I stood at the edge of the J. City Bidding Conference Hall, watching the chaos unfold. Scar crashed hard against the marble floor, the impact rattling the room. Blood burst from his lips, thick and vivid, as he struggled to breathe. One punch—one single punch from me—had sent him flying. Impossible. Scarface, the man who had survived ten brutal death matches, looked like a broken child.
His wide, shocked eyes locked onto me.
“You…” he stammered, fear creeping into his voice.
I stepped closer, calm, my expression carved from ice. Scar’s shadow shrank under me.
“Weaklings like you should know your place. Power isn’t meant for evil. Today, I’ll make sure you never use your strength to bully the weak again.”
He froze, stunned by both pain and fear. I could feel the hall holding its breath
