Back to Claim What’s Mine

Chapter 003

Conrad Stone crossed the threshold into the master bedroom on the second floor, moving with the heavy, deliberate silence of a man entering a mausoleum. The atmosphere inside was suffocating, a thick, cloying miasma of medicinal decay and the sharp, chemical tang of high-grade antiseptics. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the afternoon sun of Haven City, plunging the room into a perpetual, depressing twilight that felt entirely disconnected from the vibrant world outside.

In the center of the room, dominated by the rhythmic, electronic beeping of life-support monitors and the hiss of an oxygen tank, lay Arthur Lynn.

The man who had once been a titan of industry, a pillar of strength whose booming laugh had filled the halls of this estate, was gone. In his place lay a withered husk. His skin was translucent and gray, stretched tight over cheekbones that protruded like jagged rocks beneath a receding tide. His hair, once a thick mane of jet black, was now wispy and white at the temples. His chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate spasms, as if every breath was a battle he was slowly losing. He was inhaling more than he was exhaling, the vitality leaking out of him with every passing second, draining into the sterile sheets.

A surge of cold, concentrated rage flooded Conrad’s veins. It was a familiar sensation, the same icy fury he felt before executing a high-value target in the field, but this was different. This was personal. Five years ago, Arthur had been robust, as strong as an ox. Now, he looked like a victim of starvation.

Isabella... The name echoed in his mind like a curse. This was her doing. The stress, the humiliation, the systematic dismantling of his legacy—it had eaten Arthur alive.

Conrad approached the bed slowly, pulling a chair close. The fabric of the seat creaked in the oppressive silence. He reached out, his hand hovering over Arthur’s wrist, intending to check the pulse and read the body's internal energy flow.

"What do you think you're doing?"

A sharp cry shattered the silence. Caroline rushed into the room, her face flushed with a mixture of panic and indignation. She grabbed Conrad’s arm with surprising strength, her nails digging into the fabric of his black trench coat.

"Get away from him! Do you know what you're doing? Do you even have a medical license?"

Conrad looked at her hand on his arm, then up at her tear-filled eyes. "I learned field medicine during my service. I spent time in the East studying traditional methods. I know enough to check his vitals."

"Field medicine? Traditional methods?" Caroline’s voice rose an octave, bordering on hysteria. "Ascension Corp hired the top specialists from the capital. We had neurologists, cardiologists, experts with degrees from Ivy League universities! They all gave up. They said his organs are failing. And you think you can save him because you learned some... some bush medicine in the middle of nowhere?"

Her skepticism was valid, grounded in the logic of modern science. To her, Conrad was a ghost who had returned with delusions of grandeur, threatening to disturb her father's final, agonizing moments.

"Caroline, calm down," Julian Reed sauntered into the room, placing a possessive hand on her shoulder and gently pulling her back. His eyes, however, were fixed on Conrad with a gleam of predatory amusement. "Let him try."

"Julian! Are you crazy?" Caroline looked at her boyfriend in shock.

Julian leaned in close to her ear, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though it was loud enough for the room to hear. "Think about it, babe. The doctors said there's no hope. If Conrad wants to play doctor, let him. If anything happens... well, he was the last one to touch him. It gives the family closure, and it puts the responsibility where it belongs."

It was a masterstroke of manipulation. Julian was setting a trap. If Arthur died under Conrad’s care, Conrad would be the murderer in the eyes of the family and the law. He would be the scapegoat for the entire tragedy.

Conrad met Julian’s gaze. He saw the calculation there. He didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the faint, thready pulse beneath his fingers.

"Caroline," Conrad said softly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "He is my father, too. I owe him my life. Do you really think I would do anything to speed up his death?"

Caroline froze. She looked at Conrad’s face—not the face of the boy she remembered, but the hardened face of a man who had seen things she couldn't imagine. For a second, she saw a flicker of the old Conrad, the protector. She bit her lip, her resolve crumbling under the weight of her grief.

"If... if you hurt him..." she trailed off, unable to finish the threat.

Conrad turned back to the patient. He closed his eyes, tuning out the hostile whispers coming from the doorway where Martha Pierce and her sisters, Bella and Susan, had gathered to watch the spectacle.

"Look at him," Susan Pierce sneered, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. "Acting like a grandmaster. It's embarrassing."

"He's going to kill him," Bella Pierce added, shaking her head with feigned sorrow. "And when he does, I'm calling the police immediately. We can't let him get away with patricide."

Conrad ignored the chorus of vultures. He focused entirely on the tactile feedback from Arthur’s wrist. The pulse was erratic, a chaotic drumbeat signaling a body in total systemic collapse. The bio-electrical signals were blocked in the major nervous clusters, causing a cascading failure of the internal organs.

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a worn, black leather roll. He unfurled it on the bedside table. Inside, gleaming under the dim light, were rows of silver needles of varying lengths, thinner than human hair.

"Acupuncture?" Caroline gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "You're going to stick needles in a dying man? Conrad, stop! This is insanity!"

To the uninitiated, it looked like t*****e. But Conrad was already in the zone. His demeanor shifted instantly. The lethargy and sadness vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp focus of a surgeon.

Zip.

His hand moved with blinding speed. A long silver needle pierced the skin at a pressure point three inches below the navel.

Zip. Zip.

Two more needles followed, striking points at the base of the throat and the solar plexus.

His movements were fluid, precise, and hypnotic. He didn't just insert the needles; he manipulated them. He twisted, flicked, and vibrated the silver shafts, sending invisible shockwaves of energy into Arthur’s nervous system to jumpstart the dormant pathways. This was the "Trembling Dragon" technique, a lost art he had mastered during his time with the eccentric hermits of the borderlands.

Sweat began to bead on Conrad’s forehead. This wasn't just physical exertion; it was a drain on his own mental and spiritual stamina. He was pouring his own vitality into the needles to act as a bridge for Arthur’s failing heart.

"He's just putting on a show," Julian scoffed from the corner, though his eyes narrowed as he noticed a slight return of color to Arthur’s ashen cheeks. "Modern medicine failed, but voodoo magic is going to work? Please."

Conrad prepared for the final, critical needle. This one had to go directly near the heart valve. It was a high-risk maneuver. One millimeter off, and Arthur would be dead instantly.

He took a deep breath, his hand steady as a rock.

CRASH!

The sound was apocalyptic.

It wasn't a knock, or a slam. It was the sound of metal tearing and masonry exploding. The entire villa shook as if a massive earthquake had struck Haven City.

Downstairs, the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Lynn estate were obliterated. A modified, armored Land Rover, built like a tank, had rammed through the entrance, skidding across the manicured lawn and smashing into the front porch pillars.

The sudden vibration jarred the room. Conrad’s hand froze mid-air, inches from Arthur’s chest. His concentration shattered. A wave of backlash energy hit him, and he nearly coughed up blood.

"AHHH!"

Screams erupted from the women. The sound of heavy boots stomping on hardwood floors echoed from the foyer below.

"Smash it! Smash it all!" a voice roared from the ground floor.

The sounds of destruction followed immediately. The crash of porcelain vases—Ming Dynasty replicas that Arthur had cherished. The splintering of antique wood. The ripping of expensive oil paintings. It was a symphony of violence.

"What's happening? Is it an earthquake?" Martha Pierce shrieked, clutching her pearls, her face turning white.

Conrad slowly lowered his hand. He carefully placed the final needle back into the case. His expression, which had been focused and professional, darkened into something abyssal. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

He stood up, his movements deliberate and terrifyingly calm. He walked out of the bedroom, past the trembling Caroline and the stunned Julian, and stood at the top of the grand staircase.

Below, the living room was a war zone.

A dozen men in black suits and dark sunglasses were systematically destroying the house. They wielded baseball bats and steel crowbars with practiced efficiency. The coffee table was shattered. The family portraits were stomped on. The sofa was slashed open, stuffing spilling out like guts.

Standing in the center of the chaos, lighting a cigarette with a gold lighter, was a young man.

He wore a suit that cost more than the average citizen earned in a decade—a garish purple blazer over a silk shirt. His hair was dyed a platinum blonde, and his face wore an expression of bored, arrogant cruelty.

Marcus Sterling.

The younger cousin of Isabella Sterling. The enforcer of the family. The bully who enjoyed kicking dogs when they were down.

"Marcus..." Caroline whispered, clutching the banister, her face draining of all color.

The Pierce sisters huddled together, their earlier bravado vanishing instantly. In Haven City, the Sterling Family was royalty. They were the law. To offend a Sterling was a death sentence. Since Ascension Corp was hostilely taken over by the Sterling Family last week, the Lynns had lost everything. They were surviving on scraps. To them, the Sterling Family was the apex predator.

Marcus took a deep drag of his cigarette and exhaled a plume of gray smoke toward the chandelier. He looked up, his eyes locking onto Conrad.

"Conrad Stone!" Marcus shouted, his voice booming with mockery. "You have some monumental nerve! You know my sister wants your head on a platter, yet you dare to roll back into town like nothing happened?"

He kicked a shard of a broken vase across the room. "I heard you were here. I didn't believe it. I thought, surely, the rat wouldn't run back to the trap."

Conrad descended the stairs. He didn't rush. He walked with a steady, rhythmic pace. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"The Sterling Family," Conrad said, his voice level but carrying a dangerous undercurrent. "I haven't come to collect your debt yet, but you were impatient enough to deliver yourself to my doorstep."

"Collect our debt?" Marcus laughed, a harsh, barking sound. He turned to his thugs. "Did you hear that? The runaway groom is threatening us!"

The thugs chuckled, hefting their weapons.

Marcus strolled forward, meeting Conrad at the bottom of the stairs. He poked Conrad hard in the chest with a manicured finger.

"Let's get one thing straight," Marcus sneered, blowing smoke directly into Conrad's face. "You are nothing. You are a bug we forgot to crush five years ago. Look at this place. Look at these people." He gestured vaguely at the trembling Lynn family. "They hate you. You ran away, and we punished them for it. We broke their company. We broke their spirit. And now, you come back to what? Save the day?"

Martha Pierce couldn't take the pressure. She stepped forward, her voice quivering. "Master Sterling! Please! We didn't invite him! He forced his way in! Take him if you want him, but please, spare the house! We have nothing left!"

Bella and Susan nodded vigorously. "Yes! He has nothing to do with us! We were just about to call the police on him! Please, we are innocent!"

The betrayal was absolute. To save their own skins, they were willing to serve Conrad up to the executioner without a second thought.

Conrad didn't look at them. His gaze remained fixed on Marcus.

"My father's illness," Conrad asked, his voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the noise of the room. "Did you have a hand in it?"

Marcus blinked, then grinned. "What if I did? What if I didn't? Does it matter?"

He spread his arms wide, encompassing the destruction he had caused. "I'm here to deliver a message from Isabella. You all have one week. One week to accept the janitorial and manual labor jobs she generously offered you. If you refuse..."

His face hardened. "We will blacklist every single person with the last name Lynn. No bank will lend to you. No grocery store will sell to you. No hospital will treat you. You will starve in the streets of Haven City like the beggars you are."

The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. This was the power of the Sterlings. Total social and economic erasure.

Caroline stifled a sob. Julian looked away, unable to meet Marcus's eyes, his earlier arrogance replaced by the cowardice of a man who knows he is out of his depth.

"I hope you enjoyed your speech," Conrad said. A faint, chilling smile touched his lips. "Because it will be your last."

"Is that a threat?" Marcus laughed, tossing his cigarette butt onto the expensive carpet and grinding it out with his heel. "You're a dead man walking, Conrad."

Marcus snapped his fingers. "Actually, I have a better idea. I'm feeling generous."

He looked at Conrad with a s******c glint in his eyes. "Conrad, kneel down. Right here. Lick the dirt off my shoes. Give me three loud kowtows. Beg for forgiveness like the dog you are. If you do that... maybe I won't break every bone in your body before I drag you to Isabella."

"Yeah! Kneel!" Julian Reed, sensing a shift in the wind and wanting to align himself with the winner, shouted from the stairs. "Do what Master Sterling says! Don't make it worse for the family! Just kneel!"

Conrad stared at them. He looked at Julian, the spineless opportunist. He looked at Marcus, the cruel tyrant. He looked at the Pierce sisters, the treacherous relatives.

It was a panoramic view of human ugliness.

"I said kneel! Are you deaf?"

Marcus’s patience snapped. He hated the look in Conrad’s eyes. It wasn't fear. It was... pity. It was the way a human looked at an insect before stepping on it. It made Marcus feel small, and he hated feeling small.

"Kill him!" Marcus screamed, pointing a shaking finger at Conrad. "Break his legs! Make him scream!"

"Yes, sir!"

The dozen thugs roared in unison. They raised their bats and crowbars, forming a tightening circle around Conrad. They were professionals, hired muscle used to breaking strikes and crushing dissent. They moved with violence in their hearts.

Caroline closed her eyes, unable to watch. Martha screamed.

But Conrad didn't move. He didn't raise his fists. He didn't shift into a combat stance. He simply stood there, hands in his pockets, watching the approaching violence with an air of utter boredom.

Whoosh.

A sound like tearing silk sliced through the air.

Before the first metal bat could crush Conrad’s skull, a shadow detached itself from the ceiling rafters. It fell like a dark meteor, landing silently between Conrad and the attackers.

Thud. c***k. Snap.

It happened too fast for the human eye to follow.