The Overlord You Mocked

Chapter 3: Rock Breaker

“What have you done, you freak?” Hades growled, teeth grinding as though he were seconds from biting someone.

“He beat me,” Martha cried instantly, voice trembling with practiced innocence. “I didn’t do anything to him. I only asked where he had been these past four years, and he snapped!”

Demian stared at her. Even after everything that just happened, another lie. He should’ve expected it.

“She’s lying,” he said, voice low, exhausted. “I didn’t touch her. I only stopped her from hitting me again and again.”

He didn't mention her insulting the honour of his late mother.

“You pushed me… YOU PUSHED ME!” she shrieked, finger shaking like she was about to accuse him of murder.

Her friends yelled loudly, hands flying to their chests like they were auditioning for a cheap soap opera.

“That’s assault!” “He’s violent!” “No wonder Marianne dumped him!”

Demian’s throat tightened painfully.

Dumped him. Four years gone, and that was all he was now—a rumor, a disgrace, a man who should’ve stayed dead.

Martha stepped closer, pointing a trembling finger in his face. “You worthless stray mutt. No wonder my daughter moved on.”

Demian looked toward Marianne, hoping, just for a flicker—that she would say something. Anything.

But she looked away, jaw clenched, face twisted in disgust.

He remembered the nights she used to cling to his arm, laughing at his dumb jokes. Now she looked at him like a disease.

He opened his mouth to speak…

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

Martha’s palm slammed his face so hard his vision pulsed white. His cheek burned instantly, throbbing like fire spreading beneath his skin.

His heart pounded, not from the pain, but the humiliation—how quickly they degraded him, how easily they turned him into something beneath them.

He could kill them all with a finger. He could end this entire room in one breath.

But he didn’t come home to destroy it.

He came to protect. Even now.

“There,” Martha hissed, lips inches from his face. “That’s for showing your ugly face here.”

Her three friends came forth and circled him like hungry vultures around a dying animal.

“Hit him again, Martha!” “He needs to learn!” “That freak deserves it!”

SLAP.

The other cheek. Harder. Sharper. So loud even Hades flinched—but he covered it with a grin.

The flowers Demian brought for Marianne slid from his fingers and fell softly to the floor. Red petals scattered like pieces of his last hope.

“Still holding flowers?” one of the women laughed. “What a pathetic beggar.”

“Imagine thinking flowers could fix anything after disappearing for four years,” another scoffed.

Demian clenched his jaw, swallowing the ache. The humiliation. The ghost of a man he used to be.

Marianne stood in the corner, arms crossed, leaning on the wall like she wanted to peel her skin off rather than acknowledge him.

Her eyes burned with something worse than anger—shame. Shame that he existed. Shame that he was ever hers.

When he tried to walk toward the exit, Hades stepped in front of him smugly.

“Let me pass,” Demian said, warning in his voice.

“And where do you think you’re going, you son of a bitch?” Hades sneered.

Demian didn’t respond. His silence only irritated Hades further. The man swung, sloppy and wild, but Demian leaned back—effortless—and Hades missed completely.

Hades laughed bitterly. “Still weak as ever, cousin.”

Cousin. The word tasted rotten.

“A few minutes ago, you couldn’t even do anything when you found Marianne with me,” Hades taunted. “But you come down here hitting women who can’t fight back. Pathetic.”

Demian sighed, but his silence was louder than any insult.

He didn’t come to fight.

He didn’t come to hurt them.

He just wanted… something human. One familiar warmth. One familiar voice. Instead, he came home to a battlefield.

Hades grabbed a wine bottle, shaking it like a cheap prop.

“You should’ve stayed dead.”

He stepped closer. Demian didn’t move.

SPLASH.

Cold wine drenched Demian’s shirt, dripping down his face, his chest, soaking him in red like blood.

The wet fabric clung to his body, highlighting his muscles, abs, athletic build. Hades halted, his eyes catching Demian's new body development. Something crossed his face—like fear. But he quickly rubbished the thought.

“That’s the closest thing to a shower you’ve had since drowning, isn’t it?” Hades smiled cruelly.

The women laughed, a shrill chorus stabbing at his ears.

Marianne closed her eyes, jaw tightening… but she said nothing. Again.

