Hades Has Returned

Chapter 009

The atmosphere outside the Skydream Club shifted instantly, dropping from the high-energy buzz of socialites to a suffocating, terrified silence. The name Myriad Dragons Chamber wasn't just a business label in Northriver; it was a synonym for the underworld, a brand built on blood, broken bones, and absolute dominance.

To the wealthy heirs and heiresses gathered here, the Chamber represented a dark authority that superseded the law. And within that hierarchy, the The Five Wardens serving under Victor Zane were the executioners. They were known for their ruthlessness, their unpredictable violence, and their complete lack of regard for consequences.

For Jack Brooks to demand an apology from Connor Shaw—one of those five legendary tigers—wasn't just brave; in the eyes of the crowd, it was tantamount to suicide. It was like a rabbit demanding an apology from a wolf for stepping on its tail.

Perry Bailey felt the cold sweat trickle down his back. He stepped in quickly, his smile strained as he tried to diffuse the ticking bomb.

"Director Shaw, please, let's not be too hasty," Perry said, laughing nervously and gesturing toward Jack. "This is Tia Sutton's husband. He... well, he just got released from prison recently. He's been away from society for a long time and doesn't understand the rules of Northriver. Please, don't take his ignorance to heart."

"Husband?" Connor Shaw repeated the word as if it tasted like ash. "Just out of prison?"

His eyes, cold and predatory, swept over Jack once more. This time, the scrutiny was thorough and insulting. He noted the cheap, unbranded clothing that hung loosely on Jack's frame. He saw the calluses on Jack's hands—marks of manual labor, or perhaps the rough life of a low-level inmate. To Connor, Jack looked like the bottom of the barrel, a member of the underclass who cleaned floors or dug ditches.

Then, Connor’s gaze shifted to Tia Sutton. She was radiant, a woman of porcelain skin and high-fashion elegance, a creature who belonged in the penthouse suites of the world.

The contrast was offensive. It defied the natural order. A goddess tethered to a piece of trash? The thought made Connor’s blood boil with a strange mix of jealousy and disgust.

"Director Shaw, please don't mind him," Tia interjected, her voice trembling slightly. She stepped forward, trying to shield Jack not out of love, but out of a desperate need to prevent a disaster that could ruin her family. "It was my fault. I was distracted. I drifted onto the road. Please, forgive his rudeness."

Connor raised a hand, silencing her. He didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on Jack, gleaming with a s******c light.

"In the territory of Northriver," Connor said softly, his voice carrying a chilling edge, "no one has ever dared to ask me for an apology. You are the first."

He took a slow step forward, invading Jack's personal space.

"You have guts," Connor sneered, his lips curling into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I wonder if you're this tough inside a ring. How about this? We go inside. We go two rounds."

The malice in his expression deepened. "If you win, I apologize. How does that sound?"

The crowd held its breath. Everyone knew Connor Shaw's record. He was the strongest enforcer under Victor Zane. He had once single-handedly dismantled a rival g**g's strike team of ten men. If Jack stepped into a ring with him, he wouldn't just lose; he would be leaving on a stretcher, if not in a body bag. Connor clearly intended to cripple him legally, under the guise of a sporting match.

Jack looked at Connor with an expression of utter boredom. His eyes were calm, like a deep lake that had swallowed thousands of stones.

"You aren't worthy of dying by my hand," Jack said flatly.

Boom.

The insult landed like a grenade.

"What?!"

Young Master Wolfe, who had been standing with Perry, exploded with rage. He pointed a shaking finger at Jack. "You arrogant piece of trash! You're scared, admit it! Stop pretending! Believe me, Director Shaw doesn't even need to lift a finger—I could beat you until your teeth are scattered across the floor!"

Connor chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "Little brother, real men prove themselves with action, not bragging. But I understand your fear."

He rolled his shoulders, his neck cracking. "Let's make it easier. If you can last ten minutes in the ring with me without getting knocked out... I lose. Does that give you enough hope?"

Jack sighed. It was a sound of genuine disappointment.

"I gave you a chance," Jack murmured, shaking his head. "You could have stood there and apologized. But you insist on kneeling."

He gestured toward the entrance of the club. "Fine. I'll grant your wish."

Without waiting for a response, Jack turned and walked toward the club’s boxing gym.

Tia felt her knees go weak. She rushed to catch up, whispering frantically, "Are you insane? Are you actually mentally ill? Connor Shaw is a master of combat! He’s a semi-professional killer! Forget ten minutes—you won't last three moves! You are going to get yourself killed!"

Ruby Jordan grabbed Tia’s arm, holding her back. A cruel, excited glint danced in Ruby's eyes.

"Let him go, Tia," Ruby whispered, loud enough for her friends to hear. "He needs to learn a lesson. He's too arrogant. Director Shaw knows the limits; he won't kill him. He'll just break a few ribs, maybe give him a concussion. It’s exactly what Jack needs to understand his place in the world."

Tia hesitated. She looked at Jack’s retreating back—straight, unyielding, and infuriatingly calm.

Maybe Ruby is right, Tia thought bitterly. He talks big all day long. He doesn't know how high the sky is or how deep the earth goes. If he doesn't suffer a loss now, he might offend someone even worse later and get us all killed. A beating might wake him up.

She stopped walking and let him go.

