The scent of grilled Lava Drake still clung to the plush, enchanted air of Tre Sorelle like the echo of a beautiful symphony's final note—warm, primal, and indulgently bold. Charles leaned back into the velvet-lined crescent booth, his posture casual but composed, sipping the last of the Eclipsethorn Reserve from a goblet that gleamed like frozen starlight.
The wine itself was an alchemical marvel—no less than a moon-aged vintage, brewed from grapes kissed by lunar energy during a once-in-a-decade celestial alignment. Each drop glided across his tongue like velvet fire, harmonizing with the steady rhythm of his breath and heartbeat. His qi, ever restless, pulsed with subtle power, now attuned to the moon-threaded resonance of the drink.
This wasn't just wine.
It was wealth in liquid form. A ritual of refinement. The kind of indulgence only warriors of status, nobles with legacy, or kings in disguise could afford.
And Charles—masked, mysterious, and more dangerous than most suspected—drank it like it was a familiar friend.
A discreet staff member approached, dressed in black-gold livery, and placed a leather bill holder on the obsidian table. Alongside it, a jade container for payment slid into place, engraved with silver glyphs of House Sorelle.
Charles opened it calmly.
Eighteen gold coins.
He raised a brow, amused.
In the Kingdom of Davona, that sum could fund a small militia, pave roads in a border town, or cover a junior city clerk's salary for a full year and a half. But here, it bought only a single culinary experience—a brunch of magical delicacies and moon-drenched wine.
He didn't flinch. With practiced ease, Charles drew twenty-one gold coins from a hidden compartment within his cloak and slipped them into the folder—eighteen for the meal, three for the service. A nobleman's generosity. A merchant prince's ease. And the detached indifference of someone used to ruling realms, whether boardrooms or battlefields.
Just as he was about to seal the folder closed, a sharp noise cracked through the gentle ambiance.
A slap.
Not the polite kind that made cheeks pink at a dance.
No, this one rang out like a whip crack—loud, sudden, and wrong. It silenced the lilting music drifting through the restaurant, stilled the quiet clink of utensils. Even the enchanted flame orbs flickered.
Then came the shatter.
Glass. Maybe crystal. Sharp edges falling like the last grains of respect.
Charles's fingers froze on the leather folder. His head tilted slightly, instinct replacing etiquette. He didn't need to turn to see—his senses, sharpened through martial discipline and system upgrades, painted the picture for him.
Qi pulsed from across the room. Hostile. Disruptive. Sloppy.
Then came the voice—dripping with wine, anger, and wounded pride.
"You dare slap me, you wench?!"
Charles's gaze slid toward the commotion like a sword leaving its sheath.
Two booths down, three noble sons were sprawled in seats of entitlement, their expressions glazed with arrogance and drink. Fine silks wrapped their limbs like snakes, embroidered with the crest of House Hayde—serpentine, decadent, and suffocatingly Southern.
One of them, the loudest, had golden-blonde hair tousled by ego and alcohol. Wine stained his lap, though it looked less like a spill and more like karmic retribution. His obsidian eyes blazed not with cultivation clarity—but petulant rage. And in his hand was a wrist.
Micah's wrist.
The poised waitress from earlier stood rigid, chin high, her other hand still half-curled around a serving tray. Her face held no fear—only irritation, tightly masked by duty. But her wrist… her wrist trembled. Subtle, but telling.
The young man's grip glowed faintly with aggressive qi, and Charles could tell he was flexing just enough pressure to cause pain but not enough to break bones.
Yet.
[SIGMA SYSTEM – ALERT: Wrist compression detected. User: Micah Sorelle. Vital integrity down 17%. Fracture risk rising.]
The system's ping echoed coldly in Charles's mind.
"That didn't take long," he muttered under his breath.
[Would you prefer 'smash and silence' mode or a diplomatic table flip?] SIGMA asked dryly.
"Neither," Charles whispered, rising from his seat. "I'm going for the slap that ends dynasties."
