The Heir's Return

Chapter 12

"What did he say?"

"Is this kid insane? How dare he threaten us in our own den!"

"A psychopath is even better! At least he won't run when we beat him!"

Coarse laughter and scorn echoed off the rusty factory walls, completely dismissing Javon's ultimatum. To them, it was merely the final boast of a terrified prey.

CRACK!

A man with a blue dragon tattoo on his face cracked a leather whip, creating a sharp snap in the air. "You think you're the only one who gets to count?" he sneered. "Sweetheart, today I'll make sure you're crying and calling me grandpa."

"Don't be greedy, let me gouge out his eyes first!" another shouted, flashing a dagger in front of Javon's face.

"Tear up his face!"

"Break his third leg!"

Their faces were filled with sadistic anticipation, as if they could already taste the pleasure of torturing Javon.

Tavip, hiding in a corner, could only shudder in terror. He saw a reflection of himself from a few hours ago in their arrogance. 'These fools are going to die,' he thought.

Amidst the noise, Javon's voice was heard again, calm and cold. "One."

"Bastard! You actually dare to count!"

The tattooed man was enraged. With a shout, the leather whip shot toward Javon.

Javon didn't move from his chair. Just as the tip of the whip was about to strike his face, his hand flashed upwards, not to block, but to catch it in a steel grip. With a sudden flick of his wrist, he sent the whip's energy back upon its owner.

WHIP—

CRACK!

"Aaarrgghh!"

The whip reversed course and struck its owner across the face. His skin split open, and the tattooed man screamed in agony as the salt from the whip seeped into his wound.

"Kill him!"

"How dare he fight back!"

Seeing the crowd now charging toward him in unison, Javon finally stood up slowly. He cracked his neck, a low grinding sound echoing softly.

"Two."

More than twenty thugs surrounded him, raising steel pipes, machetes, and daggers. They were a pack of wolves ready to tear him apart.

A thin, lethal smile played on Javon's lips. "You asked for this."

He uttered his final word, almost inaudibly. "Three."

And then, he vanished.

For the thugs, the world turned into a living hell in an instant. All they saw was a blur of shadows. One second they were swinging their weapons, the next they were feeling unimaginable pain.

KRAK!

A steel pipe aimed at his head was deflected with the back of his hand, and the attacker's elbow was slammed into a steel pillar until it shattered.

THWACK!

A man attacking with a machete found his wrist seized, twisted, and his own body used as a shield to block a strike from his friend.

CRASH!

Javon kicked a wooden crate, sending it sliding to trip three men at once, before he landed in their midst and broke their shins with precise stomps.

Javon moved among them with horrifying efficiency.

Every punch was aimed at a joint, every kick targeted a weak point, every movement designed to incapacitate with maximum damage. Screams of pain, the sound of breaking bones, and the thud of bodies hitting the concrete floor became a symphony of violence.

In less than thirty seconds, all was silent.

Only Javon remained standing in a sea of groaning bodies. In the corner, Tavip hugged himself tightly, trying to become invisible. He had truly been beaten so badly his own parents wouldn't recognize him!

Javon glanced at the remaining members of the Proteus Society who stood frozen in the distance, too scared to join, too scared to run. He gave them a friendly smile. "So? Anyone else want to experience the sensation of a broken bone?"

Thud! Clang!

One by one, they dropped their weapons. Daggers, pipes, machetes, all clattered to the floor, creating a deafening noise in the tense silence.

One of them, the smartest of the bunch, fell to his knees. "Mercy! We're just errand boys! The grudges of the higher-ups have nothing to do with us!"

"That's right!" another chimed in, trembling. "We heard some Young Master Swenger paid five million for your life!"

Swenger?

Javon's eyes narrowed. A name immediately surfaced in his mind. Pablo Swenger.

Of course. Humiliated in front of his stepmother, beaten like a dog. That grudge must be burning in his heart. If Javon died, the Forger family would lose their only hope, and Pablo could easily take over the company.

"Pablo..." Javon whispered, and a cold, tangible killing intent began to radiate from him, making the air around him feel like it was freezing over.

'I didn't want to kill, but you're the one who wants my life. In that case, don't blame me for sending you to hell.'

"TRASH! ALL OF YOU ARE USELESS TRASH!"

At that moment, a deep, angry shout broke the silence. A metal door at the back of the factory opened, and a giant figure strode in. A bald man with a hideous scar that ran from his temple to his chin. His bulging muscles made his suit look like it was about to rip.

He glanced at his men lying on the floor with disgust, before fixing his sharp gaze on Javon. He was the apex predator in this den.

"So, you're Javon?" he asked, his voice hoarse and heavy.

The remaining thugs seemed to find their backbone.

"Boss! You're finally here!"

"Boss, finish him! Avenge us!"

The bald man ignored them. He looked Javon up and down, as if appraising an animal. "You've got fangs, kid," he said, stretching his neck until it cracked. "But in my den, even a lion can become a meal. If you can win today, I'll let you walk out of here alive. But if you lose... haha, your life will be—"

He never finished his sentence.

Because in the blink of an eye, Javon was right in front of his face, his fist shooting straight for his jaw.