Jack, possessing the auditory acuity of a Grandmaster, heard every word of their whispered exchange. Let him suffer. He smirked internally but didn't look back. Their opinions were as relevant to him as the buzzing of flies.

The crowd, sensing blood, surged toward the boxing gym. The excitement was palpable. Watching a hillbilly get dismantled by the God of Speed was the kind of entertainment money couldn't buy.

Inside the gym, the smell of leather, sweat, and rubbing alcohol filled the air.

Connor Shaw moved with practiced efficiency. He stripped off his suit jacket, revealing a muscular physique packed with explosive power. His entourage helped him strap on professional boxing gloves and body armor. He rolled his neck, his eyes fixed on Jack.

"Put on the protective gear," Connor called out, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. "I don't want to accidentally kill you with the first punch. It would be bad for business."

Jack stood by the ring, looking at the rack of equipment. He picked up a pair of worn red gloves and pulled them on loosely. He didn't bother with hand wraps. He didn't look at the headgear or the chest protectors.

"One punch is all this will take," Jack said indifferently. "Gear is unnecessary."

He stepped through the ropes and stood in the corner, his posture relaxed, almost lazy.

"You know it'll only take one punch? Good. At least you have some self-awareness!" Connor’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure malice.

He began his warm-up. He bounced on the balls of his feet, light and agile. Whoosh! Whoosh! He threw a series of combinations into the air. His fists cut through the atmosphere with terrifying speed, generating a sonic snap that made the onlookers flinch.

"Look at that power!" a spectator gasped. "I can feel the wind from here! That right hook must carry nearly a thousand pounds of force!"

"A thousand? Easy," another replied, eyes wide with hero-worship. "They call him 'Bullbane' for a reason. He once killed a fully grown bull with a single strike to the skull. Just watch. Even with gloves, he's going to pop that kid's eyeballs out of their sockets."

"We should stand back," someone laughed nervously. "I don't want the convict's blood splashing on my Italian loafers. That would be bad luck."

The referee signaled the start.

"Begin!"

Connor Shaw didn't wait. He didn't circle. He didn't feel out his opponent. He launched himself forward like a cannonball.

A cold sneer twisted his face. Die, trash.

He leaped, closing the distance instantly, and threw a straight right hand aimed directly at Jack’s temple.

"Beautiful!" Perry Bailey shouted from the sidelines. "Direct and brutal! No fancy tricks, just pure kinetic destruction! A professional athlete couldn't block that!"

It was a killing blow. Connor held nothing back. His form was perfect, his momentum maximized. He intended to end this in one second, leaving Jack brain-damaged on the canvas.

Jack stood motionless. His arms hung by his sides. He looked like he was waiting for a bus. He didn't even blink as the fist approached his face.

The crowd held its breath, anticipating the sickening crunch of bone.

Just as Connor's fist reached three inches from Jack's face—the point of no return—Jack moved.

"He's frozen! He regrets not wearing the helmet!" Perry thought, a gleam of mockery in his eyes.

But the thought hadn't even fully formed when reality warped.

Jack tilted his head slightly to the right. The movement was minimal, almost imperceptible, but it was calculated to the millimeter. Connor's fist sailed past Jack's ear, hitting nothing but air.

In the same fluid motion, Jack's right arm snapped forward.

It wasn't a wild swing. It was a straight, simple jab, delivered with the speed of a striking cobra.

THWACK!

The sound was like a sledgehammer hitting a wet bag of cement.

Jack's fist buried itself in the center of Connor's chest.

"ARGH!"

A guttural scream ripped from Connor's throat. The momentum of his charge collided with the immovable force of Jack's strike.

His body folded in half mid-air.

He was lifted off his feet, launching backward as if he had been hit by a speeding train. He flew through the air—five full meters—before crashing onto the canvas.

Thud.

He didn't bounce. He slid, stopping only when he hit the ropes. He tried to stand, his legs scrabbling for purchase, but collapsed onto his knees.

"Bleagh!"

Connor retched violently, vomiting a mixture of bile and acid onto the pristine floor. His face was purple, his eyes bulging as he gasped for air that his paralyzed diaphragm refused to draw in.

Silence.

Absolute, dead silence descended on the gym. You could hear a pin drop.

The spectators stood with their mouths hanging open, their eyes wide with disbelief. Perry Bailey froze, his cheering hand still half-raised. Tia Sutton covered her mouth, her shock rendering her paralyzed.

This was Connor Shaw. The Bullbane. The man who killed livestock with his bare hands. The terror of the underground.

And this "hillbilly," this "convict," had swatted him like a fly?

Connor Shaw was currently kneeling in his own vomit, unable to even lift his head.

Jack slowly peeled off the cheap red gloves. He tossed them casually onto the floor in front of the kneeling man.

"I told you," Jack said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "One punch. Boring."

He looked down at the trembling figure.

"Apologize."

Connor wheezed, clutching his chest. He looked up, his face twisted in a mixture of agony and humiliation.

"Impossible..." Connor gasped, shaking his head. "Absolute... impossibility..."

He gritted his teeth, his ego refusing to accept the reality of his defeat.

"I... I was tired," Connor stammered, grasping for any excuse to save his crumbling reputation. "The racing... the drifting earlier... it drained my energy. If I was at full strength... you never would have won!"

Jack’s eyes darkened. The temperature in the room seemed to drop again.

"Oh?" Jack stepped closer, towering over the kneeling man. "So, you intend to welch on the bet?"