His heart cracked slowly, quietly, like ice splitting under pressure.

He had imagined coming home would hurt for a moment before it gets better. But he never imagined this.

Martha stepped forward again, contempt simmering.

“You shameless fool” she spat. “You disappeared, ruined my daughter’s life, and come back expecting forgiveness?”

She raised her hand high—but this time, Demian caught her wrist. Firm. Calm.

Everyone froze.

“Let go of me!” Martha shrieked.

“He’s attacking her!” “Somebody record this!” “Monster!”

Hades puffed up like a wannabe superhero, fists clenched.

“You dared touch my future mother-in-law?”

Demian finally smiled—small, cold.

The kind of smile that meant the humiliation was over.

This was the part he allowed.

“You’re making a mistake,” Demian warned softly.

Phones were already out, ready to capture Demian’s public execution. Ready to feed him to the world like a spectacle.

Demian inhaled deeply, and inside him, his immortal power roared—ancient, unstoppable. Desperate to destroy.

But he shut it down. Silenced it. Forced himself into full humanity.

Hades stepped into the middle, fist high, legs spread footwork very clean. Demian chuckled, “you're making a mistake.”

“You wanna fight huh? Come on. What are you waiting for? Fight me or I'll beat you where you stand.”

Demian hesitated. But on a second thought, Marianne was watching, Martha and her friend had gone on Livestream, waiting for Demian's beatdown.

Demian nodded and folded his sleeves.

He wanted a fair fight.

He wanted to feel pain.

He wanted to prove something—to himself, not them.

“I’ll fight you fair and square,” he said. “I just hope you’re ready.”

Hades grinned, rolling up his sleeves like he was about to film an action movie. His audience of women cheered.

“Yes! Beat his ass!”

Demian opened his arms slightly, mocking. “Come.”

And Hades charged.

But the moment his fist swung, everything flipped.

Demian’s blow cracked Hades’s nose instantly.

The man stumbled back, shock written across his face before a second punch threw him straight to the floor.

Gasps. Screams.

Livestream was growing from tens of viewers to hundreds, and now thousands within a short time. Chat comments exploded on the stream:

“Is the millionaire—Hades Buckley losing??!” “He started the fight!” “OMG a clean knockout!” “Flawless victory”

The numbers kept rolling up, from thousands watching.

Then tens of thousands.

Then hundreds of thousands.

Marianne’s voice trembled. “Demian, stop!” she screeched.

But he couldn’t stop, not yet.

Not after the slaps.

Not after the wine.

Not after seeing the woman he loved bedding this very man in front of him.

He struck until his knuckles burned and Hades’s face was covered in red.

Martha screamed. “Somebody stop him! He’s going to kill him!”

Hades lay unconscious on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth. He coughed, and blood oozed from his mouth.

His pride was destroyed for the world to see. A perfect, humiliating beat down.

Demian stood slowly, chest rising, fists still trembling—not from rage, but from the heartbreak of what he had become in their eyes.

He didn’t look back.

Marianne ran to Hades, crying, cradling the man who ruined Demian’s happiness.

She looked at Demian with fury, with hatred, with a final silent message: I HATE YOU.

But Demian didn't bother to confront her.

For the first time since he returned, he wanted to let her be herself. He wanted to accept her choice. So, he walked out without a word.

But the video had exploded across the internet. News outlets replayed it nonstop. Hades Buckley—humiliated, trending nationwide.

In Sunville’s De Criol luxury hotel, a young man burst into a VVIP suite, panting as he shoved his phone in front of an old man lounging with two blondes.

Quentin Rastro—the wealthiest man in Sunville. He took the phone and glared at the screen.

“What is the meaning of this? Who is this nobody beating my boy?”

“That’s Demian Kael,” the young man stammered. “Rumor says he’s alive. And Hades is about to marry his wife.”

Quentin smashed his wine glass, shards scattering.

“Rodio!”

A muscular bodyguard rushed in.

“Find that boy,” Quentin growled. “Arrest him or drag him out of this city. I don’t care how. Just deliver him to a black site.”

“Yes, boss,” Rodio replied and sprinted out.

If only they knew…

Demian was no ordinary boy.