The weight of the narrative settled heavily upon Issac Monroe's shoulders. Even with his cultivation base, even with a state of mind that had transcended the petty squabbles of mortal men, he found a ball of fiery indignation forming in his gut. It was a visceral, burning sensation that threatened to scorch his composure.
He stood there in the dim light of the Lynch family living room, realizing a cold, hard truth that often escaped the powerful: the real world was not the curated, filter-heavy paradise seen on social media apps. It wasn't a place where justice was dispensed in thirty-second clips set to trending music. There were not billions of benevolent millionaires waiting to hand out cash to the needy. In the gritty reality of Redharrow's outskirts, the concept that "justice always
