"Uncle Broz, I'm Arnold. Bucky's friend. We used to see each other often back in the day... do you remember?" Arnold's voice was smooth, but the memories flashing through his mind were sharp.
Through the lens of his past life's memories, Broz Barnes had been a typical "rich second-generation" snob. He had always looked down on Arnold's family, treating them with a cold, aristocratic distance. Emmy had always been the amiable one, the bridge between the two families. There was no true friendship between the poor and the rich; the poor are fueled by insecurity, and the rich by arrogance. They occupied different worlds.
Seeing Broz's current pitiful state, Arnold felt a dark urge to laugh. If Bucky and Steve hadn't grown up together, their families would have had nothing in common. Broz would never have imagined that his wife had already surrendered herself to the young man standing before him, or that her body was still warm with the evidence of Arnold's claim.
A faint, wet sound came from the corner of the cell as Broz crawled toward the bars, his face bruised and swollen from repeated beatings. "Arnold? Is that you? You've come to save me, haven't you! Did Bucky find the money? I knew my son wouldn't leave me here! Hurry, get me out of this hole!"
Arnold suddenly lashed out, his boot connecting sharply with the bars, the vibration ringing through the cell. "Broz, I think you've misunderstood the situation. Your son has no money. Not a cent. If I don't stop them, your debts will be reported to the U.S. Military. Do you know what happens to an officer with a tainted record? Bucky will be discharged before he even sees a battlefield. You still expect him to save you?"
To truly conquer a man, you must first destroy everything he believes in. Once the foundation is gone, you can rebuild his reality however you choose.
"No! Impossible! My son... he's a hero! He'll find a way!" Broz clutched his head in anguish. He knew Arnold was telling the truth, but his mind refused to accept the total collapse of his life.
"Bucky sent me to look for you, but honestly? I didn't want to come. You have nothing left, Broz. Look at you. How arrogant you used to be, looking down on me from your high horse. Now I'm the millionaire, and you? You're a piece of filth in a Yakuza basement. Pathetic." Arnold looked down at him with pure disdain.
Broz's face flushed with a mixture of shame and fury, but the word "millionaire" acted like a life preserver. "Arnold, please! For the sake of our families... for the years we've known each other... please save me!"
Arnold clicked a lighter and lit a cigarette, his expression mocking. "Save you? Just like that? What collateral do you have left? I don't care about eight hundred dollars, Broz. But eight hundred thousand? That's a business transaction."
"My life! I'll do anything! Bucky is your best friend—he'll be eternally grateful to you!" Broz was still trying to get something for nothing.
Arnold's laughter echoed through the dungeon, a chilling, hollow sound. "You think I'm still that easy to bully? You don't understand who I am now. I've ended more lives than you've won hands of poker."
A wave of killing intent surged from Arnold, thick and suffocating. Broz felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He looked at Arnold and realized he wasn't looking at a neighborhood boy—he was looking at a monster.
Broken and desperate, Broz blurted out the only thing he had left. "My wife! I still have Emmy! She's... she's a beautiful woman, Arnold. If you get me out of here, you can have her. You can spend time with her, whenever you want! How about that?"
"Your wife?" Arnold leaned against the bars, his eyes cold. "She's getting older, isn't she? Why would I want her when I can afford the youngest, most beautiful girls in the city? She's worth maybe a hundred thousand as a mistress. That still leaves seven hundred thousand on your tab."
"Take the three hundred thousand she owes! I'll pay the rest! I'll work it off, I'll pay in installments! Just please... get me out before they kill me!" Broz was sobbing now, ready to sell his soul to avoid the organ-harvesting teams he'd heard whispered about in the dark.
Arnold smiled inwardly. The trap was set. He would "rescue" Broz so that Bucky would see him as a hero. Then, he would use Broz to destroy Emmy's love for her husband.
"Fine. Four hundred thousand in installments. But here's the deal: you are going to actively persuade your wife to 'comfort' me. You make sure she comes to my bed willingly. As long as I'm satisfied, you stay alive. If you want Bucky's career to stay intact, you'll be very, very convincing."
Broz nodded frantically, his dignity long gone. "I know, I know! You're a good man, Arnold! A savior!"
Arnold suddenly pulled a pistol and fired a shot into the stone wall inches from Broz's head. The ricochet grazed the man's ear. "Learn to respect your creditor. If you go back on your word, I'll hand you back to the Yamaguchi-gumi myself. I hear they have a professional team that harvests organs for the black market. How much do you think your heart is worth, Broz?"
Broz pressed his face into the dirt floor, trembling. "I understand... I will keep my promise. Emmy is yours."
"Good. You'll be a 'perfect' father once you're out. But remember: Emmy is my woman now. If you touch her even once, I'll end you."
