The Warlord's Vengeance

Chapter 3

The courtyard went crazy with laughter.

“Did I hear that right?”

“He wants us to kneel? Apologize? Ha! That lunatic is soft now.”

“Crazy guy. Always talking nonsense. Emma pushed our boy—shouldn’t they apologize?”

“What if he loses it? Killing’s nothing for a madman. Better watch out. Law won’t stop him.”

Cassian’s eyes went cold. Hot anger popped out. Dangerous. Bright.

Sandra’s voice shook. Tiny. “Grandpa—” she whispered, looking for the old man.

Lord Julan Sylver didn’t care. Twisted his face. Speak to Ardenne? Dirty work. He didn’t move. Didn’t care. Humiliation had “done its job” already.

From the side, a fat man came forward—Trump Julan, Marla’s dad.

He grinned like a predator. Loud enough for everyone.

“Justice? You call that justice? Ardenne tripped my grandson. She needed a lesson. Foolish people must know their place. Letting her and that ragged kid in our house? Mercy enough. Now she wants us to kiss her feet? Kneel, woman. Apologize to my grandson and maybe I’ll spare you. Don’t? I’ll break the legs of everyone in your family today.”

Marla went pale. Reached for Lord Julan like he could save her. “Please—” she cried.

Cassian moved. Fast. Shadow fast. One step, and he was in front of Marla and that fat sneering man.

His wife and daughter pressed behind him.

The last tiny thread of his patience snapped.

“Very well,” he said. Low voice. Cold. Hard as iron. “So that’s your answer. Noted.”

He let the words hang.

“I gave you a chance.”

He lifted his chin slowly. Like he was saying… yeah, I can stop. But I don’t have to.

Then his voice dropped. Low. Quiet. Deadly.

“If you refuse… don’t blame me. You said it yourselves—if I kill, it’s not a crime. Remember what you said.”

The words hit like ice. Laughter froze. Stuck in mid-air.

Before anyone could blink, Cassian closed the distance to Marla. Two fast steps.

She jumped back.

“Bastard!” she spat.

His hand moved faster than anyone could think.

Slap!

The sound cut through the courtyard. Sharp. Clear.

“That was for my daughter.”

Marla stumbled. But before she hit the ground, a hard kick sent her flying back across the marble.

“And that… was for my wife.”

The courtyard went silent. Dead silent.

People who laughed a second ago now stared. Mouths open. Eyes wide.

Their neat, perfect little world… smashed. One man. One moment.

Trump Julan’s face went bright red.

“He wants to die!” he shouted. Panic and rage twisted his voice. “Guards! Grab him! Beat him to death!”

Cassian screamed. Loud. So loud the air felt like it was going to break.

The Sylver guards jumped. Twenty of them. Circling. Teeth bared. Hands ready. Hungry. Fast. Mean. Like wolves.

Cassian didn’t move. Not a step. Not a flinch. Stood there like a wall. Solid. Alive. Unstoppable. The courtyard felt small. Tight. Claustrophobic. Like it was his. Twenty men coming at him? They’d hit the ground before they even got close.

He’d fought the Eight Legends five days ago. Won. Brutally. They were the strongest. And these weak, spoiled Sylver? A joke. Toys. Nothing. He could crush them all. Break the whole house in one second.

“Attack!” Lord Julan barked. Voice snapping like a whip.

The guards lunged.

Cassian moved. Faster. Machine-fast. Deadly. Smooth. Every motion perfect. Like a storm smashing over rocks.

Boom! One guard slammed into the wall. Like a ragdoll.

Boom! Another flew into the fountain. Water everywhere. Marble broken. Screams, splashes, chaos.

Boom! More guards fell. Sliding. Arms flailing. Legs twisted. Moans. Panic. Blood. Everywhere blood.

Everywhere he went—broken men. Pain. Fear. Chaos. One thing only—protect his wife. Protect his daughter. Nothing else mattered.

Less than a minute. The courtyard? A battlefield. Guards down. Some bleeding. Some worse. Blood on his hands. His coat. Face? Calm. Cold. Empty. Rage burning underneath.

He drew in a slow breath. Let it out. Voice low, sharp, ice.

“Who else?”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Pressing down. Crowd stared at the ground. Mouths moved, no sound. Servants froze.

Ardenne’s jaw dropped. Body shaking. Could this really be him? The man who vanished five years ago?

The “madman” she cursed? The one who left her? The one coming back like a hurricane? Merciless. Unstoppable. Deadly.

People whispered. Trembled. Ran to the edges. Some froze. Couldn’t move. Too scared.

The courtyard smelled like sweat, blood, wet stone, fear. Broken marble. Every step he took made the crowd shrink. Smaller. Weaker.

Lord Julan’s face went white. Mouth opened. Nothing came out. His guards—those still standing—shifted. Feet scraping marble. Weapons shaking.

“Stop him!” someone yelled. Guards rushed. Too slow. Cassian moved faster than they could blink. Kick. Splash. Scream. Silence. Grab. Slam. More bodies. Moans. Water dripping. Broken stone.

Ethan didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe fast. Calm. Cold. Deadly. One purpose—wife. Daughter. Nothing else.

Ardenne clutched Emma. Tight. Trembling. Tears. She couldn't believe it. This was real. The man she thought lost… Back. Terrifying. Merciless. Unstoppable.

The Lannisters? Weak. Helpless. Pathetic. Laughing one second. Frozen the next. Mouths open. Eyes wide. Blood on marble. Broken men. Chaos. Panic. Everywhere.

Ethan looked around. Cold. Dangerous. Eyes sharp, cutting, slicing. “Who else?”

No one. No one moved. No one answered. Wind moved. Carrying screams. Splashing water. Courtyard was a tomb for the proud. Playground for the furious.

Cassian? Calm. Cold. Unstoppable. Ready. Ready to crush anyone who touched his family.

Seeing the fear on the Sylver’ faces… seeing them small… tiny… finally… something hot and wild stirred inside Sandra.

She felt safe. Real safe. Protected. Like Cassian’s arms weren’t just arms. They were a sky. A wall. A storm shield. Nothing could touch them.

Emma clung to her mother, bruised, shaky, eyes wide like little moons.

“Mummy… is he really my daddy? My daddy’s amazing,” she whispered.

The courtyard froze. Chatter. Insults. Screaming. Threats. All of it stopped.

Then a new voice cut through. Calm. Deep. Bossy.

“What on earth is going on here?”

Heads turned. At the gate, an old man stepped in. Uniform. Silver star on his shoulder. Four officers flanked him, clean, sharp, scary professional. Walked like he owned the world.

Recognition hit the Sylver like a slap. Faces burned red. Humiliated by some “crazy man” before. Now… now someone real, someone with power, was here.

Trump Julan pushed forward, face pink, stuttering, voice oily with fake respect.

“Mayor Hargreaves! W-what… what brings you here? Surely you see this lunatic—he attacked our people!”

The man in uniform was Sir Malcolm Hargreaves. Mayor of S.City One word from him could ruin anyone.

Marla’s face went pale, relief blooming like a flower. Two maids held her up as she whispered prayers, shaking.

Trump jabbed his finger, frantic. “Mayor! This insane beggar—he hit my grandson! Look at the guards! Beaten! Broken! He tried to kill! Arrest him! Make him pay! Make him an example!”

The rest of the Sylver joined in, loud like a nest of snakes.

“If he touches one security officer, he’ll rot in prison!”

“Arrest him! The law must punish him!”

“Imagine the scandal! How dare he—”

Every finger pointed at Ethan.