The Crippled God of War Rises

I Am the Law

The silence in the banquet hall was deafening.

Young Master Silva lay in a heap of broken glass and expensive champagne, his leg twisted like a pretzel. His agonizing screams had turned into weak whimpers of shock.

"You... you broke his leg?" Charles Vance stammered, his face turning a ghostly shade of white. "Drake, you piece of trash! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve destroyed the Vance family!"

Grandmother Vance’s cane thundered against the floor. "Guards! Secure this lunatic! He has gone mad!"

Four family security guards rushed forward, reaching for their batons. They were trained fighters, but to Drake, they moved like snails in deep water.

Drake didn't even stand up. He sat in his wheelchair, his fingers casually tapping the armrest.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

In the blink of an eye, the four guards were flying backward, hitting the walls with dull thuds. No one saw Drake move. It was as if an invisible wall had slammed into them.

"Who else?" Drake asked. His voice was calm, but it carried a pressure that made everyone’s chest feel tight.

"Drake, stop!" Elena rushed to his side, her eyes trembling. "Silva's father is the King of Shipping. He has connections to the underworld. If you don't leave now, you’ll be dead by midnight!"

Drake looked at his "wife." Her concern was genuine, even if she thought he was weak. "Elena," he said softly, "From today on, no one in this city will ever make you bow your head again."

"Arrogant! Too arrogant!" Charles screamed, clutching his phone. "I’ve already called Master Silva’s father. He’s coming with the Iron-Fist Gang! Drake, you’re a dead man!"

Drake smiled. It was a cold, predatory smile that made Charles’s blood run cold.

"Good. Save me the trouble of finding him."

Ten minutes later, the screech of tires echoed outside the villa. A fleet of black SUVs roared into the driveway. A middle-aged man with a scar across his eye stormed in. This was Thomas Silva, the man who owned the city’s docks. Behind him were thirty men armed with steel pipes and machetes.

"Who did this to my son?!" Thomas roared, seeing his heir being loaded onto a stretcher.

Charles pointed a shaking finger at Drake. "Him! The cripple! He did it!"

Thomas Silva looked at Drake. He saw a man in a wheelchair and felt insulted. "A cripple did this? Kill him. Break every bone in his body and throw him into the ocean to feed the fish!"

The thirty thugs surged forward like a black tide.

Elena closed her eyes, unable to watch the slaughter. The guests backed away, terrified of the impending bloodshed.

But Drake didn't flinch. He picked up a wine glass from a nearby table and took a slow sip.

"Three..." Drake counted.

"Kill him!" Thomas yelled.

"Two..."

The thugs were only five feet away. The lead man raised a machete, aimed directly at Drake’s head.

"One."

BOOM!

The roof of the banquet hall didn't just shake—it nearly collapsed. The sound of heavy rotors drowned out the screams of the guests. Through the massive glass windows, three military-grade attack helicopters appeared, their searchlights blinding everyone inside.

The doors were kicked open with such force they flew off their hinges.

A line of soldiers in pitch-black combat gear stormed in, armed with high-caliber rifles. Their movements were surgical. In five seconds, the thirty thugs were on the ground, their faces pressed into the dirt, rifles aimed at their heads.

A man in a red-trimmed military uniform walked through the center of the soldiers. Every step he took left a crack in the marble floor. This was the Blood General, a man whose name was enough to stop children from crying in the borderlands.

Thomas Silva’s machete fell from his hand. "The... the Black Legion? Why is the National military here?"

The Blood General ignored him. He walked straight toward the corner of the room.

In front of the shocked Vance family, in front of the terrified Thomas Silva, and in front of the weeping Elena, the most powerful General in the country suddenly dropped to one knee.

He bowed his head so low it touched the floor.

"Marshal! The Black Legion is assembled! We await your command to purge the city of these insects!"

The wine glass in Drake’s hand shattered. He didn't use force; the sheer aura leaking from his body crushed the glass into dust.

Drake looked at Thomas Silva, who was now shaking so hard he could barely stand.

"You wanted to feed me to the fish?" Drake asked, his voice echoing like a god's.

Thomas Silva fell to his knees, his forehead hitting the floor. "I... I didn't know! Lord Marshal, please! I was blind! My eyes were made of fat!"

Drake ignored the pleas. He looked at the Blood General.

"General. It’s been three years. I’m tired of this chair."

Under the disbelieving eyes of everyone in the room, the "cripple" Drake stood up. His posture was as straight as a spear, and his presence was so overwhelming that Grandmother Vance fainted on the spot.

"Purge the Silva family," Drake ordered, his voice icy. "By dawn, I want their name erased from the history of this city."

"Yes, Marshal!"

Drake turned to Elena, who looked like she was seeing a ghost.

"I told you, Elena. No one will make you bow again."

He began to walk toward the exit. But just as he reached the door, his phone rang again. It was an encrypted number.

"Marshal," a frantic voice whispered. "The High Council has found out you’re alive. They’ve sent the 'Shadow Saints' to assassinate your wife. They are already inside the Vance Villa."

Drake’s eyes turned a deep, demonic red.

"They want to play? Then I will turn this city into a graveyard."