He adjusted the silver-gray mask on his face with calm precision and stepped into the aisle.
Earlier…
Micah's approach to the booth had been professional perfection—tray level, steps measured, balance untouched despite the whispers of qi beneath the surface. She was a warrior beneath velvet, and it showed.
"Your wine, sirs," she had said, bowing lightly, her voice as crisp as autumn twilight.
The golden-haired youth—Lord Malfor, if his companions' reverent slurring was to be believed—grinned lazily. His leg swung over the seat like he owned gravity, and his eyes roved over Micah's form without shame.
"Ahh, finally," he said, but rather than reach for the wine, his fingers brushed hers. Purposefully. Slowly.
"Tell me, lovely… are all the flowers in the North this divine?"
Micah didn't flinch. "Please refrain from touching the staff, Lord Malfor."
"Oho! She knows my name," he crowed. "She's been paying attention, boys."
His friends laughed. One of them raised a goblet in salute. "Part of their training, eh?"
"Would you like anything else from the kitchen?" Micah asked evenly.
"Oh, yes." Malfor leaned in, breath tainted with wine and ego. "A taste of you."
Micah's lips thinned. "Please behave yourself."
"I am," he said, dragging a finger along the wine glass. "You're too pretty for just serving food. You should be in silk. Massaging noble shoulders. Mine, preferably."
Micah's hand moved. She placed the wine with sharp finality and turned to leave.
That was when the hand landed.
The grope.
And the slap.
A sound that deserved a standing ovation.
Wine spilled. Pride shattered. A line was crossed.
"You dare ruin my clothes, slap me in front of others?" Malfor hissed, rising.
He grabbed her wrist—casually cruel, qi-laced, his pride more bruised than his cheek.
"I asked you a question, girl."
"Let go," Micah said firmly, her voice steady despite the flare of pain.
"Sir Malfor, you groped me. I merely defended myself."
"Oh, one of those stubborn types?" he sneered. "Good. Breaking you will be more fun."
From across the restaurant, Charles's hand clenched around the bill folder.
The scent of grilled drake had turned to ash in his mouth.
Micah lifted her chin. "My service ends at your table, sir. Not in your bed."
It was too much.
For a moment, the tension was a thread, stretched between fury and justice.
Then Charles moved.
A shadow uncoiled from velvet.
And the world braced for the storm.
Malfor leaned forward, his breath thick with wine and arrogance, letting go of Micah's wrist only to drape an arm around her shoulder. The gesture was far too casual—predatory, heavy with presumption. He pulled her close as if he owned her, as if her dignity was just another coin to gamble.
"Come now," he purred, breath warm against her cheek, "name your price, baby. You serve food so gracefully. I'd pay double to see you serve in my room."
The other nobles burst into crude laughter. One of them whistled low; another clapped slowly, mock applause dripping with malice.
Micah's eyes, usually steady with professional detachment, flared with fury. "Let me go."
Malfor's grin sharpened, lips curling into a leer. "Oh, I will," he sneered, "after I've had my fill of—"
Snap.
A sound like a dry twig breaking underfoot. Precise. Surgical.
A hand—not Micah's—had closed around Malfor's wrist. Not with brute force, but with intention. His pressure point lit up with white-hot agony, cutting the drunken smugness short.
"W-What the—?!" Malfor choked, eyes bulging.
He turned—and found himself nose-to-mask with a figure in dark gray, cloaked like the twilight, with eyes glinting like steel freshly drawn. The mask—silverwood matte—curved like a sneer. It was elegance forged into intimidation.
Charles. Silent. Calm. Coiled.
His voice was low and razor-sharp. "Enough."
The power in the word was not volume, but conviction. It cut cleaner than any sword.
Micah stumbled back, finally released, clutching her sore wrist as if anchoring herself to reality. The storm had broken, and the masked figure had walked out of the eye.
Malfor shook his arm, wincing. "Who the hell are you?!"
Charles tilted his head. "Someone who values peace and good food. You, however, are disturbing the ambiance."
