Vonjo didn’t even flinch as the voice rang out, filled with self-importance and the brittle authority of someone clinging to hierarchy. “Call the High Authority!” someone shrieked from the dining hall entrance, but Vonjo didn’t so much as glance in their direction.

Instead, he rolled his shoulders with a lazy grace, loosening the tension in his arms as if he were preparing for a mild stretch rather than an escalating confrontation.

“Let’s go round two exercises!”

The fractured chandeliers above swung slightly from the weight of silence and expectation, the room hanging in suspension.

The first looking bodyguard like, still stunned that Vonjo had effortlessly slipped from his grasp, attempted to regain control. His massive frame lunged, powered by thick muscle and reinforced with what many would call Fallen Curse Energy—a corrupted form of spiritual force harvested from the wastelands and twisted with intent.

His fist surged toward Vonjo’s cheek, glimmering faintly with dark, blistering energy, crackling like a coiled snake ready to bite.

The punch landed. Or rather, it should have.

Instead, Vonjo remained still. Not a tremble. Not a blink.

The bodyguard’s entire arm, from wrist to elbow, simply stopped, as if hitting a wall of nothingness.

There was no satisfying crunch, no impact—just that eerie moment when the momentum of force meets an immovable void.

Then, with a grotesque squelch, the man’s arm began to twist unnaturally at the joints. His eyes widened, horror replacing confusion as he watched his own flesh turn black, peel, and then—vanish.

Gone.

No blood. No severed limb. Just… a void where his arm once was. It looked like his hand had been devoured, sucked into some unseen mouth that gnawed hungrily upon reality itself.

The bodyguard staggered back, screaming, cradling the nothingness where his hand used to be. “What the hell did you do?! What is that?! WHAT IS THAT?!”

Vonjo chuckled lowly, eyes gleaming. “Oh, that? That’s what happens when you try to touch someone who doesn’t want to be touched. Lesson one. Keep your filthy limbs to yourself.”

The shrill screams echoed throughout the dining hall, drawing attention like a bloody scent in water.

Before the stunned diners could even process what had happened, two more guards—taller, broader, faces marked with ceremonial brands of the Sutterfouse inner faction—stormed in.

Their steps were thunderous, their matching cloaks swirling behind them with deliberate menace.

Their presence sent a ripple through the air. These were not low-ranked dogs. They were Vance’s elite.

“You!” one of them bellowed, pointing at Vonjo. “Enough of this farce. You’re causing a disturbance and attacking House Sutterfouse personnel. You will be escorted out now.”

“You should’ve never come,” the other added, voice lower, more dangerous. “This is sacred ground for the blood of Sutterfouse—not a playground for trash like you.”

Vonjo casually leaned back against a pillar, arms crossed. “Trash? You mean an important guest, right? Or did you two forget that it was you who invited me here?”

“Don’t mock us, bastard,” the first snapped, stepping forward. “Even if we invited you, this is not a place for you to cause trouble!”

The second continued, voice seething with contempt, “You will come with us. Now. Or we will ensure you leave in pieces.”

“Whoa, so dramatic.” Vonjo tilted his head. “You two rehearse that in front of a mirror?”

Their eyes glowed faintly with cursed sigils, and in a flash, they pounced.

Vonjo let himself be hit. Or so it seemed.

One guard’s foot smashed into his chest. The other’s elbow aimed for his temple. They grinned—just for a second—thinking they’d caught him.

But then their expressions twisted into disbelief. Vonjo wasn’t where they thought he’d be.

“Behind you,” he whispered.

He was standing, once again, behind them—hands in pockets. No fanfare. No energy surge. Just pure, terrifying repositioning.

“Try again?”

The guards roared, spinning around, drawing curved daggers inscribed with curse runes. They attacked in tandem—one aiming low, the other striking high. Their movements were calculated, fast, and brutal.

Vonjo ducked beneath one blade, his hand grabbing the attacker’s wrist and twisting until the man’s bones cracked like dry twigs. He kneed the second in the stomach, sending him into a skidding roll across the tiled floor.

The one with the broken wrist tried to retaliate with a backhand, but Vonjo caught his forearm mid-swing and snapped it in the opposite direction with a sickening pop.

“Pathetic,” Vonjo murmured. “You trained with curses and forgot the basics. No soul. No instinct.”

A thundering BOOM echoed as one of the guards unleashed his full curse energy in a desperate attempt to create space, the dark flame roaring like a funeral pyre.

The tables around them were reduced to ash. Plates shattered. Screams echoed in the background.

The other diners had already fled or ducked behind what furniture remained.

But Vonjo stood unscathed in the middle of the destruction, adjusting his cuffs with exaggerated care.

“Is that all the guards can do against me?” he asked, cracking his neck. “I thought the House of Sutterfouse is not a place for the weak. Why are you all weak!?”

In the blink of an eye, he was in front of them again. Then the beatdown began in earnest.

He wasn’t just fighting. He was making a point. Each punch to their ribs echoed like drumbeats of domination. He drove one of them through a table, elbowed another in the throat, back-kicked one into a crumbling wall.

One tried to cast a sigil barrier. Vonjo crushed the man’s hand mid-drawing with a stomp so precise it broke fingers like glass.

Then came more.

Two more guards. Then five. Then ten.

It was a flood.

They came from side halls, from behind banners, from shadowy corners with snarling commands and drawn weapons.

A sea of black uniforms, muscles rippling, curse energies brimming with death intent. They moved like a coordinated army, thinking numbers would overwhelm.

They were wrong.

Vonjo flowed through them like a storm. Not even like a fighter, more like a force of nature. His strikes were rhythmic, his dodges fluid. Not once did he panic, not once did he backpedal.

One tried to choke him from behind—Vonjo threw his head back, breaking the man’s nose. Another lunged with a spear—Vonjo grabbed it mid-air, spun the wielder off balance, and flung him into two others.

The air became thick with the stench of crushed curses and sweat.

The sound of bone meeting flesh, the thud of bodies hitting floor, the splintering of furniture underfoot—it became a chorus of humiliation.

And all the while, Vonjo grinned.

Lazily. Almost bored.

“Eugene,” he called over his shoulder, dodging a fist and kicking the attacker’s shin in the same motion, “this is what you call family reunion hospitality, haha!”

Eugene, still pressed to the wall, drenched in sweat, didn’t dare answer. His lips trembled. “Sir… this is insane.”

The bullet comments on the livestream burst with a flurry of text.

[User_878]: Bro’s not low-key. He’s a thermonuclear warhead with sarcasm.

[WastedYouthX]: Give that man a throne! The Sutterfouse guards are being cooked.

[Vonjo_Fanclub]: I came for the drama, I stayed for the curb-stomping.

[HolyFrog89]: Did anyone see that arm devouring thing?! What was that???

[Sir_SipsTea]: This is what happens when you abandon the real heir. Now pay the price.

As the dust finally settled, bodies littered the floor. Some groaning. Some unconscious. Some unmoving.

And Vonjo… stood alone.

At the center.

Breathing steadily. Not a scratch on him.

Then—plop.

A frog leapt through the chaos and landed gracefully on his shoulder, as if sensing that the storm had passed.

Vonjo chuckled softly and reached up to scratch the frog’s chin. “Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

The frog gave a pleased little croak, as if to say I didn’t want to get my feet dirty.

And in that moment, Vonjo stood tall in the wreckage—smiling, proud, and very much unfazed—while the Sutterfouse estate echoed with whispers of dread.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep