The Ruthless Major General

I am looking for my Friend

Before the silence could stretch too long, a sharp voice cracked through the air like a whip.

"Who the fuck are you?" Isabelle demanded.

I turned slowly.

Before I could respond, Evans' voice rolled in from behind me, dry as desert wind.

"Maybe try answering the question instead of hissing like a snake. We asked first."

The butler hissed from behind, stepping forward again, his eyes were sharp and he clenched his fists. "You better watch that tongue of yours, lowlife, before I rip it off—"

"Enough, Bertram," Isabelle snapped without even looking at him.

She stepped closer to me now, her gaze cool and direct. "You said you're looking for someone?"

I saw her eyes without flinching. "Daniel Tyrion."

The atmosphere shifted instantly. Tension tightened the air like a noose. Conversations halted. Even the clink of champagne glasses stopped.

I repeated, louder. "I came looking for Daniel Tyrion."

A heavy silence followed.

Bertram stepped forward, fury swelling in his chest. "How dare you speak that name here?"

He was halfway to me when Isabelle extended a hand. "Bertram. No."

She turned to me, cold and dismissive. "There's no one by that name in this household."

"Escort them out. Now."

"With pleasure," Bertram said, a grin stretching across his face.

He snapped his fingers, and four guards stepped out from the shadows—tall men in dark suits, hands already drifting to hidden weapons.

They surrounded us in a loose ring.

Bertram sneered. "Well, since you gentlemen don’t know how to leave peacefully... I guess I’ll have to teach you some manners."

He raised a hand. "Catch them. I want their tongues."

I didn’t blink. "Brazen."

Evans cracked his knuckles and stepped ahead of me.

"Let me handle this, boss."

He moved forward, his muscles were shifting under his coat. He was massive—towering over the guards, arms thick as tree trunks. Intimidating didn’t even begin to describe him.

He raised his voice. "So... who wants to come first?"

It wasn’t just loud—it was thunderous. Deep and echoing like a war drum. The guards stiffened. They were clearly shaken.

Bertram scowled. "Don’t be scared of this mountain. Attack!"

Evans sighed. "You’re too noisy."

He moved like a shadow. One moment Bertram was sneering, the next he was airborne.

Evans' palm connected with his face in a brutal slap that launched him backward. He crashed against a decorative pillar, fell with a thud.

Gasps filled the room.

"Did that really just happen?"

"Did he slap him that far?!"

"Is he human?"

Eyes widened. Murmurs rippled across the room. The celebration atmosphere shattered.

Evans stepped aside. "After you, boss."

I nodded and walked forward.

But Isabelle’s voice rang again.

"Daniel Tyrion is dead."

I didn’t stop.

The slap came fast and hard. My palm collided with her cheek, sending her stumbling back. Blood trickled from her nose.

"You don’t get to say his name with that filthy mouth."

The room froze. People stared. No one moved.

Bertram staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his lips. "You dare come here... cause trouble in this sacred house? You had better be ready to die then—"

He reached for a communicator.

But Evans was already there. His massive hand clamped over Bertram’s face and lifted him clean off the ground.

Screams erupted.

Evans’ voice rumbled like thunder. "Repeat what you just said."

Bertram whimpered. "D-Did I say something wrong...? I just mean... if the young master hears Daniel’s name—your tongue... they'll cut it, that's the least of your worries! If you offend the first son... we’ll all die..."

Evans cut in. "What was it you said earlier? That you’ll cut tongues?"

Bertram froze.

"Let me help you."

Evans applied just a little pressure.

There was a sickening crack. Blood exploded from Bertram’s mouth as he screamed, his tongue mangled beyond recognition.

The room descended into chaos.

People shrank back, wide-eyed, some grabbing children not to look, others trying to escape. Fear clung to everyone's breath.

Evans s let go of the butler’s mangled face, letting the man crumple to the ground, groaning and bleeding.

"You should be thankful that the young master still wants to investigate the cause and effect thoroughly," Evans muttered darkly, brushing invisible dust off his coat as he turned and rejoined me. "If it were up to me, the Tyrion family would’ve been wiped off the map long ago."

I said nothing. My silence was louder than words.

We stepped forward.

The grand doors ahead of us loomed tall, ornate with gold trims and carvings of the Tyrion family crest. I placed my hand on the polished brass handle and pushed.

The doors swung open with a low groan, revealing a sprawling banquet hall.

Inside, laughter echoed and silverware clinked merrily. A massive dining table stretched across the room like a bridge between generations, filled with trays of exotic food and expensive wine. The Grayson family—many of them—sat in their silk suits, chatting and feasting without a care in the world.

No sign of Daniel.

No candle.

No picture.

No seat with a black ribbon.

"Looks like a family reunion," Evans said quietly, stepping in behind me.

I noticed the seat at the center of the table was empty. Likely reserved for the family matriarch.

Still, nothing for Daniel.

A young man stumbled through the crowd, wine glass in hand, weaving past servants. He slurred as he reached the man at the head of the table dressed in a striking red suit.

"Luther! Come on, man, drink with me."

"We’re in-laws now, huh?" he chuckled, tapping his glass against Luther’s shoulder. "You better take care of me, big brother."

As he raised his glass for a toast, his eyes locked with ours.

He froze.

"Who the hell are they? How did they even get in here?!"

I stepped forward calmly. "I walked in, of course."

Turning to the man in red, I said, "You must be Luther Tyrion."

Luther looked at me, eyes narrowing before giving a sarcastic smirk.

"Of course I am. I’m so popular no one in this country doesn’t know me. But my name comes with respect... something you clearly lack."

The drunken man sneered and stepped forward again. "You’re really rude. Just look at you. You look more like a beggar that snuck in here."

"Should we just toss him out, Luther?"

Luther raised a brow, his smirk deepening. "Easy, Cyrus. But you’re right."

He turned back to me. "Kid, I don’t know who you are or what fantasy brought you here—but get out before I lose my temper."

Then he raised his voice. "Bertram! Get in here and throw these rats out!"

Reynolds chuckled from behind. "No need to shout. A mute can’t answer you."

The laughter died.

All heads turned.

Whispers began to swirl across the table.

Luther tilted his head, amused and furious all at once.

"Tch... The Grayson family has been too merciful. Now even lowlifes think they can crash our dining hall."

Everyone now looked at us like we were walking corpses.

Just then, the grand doors opened again.

Isabelle Hart entered, her face pale and stiff.

Cyrus rushed to her. "Isabelle! Sis! What happened?"

Everyone turned.

They saw the blood. The swollen cheek.

The murmurs came next.

"She was slapped?"

"By him?"

"Who dares hit Isabelle Tyrion?!"

Luther heard them all. The weight of the murmurs pulled him to his feet.

His expression darkened.

"If you were the one who touched her..." he said slowly, venom dripping from every syllable, "...then get ready to leave your limbs behind tonight."

Even his own family members were taken aback. Luther rarely showed such anger.

I stepped forward, eyes sharp.

"Then prepare yourself, young master of the Tyrion family..."

"...because the one who dies tonight won’t be me."