Vengeance of The Reborn Heir

The Price of Arrogance

Though proud of his own strength as a peak-stage Rank 7 Grandmaster, Benedric knew—there was no comparing himself to a real Rank 8 Master.

That was a different realm entirely.

The elder didn’t answer right away.

His eyes, cold and filled with contempt, swept over Benedric and the rest of the Sables like one would look at insects crawling through the mud.

“You dare lay a hand on the heir of House Crowne,” he said with a sneer. “Do you even understand the weight of your actions, worm?”

Benedric froze.

It finally sank in.

Ronan hadn't come alone.

He had brought a protector—one with power far beyond anyone in this room. 

Ronan’s voice was calm, almost amused.

“Uncle Magnus, no need to waste breath on him. He hasn’t even broken through to Rank 8. What would he understand?”

The man beside Ronan was none other than Magnus Crowne, Ronan’s great-uncle and assigned protector.

As the Crowne family’s direct heir—descendant of legends like Elder Archmaster Lucas Crowne and Martial Saint Arthur Crowne—Ronan was never permitted to roam without elite guardianship.

Magnus nodded. “You’re right. The Sables truly are frogs in a well. Their arrogance has made them forget their place.”

He then stepped forward, gaze sharp as a blade as he looked at Benedric.

“You think you can keep the betrothal assets and spit on our name? A house without a single Rank 8 dares defy the line of Elder Archmaster Lucas Crowne?”

He shook his head in disgust. “You’re not even worth being enemies.”

Magnus turned to Ronan again. “Your decision to end the engagement was correct. These fools aren’t worthy to be associated with House Crowne. Let them drown in their own stupidity.”

Ronan nodded slightly. “I only came here to close the door properly.”

The words between the two Crownes hung in the air like heavy chains.

Not a single member of House Sable dared to speak.

Who would?

They were facing a true Rank 8 Gold Master—a realm most of them had only heard about in distant rumors.

Benedric clenched his fists, his face pale.

He had never expected that Ronan was assigned a Rank 8 protector.

In a strained voice, he growled, “Does House Crowne intend to break the laws of Eurathia? Are you planning to kill a man below your rank? The Martial Code forbids it!”

Magnus chuckled darkly. “Kill you? Oh please. That would be too generous.”

Ronan’s eyes gleamed coldly as he stepped forward. “Killing you would be too quick. Making you kneel? That’s enough.”

The words struck Benedric like thunder.

Kneel? In front of his entire bloodline?

“You basta—!”

Before he could protest, a sudden force slammed into him—a wave of Rank 8 pressure crashing down like a tsunami.

Bones creaked.

His knees buckled without resistance.

He collapsed, face-down on the floor, unable to lift his head.

The hall fell deathly silent.

“No!!” Calista’s voice shrieked through the stillness as she ran to her father’s side.

Her beautiful face twisted with rage and desperation.

“Stop it, Ronan! Or I’ll never forgive you for this!”

Her voice cracked, her eyes red with fury. “You’re a coward! A bully! Using your family to humiliate my father—have you no shame?”

Ronan didn’t even blink.

He looked down at her, unimpressed.

She still didn’t get it.

They still thought of House Crowne as just a first-tier noble house.

They didn’t realize—they were facing a mountain hidden behind the clouds.

To the world, House Crowne was backed by Elder Archmaster Lucas Crowne and a prestigious bloodline.

But the truth was far more terrifying.

Behind the scenes, House Crowne housed multiple Elder Archmasters, over a dozen Rank 8 Gold Masters, and countless elites.

They weren’t just a noble house.

They were the true rulers of the United Kingdom of Thandor.

And yet this petty family, with its highest expert still crawling at Rank 7, dared to insult them—just because Ronan had once been foolishly infatuated?

Ronan’s eyes darkened.

He remembered.

In his previous life, House Sable had clung to House Crowne like a swarm of leeches, draining them dry, bleeding them of every precious resource and ounce of prestige.

And he, blind with love, had let them.

No, worse! He had offered it all willingly.

His time, his reputation, his clan’s treasures... all wasted on a woman who had only ever viewed him as a tool.

For years, Calista played the doting fiancée in public, while behind closed doors she plotted with Lucien Cross—the so-called “Chosen One.”

Together, they seized everything Ronan had gifted her, and used it to lift House Sable to new heights, right as House Crowne crumbled.

Ronan had watched it all collapse.

He had watched the flames devour his clan’s ancestral grounds.

He had seen the banners of House Sable fly high above the ashes of his lineage, like vultures parading over corpses.

Lucien, smug and celebrated. Calista, smiling at his downfall.

That image... would haunt him for eternity.

But not this time.

Never again.

This time, he would not play the fool.

He would not be the one kneeling.

His blood would not feed their ambition.

He had been given a second chance, and he would burn every illusion, every false bond—until House Sable and Lucien Cross were stripped of everything they had stolen.

Calista shouted again, her eyes red with fury, “You bastard, Ronan! You think hurting people makes you strong?”

Lucien stepped forward, eyes burning with righteous fury. “You’ve gone too far,” he growled.

“You humiliate the Sables, threaten a Grandmaster, and you dare call yourself a man?”

He sneered at Ronan, voice dripping with disdain.

“If you’re so tough, face me in a duel. Just the two of us. Let’s see if you’re man enough to fight without hiding behind your elders!”

With a Rank 8 Gold Master watching, he knew he couldn’t kill Ronan.

But injuring him?

That was still fair game!

Lucien was counting on the Martial Code—Rank 8s were strictly forbidden from interfering in fights between lower-ranked cultivators.

As long as he didn’t go for the kill, that Rank 8 Gold Master wouldn’t be able to step in.

And he was confident he could crush Ronan.

He was a Limit Breaker Rank 4, mid-stage, enhanced by refined Rank 5 spiritual energy—more than enought to overwhelm Ronan.

After all, from what anyone knew, Ronan was only early-stage Rank 5 at best.

Cultivating spiritual energy was one of the hardest paths.

But once your spiritual strength surpassed your rank, leadfrogging levels wasn’t just possible—it became your weapon.

The thought made Lucien all the more self-assured.

Ronan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“A duel?” he repeated, as if Lucien had asked for a dance.

“Sure,” he said, stepping forward with relaxed ease.

Lucien’s expression twisted with smug confidence.

“Ronan, get on your knees and beg for forgiveness!” he spat.

He surged forward, his fist glowing with refined Rank 5 spiritual energy, every movement honed by countless hours of actual battle.

The floor cracked beneath his feet as he launched himself toward Ronan like a missile.

“End it, Lucien!” Calista cried out from behind him, her voice shrill with excitement.

Seeing Lucien stand up for her made her pulse race. “Teach him a lesson!”

In her eyes, Lucien, who lived and breathed combat, would surely leave Ronan—this pampered little heir—crawling on the floor.

And in that moment, a flicker of sweetness stirred in her heart.

What woman wouldn’t be moved by a man who stepped up to defend her when she and her family were under attack?

Meanwhile, spurred on by Calista’s cheers, Lucien unconsciously ramped up the force behind his stike.

“GO TO HELL, RONAN!” he roared, blood rushing to his head.

Everyone leaned forward, ready for a fierce clash.