paulo held the money close. “You are the one who should be careful.”

Simon raised a brow. “Me?”

Paulo glanced at the groaning gangsters. “You just looked for the trouble of the Iron Fangs. Varen will hear of this.”

For a moment, Simon said nothing.

In his mind, he saw larger enemies he had fought against than Varen. Generals who burned cities to win borders. Monsters in uniforms. Wars that nearly swallowed whole nations. He remembered battle maps soaked with rain, kings begging him for help, and armies falling apart under his command.

Compared to that, the Iron Fangs were not even a storm.

Comparing the enemies he had fought in the past with the iron fangs was like comparing a dragon to a flea.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Simon said. “I will be alright.”

He helped Paulo into the truck, then helped Mara climb in. She held his hand longer than needed.

“You have a good heart,” she whispered.

Simon smiled faintly. “Go home, Ma'am.”

The truck started with a tired cough and drove away slowly. Simon watched until the dust swallowed it.

Then his phone rang.

He looked at the screen and sighed.

It was General Kevin Mordrek.

Simon waited until the last second before answering. “What is it again?”

“Your Highness,” the voice rushed out. “Finally. I have called you for three days.”

“Then rest your fingers.”

“Please, this is serious. Your father is dying.”

Simon’s face hardened, but his voice stayed low. “Kings die, Kevin. That is what crowns do to men.”

“Do not speak like that. Your country Navauria is shaking. The ministers are divided. The borders are restless. The army will only obey a strong military figure and a strategic mind like yourself. You must return and lead the country, for goodness sake you are the next in line for succession.”

“How many times will I give you my answer... No.”

“Your Highness—”

“My younger brother can sit on the throne and rule the country.”

“Prince Damon cannot hold Navauria together for one week.”

Simon turned away from the thugs. “That is not my problem.”

“It is your country.”

“I fought enough wars for that country. I won enough battles for my father. I buried enough men for his crown. My hands are stained with much blood that can make up an ocean.” Simon’s jaw tightened. “I sell fish now. I can sleep. I laugh with children. I go home to my wife. That is the life I chose. General I am tired of chaos.”

General Mordrek let out a bitter laugh. “I never believed that such words would come out from the Red Butcher of Navauria. Supreme Field Marshal of the Navaurian and Mondosh armies. The man who broke the Western Rebellion and crushed the Black Coast invasion. Your highness, are you telling me that you are proud to smell like fish?”

Simon’s eyes grew cold. “Choose your next words carefully or will cut you off.”

“It is despicable,” Mordrek said. “If someone told me you would become a fish seller, I would have laughed until I died.”

“Then laugh and die.”

“Navauria is facing security threats from three sides. The economy is bleeding. Your brother is not as strong as you are for crown especially at this point in time. Your father knows it. That is why he is asking that you come back.”

Simon’s fingers tightened around the phone.

Mordrek continued, “Your normal life is not peace. It is escape. And your escape may destroy millions.”

Simon cut the call.

He stared at the phone, breathing slowly. Then he looked at the gangsters still groaning on the ground.

“You dogs got what you deserved,” he muttered, and spat beside them.

The phone rang again. It was Mordrek once again.

Simon ignored it.

It rang a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. Then a fifth.

He let every call die.

A few seconds later, the phone rang again. This time, the name on the screen made his face change.

It was Isabella Robertson his wife.

He answered at once. “My love. How are you? How is our baby?”

There was a pause.

“Simon now is not the time for that,” Isabella said.

Her voice was cold.

Simon stood straighter. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Something came up,” she said. “You need to come to the Robertson Estate now.”

“What happened?”

“It concerns our child.”

His heart tightened. “Isabella, answer me. Are you hurt?”

“Just come.”

“I am coming.”

Simon ended the call and rushed to his stall. His two young assistants looked up from cleaning fish.

“Boss?”

“I’m leaving,” Simon said. “If I’m not back by eight in the evening, close the stall.”

“Is everything fine?”

Simon picked up his keys, but his hand paused.

Was Isabella in trouble?

Or was something wrong with his unborn child?