Arnold turned and walked out of the cell. His plan was devious: he would make Emmy loathe her husband for his betrayal, ensuring she served Arnold wholeheartedly. By the time he was through, Bucky would be disappointed in his father and look to Arnold as his true mentor. Even if Bucky eventually found out about his mother, the debt and the "rescue" would keep him silent.
It was a perfect, evil plan. Arnold didn't care about being the villain. After all, a man who would sell his own wife didn't deserve a happy ending.
......
Arnold finished his business with Nitta Koguma, leaving the boss with a series of sharp instructions. He refused the "hospitality" of wine and dancers, stating coldly that he had no interest in anyone who wasn't a virgin. Why bother with street-level filth when he was already dining on the "Imperial Feast" of high-society wives?
Before leaving the basement, Nitta's henchmen moved in on Broz Barnes. Arnold had given a silent nod of approval for a "special" treatment. One gangster held Broz down while another produced a serrated blade. "White pig," the man hissed, "enjoy your new life as a monk!"
Broz tried to scream, but a wad of filthy, oil-soaked rags was shoved into his mouth. The blade came down, and Broz's eyes rolled back in agonizing shock. The gangster skillfully cauterized the wound, laughing at the broken man. "Don't worry, you'll be back. Scum like you can never quit the table."
Arnold didn't stick around to watch the aftermath. He had a point to prove to his new subordinates. He wanted to show them that their "Prince" was more than just a man—he was a god of fire.
It was nearly 6:00 a.m. The sky was turning a bruised purple, and the streets of New York were still empty. Arnold drove to a secluded villa belonging to the Inagawa-kai, a rival syndicate. Inside, an elderly boss was sleeping between two young women, oblivious to the shadow looming over his home.
Arnold took a deep breath, hiding in the darkness of a nearby alley. He accessed the system, spending 50,000 points for an infrared thermal telescope and expanded storage space. The system had recently rewarded him with 200,000 points for the "shameless" act of coercing Broz to sell his wife. It seemed the darker Arnold's soul became, the more the system thrived.
He raised the telescope. The thermal imaging was perfect—top-notch technology ahead of its time. He spotted a heat signature high in a tree on the right: a sentry. A ninja? Arnold didn't care. He focused his mind and cast his flame spell.
Unlike the thugs at the dance hall, the ninja was fast. As his clothes ignited, he dropped from the tree and rolled, trying to smother the fire. Arnold snorted. He channeled his magic again, overlapping the spells until the flames turned white-hot. The ninja didn't stand a chance; he was reduced to a pile of ash in seconds.
The fire alerted the guards at the gate. Arnold didn't slow down. He targeted the fuel tank of a nearby black sedan. BOOM! The explosion was massive, sending jagged metal shards through the air like shrapnel. The guards were shredded instantly, their screams cut short by the raining debris.
Inside the villa, the old boss woke up just in time to see the woman on his left spontaneously combust. A second later, the woman on his right followed. The room became a furnace of screaming, naked human torches. Finally, Arnold focused on the old man himself. He felt a surge of heat within his own chest as the old man's internal temperature skyrocketed, turning him into a living candle.
The effort was draining. Arnold felt a sharp, stabbing dizziness—a sign of magic overload. His "Apprentice" level mana wasn't deep enough for a sustained siege. He set the rest of the villa ablaze with three final bursts of fire and stumbled back to his car.
He drove to a quiet corner of the city, eating a burger and drinking hot coffee to settle his nerves. As the dizziness subsided, he changed his clothes in a shopping mall and made his way back home.
When he opened the door, he found Sarah and a glowing, radiant Corinna chatting in the kitchen. The sight of them triggered a surge of possessive desire, and the lingering pressure from the magic overload made him irritable and needy. Without a word, he grabbed Corinna's arm and pulled her toward his bedroom.
"Mom, I need to talk to Auntie in private. Can you make me something to eat?"
The door slammed shut. Sarah stood in the hallway, stunned. Within seconds, the sounds of shifting clothes were replaced by Corinna's gasps and her son's heavy, rhythmic panting.
"No, Arnold... ah... your mother is right outside..." Corinna's voice was a mix of protest and surrender. "Oh... so thick... be gentle... ah! Yes... keep going..."
Sarah stood paralyzed, her face flushing a deep crimson. Her intuition was right—her son was indeed involved with a woman her age. A strange thought crossed her mind: Is she just a substitute for me? Sarah didn't feel disgust. Instead, she felt a terrifying, electrifying spark of excitement. She knew Arnold's eyes were turning toward her as she recovered. She thought about the way he looked at her, and for the first time, she didn't just see a son—she saw a man who took whatever he wanted.