That mock-courteous tone. That imperturbable chill. It enraged Malfor more than any insult.
"Ambiance—?! You little—!"
With a roar more suitable for a bar fight than a noble's dining hall, Malfor lunged forward. His right arm blurred into motion, wind qi coiling around his knuckles like a cyclone blade.
But Charles was already moving. No flare. No wasted motion. Just inevitability.
His foot anchored.
His shoulder pivoted.
His breath aligned.
"Heaven-Crushing Fist: First Form—Sky Breaker."
Flesh met force.
The thunderclap of impact cracked through the restaurant like a war drum. Plates rattled. Goblets spilled. Half the dining room flinched.
Charles's fist twisted through Malfor's wind-imbued strike like it was made of parchment. No resistance. No hesitation.
CRACK.
The sound of bone yielding. The golden-haired noble shrieked, stumbling backward. His forearm flopped uselessly, grotesquely bent—like a puppet whose string had been cut.
He dropped to one knee, gasping in disbelief.
"My arm! You broke my—"
The words dissolved into a scream.
His companions shot to their feet. One of them drew a thin enchanted blade, trembling more from panic than fury. "You bastard! You'll pay for that!"
Charles stood his ground, not even brushing off the strike. His cloak settled around him like a curtain closing on the first act of a tragedy.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Enemy Defeated – Foundations Rank 5 Wind and Metal Warrior. Rewards: +500 Gold Coins, +5 Attribute Points, +5 Skill Points.]
SIGMA's dry voice echoed in his mind. "Would you like that pain gift-wrapped? We're running a courtesy service tonight."
Charles didn't reply, but the ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. He flexed his fingers, quietly observing the battlefield.
Two viscount sons: Foundations Rank 5 and 6. Two guards: Core Realm Rank 2 each. This could get messy—politically and physically.
"Kill him!" Malfor shrieked, tears streaking his flushed face. "I want him dead!"
The guards hesitated for only a moment—then drew their curved blades with mechanical precision, mana glinting along their runes. Trained. Efficient. Loyal… but not to him.
Charles stepped back half a pace, heart calm, breath controlled. He had over twenty skill points banked and had just unlocked two additional flows of the Heaven-Crushing Fist earlier that morning. He could take them. He could crush them.
But not without consequences.
The moment he revealed too much, nobles would start digging. The wrong kind of attention would follow.
"Please don't make me embarrass you," he said softly.
The guards advanced.
BOOM.
The grand doors of Tre Sorelle exploded open with a blast of force. A gust howled through the chamber, extinguishing half the flame orbs overhead and tossing napkins and silken menu scrolls into the air like confetti.
Every head turned.
Every breath froze.
Then came the voice. Deep. Controlled. Utterly absolute.
"That is enough."
It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. The air itself obeyed.
Footsteps rang—measured, regal, the sound of inevitability wrapped in velvet. A man emerged from the entry's smoke and light, dressed in dark crimson and black velvet, lined with enchanted battle-thread. Reinforced shoulder plates of storm-forged alloy gleamed faintly under the chandeliers.
His hair was regal silver, pulled back into a warrior's tail. His eyes—the color of molten stone—pierced through the room like judgment itself.
Charles's eyes narrowed. The aura this man exuded—it wasn't just power. It was lineage. Dominion.
Unity Realm Level 9… no, beyond. His level is unfathomable.
Behind him marched five black-uniformed elite enforcers—Victor Sorelle's personal guard. Each one crackled with qi pressure so dense it sucked the breath out of the room.
Even the two Core Rank guards faltered. The one holding his blade actually stepped backward.
Malfor's face turned from rage to ash. "I-I didn't know—"
The man didn't look at him.
He looked at Micah.
She stared at him like a drowning girl seeing the shoreline.
"…Father."
Victor Sorelle raised a single eyebrow.
Malfor, pale as a grave-worm, turned toward his companions.
"Oh shit," one of them whispered.
The storm had arrived.
And now… it would decide what remained.