The Heir's Return

Chapter 2

Pablo clutched his throbbing face, the sharp, searing pain making him sway. His gaze on Javon was clouded with disbelief. "You... you're insane..." he whispered, more to himself than to Javon.

A thin, cold smile touched Javon’s lips. He took a step forward, and the world around him seemed to shift. It wasn't an ordinary step, but a change in his center of gravity that made the air feel heavier. The invisible aura he had forged amongst predators—cold, efficient, and merciless—spread out like a shockwave. The bodyguards who had been advancing arrogantly now froze, their instincts screaming a single word, retreat.

But it was too late.

"Beat him to death! What are you waiting for?!" Pablo shrieked, his voice cracking and muffled by his swollen lips.

The shout shattered their fear. The bodyguards, trained professionals whose pride had been shredded, finally moved. One lunged from the front, his fist aimed at Javon's jaw.

Inside the car, Serana held her breath, her heart sinking. This is the end for us, she thought. She could already see tomorrow's headlines.

[Freed Forger Heir Beaten to Death, Company Declares Bankruptcy.]

However, what she saw next defied all logic.

Javon didn't dodge. Instead, he moved slightly forward. His movement was minimalist, almost lazy. His wrist twisted, intercepting the attacker’s fist not with a clash, but with a light, redirecting touch. The bodyguard's own wild momentum suddenly became a weapon against him.

KLAK!

The sound of a dislocated shoulder joint was horrifying in the sudden silence. The bodyguard didn't even have time to scream before Javon's knee slammed into his solar plexus, emptying all the air from his lungs. He collapsed without a sound.

"Stop!" Serana screamed, her voice desperate. "Mr. Swenger, we can discuss the acquisition again! I'll give you a discount! Please, just stop this!"

Pablo only offered a bloody smirk. "Too late! Unless you crawl out of that car and..."

His sentence was cut short as the second bodyguard attacking from the side was suddenly lifted into the air. Javon, with one hand, had grabbed him by the neck and slammed him onto the hood of Serana's car.

CRASH!

Metal dented and glass spiderwebbed.

Then, the dance began.

Javon moved among them like a phantom. The fighting skills the bodyguards prided themselves on—punches, kicks, locks—became irrelevant. It was like trying to catch smoke with a net. Javon didn't fight strength with strength; he flowed around it, a living embodiment of the Coral Flow Art he had learned. He saw each attack not as a threat, but as a current of energy to be diverted.

A spinning kick was avoided with a slight duck. Javon’s hand shot out, not to punch, but to jab two fingers precisely into the nerve cluster under the attacker's armpit. The burly man was instantly paralyzed, his arm hanging limp, his face contorting in silent agony.

"Ah!"

Crack!

"Ugh!"

Screams and the sickening crunch of bone became a horrifying symphony. More than a dozen stout men, veterans of various competitions, fell like bowling pins. They weren't defeated by brutal blows, but by lethal precision. A single touch to the right point, an unexpected shift of weight, and their own bodies betrayed them.

Serana stared from behind the wheel, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. This wasn't the Javon she knew from gossip. The spoiled child who only knew how to spend money was gone. What stood in the middle of the heap of bodies was something else. Something older, more dangerous, and utterly alien.

In less than a minute, all was silent. Only the ragged gasps of those still conscious remained.

Javon stood tall, his shirt not even wrinkled. He turned, his calm eyes fixing on Pablo, who was now trembling violently. Step by step, Javon approached. Each footfall echoed in Pablo's heart like a death drum.

"You," Javon said, his voice low. "Want to buy the Forger family?" He grabbed the collar of Pablo's expensive suit, lifting him from the ground as easily as if he were a kitten. "Let me guess. My father's disappearance... it has something to do with your family, doesn't it?"

"N-no! I swear!" Pablo's face was ashen, the air thinning in his lungs. "I... I just saw a business opportunity... really!"

Javon's grip slowly tightened. Pablo’s face turned from white to red, then to a shade of blue. His eyes bulged, a choked gurgle escaping his throat. "He...lp..."

"Javon, stop!" Serana finally managed to get out of the car, her sharp voice cutting through her shock. She grabbed Javon's arm. "You just got out! Killing him won't solve anything! It will only bring his grandfather down on us, and we are not ready for that war!"

Javon stared into Pablo's eyes, which were beginning to roll back. Killing him would be easy. But Serana was right. The death of this useless man would only complicate his main objectives: finding his father and saving the company.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, he released his grip. "Get lost," he hissed.

Pablo crumpled to the ground, coughing violently as he greedily sucked in air. Without a second thought, he turned and began to crawl, then scrambled into a limping run, his legs trembling. Those of his bodyguards who could still move followed, fleeing the scene as if chased by the plague.

Far from the villa, Pablo finally stopped, leaning against his car, gasping for breath. Fury replaced his fear. "Useless! All of you are useless trash!" he screamed at his cowering men.

With a shaking hand, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

"Grandfather," he said, his voice trembling. "Javon Forger... he's back. He refused the acquisition... and he... he..."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then a deep and authoritative voice, like the grinding of a millstone. "A chick fresh from the cage dares to peck at an eagle? Interesting. You are a disappointment, Pablo. Come home. I will handle this."

***

The grand, carved wooden door creaked as Javon pushed it open. The villa was silent. The giant crystal chandelier in the lobby looked dull, several of its bulbs dead. The once-vibrant Persian carpet seemed slightly faded. The faint scent of dust and must had replaced the usual aroma of lemon cleaner. The once-bustling servants were gone, leaving the great house with the silence of a tomb.

Javon walked to the small bar in the corner of the living room, his movements familiar. He brewed two cups of Earl Grey tea, its citrus aroma slightly chasing away the chill in the room. He placed one cup in front of Serana, who was still standing stiffly near the door.

"Have some tea, Mother."

Seeing Javon's calm demeanor as if nothing had happened, Serana's anxiety finally erupted into anger. "You... you're so calm? You think this is over?" her voice rose an octave. "You're too impulsive, Javon! You think everything can be solved with your fists? I have been negotiating, begging, swallowing my pride for three months to keep this place afloat, and you destroyed it all in five minutes! You just gave the Swenger family the perfect reason to crush us!"

Javon sipped his tea, his eyes fixed on Serana. "A good man is always bullied. A tame horse is always ridden. Showing our fangs is the only way to keep the wolves at bay."

SLAM!

"Nonsense!" Serana slammed her handbag on the table. "You don't know anything! Since your father disappeared, I've been working day and night, sleeping only three hours a day, just to prop this company up! And now the troublemaker is back to burn down what's left of his own house!" Her breath came in ragged gasps, her eyes glistening with frustration and exhaustion. "Fine! You're so tough, aren't you? Then you fix this mess yourself!"

Javon remained silent, letting her vent.

"The Group hasn't paid salaries for two months," Serana continued, her voice now trembling. "Our capital chain is about to break at any moment. Once the senior employees start resigning en masse, the Forger Group will be well and truly finished!"

Javon placed his cup down gently. "How much do we need to survive?" he asked quietly.

Serana let out a bitter laugh, one full of despair. She looked at Javon as if he were the most foolish person on the planet.

"Fifty million," she said through gritted teeth, each syllable a nail in the coffin of their hope. "We needed fifty million. Yesterday."