CHAPTER 292: CHAPTER 292

There was no time to react.

No time to blink, the force of the punch was inhuman.

The man’s jaw crumbled instantly a clean snap. His teeth were blasted from his mouth like shards of glass. His nose flattened, blood spurting violently out. His skull jerked sideways and slammed into his own shoulder as he collapsed to the floor, face-first, like a sack of bones dropped from a rooftop.

He didn’t move again not even a twitch, Silence.

For a second, no one breathed. No one blinked. The only sound was the soft clinking of the man’s teeth bouncing across the floor, one after the other, rolling slowly... then stopping near the boots of the next man in line.

Cora covered her mouth in shock. She had seen the footage of Oliver fighting before, but this....this was something else.

The remaining nine men froze, they looked at their fallen comrade his jaw twisted, his nose broken, his face a mess of blood and bone. Then, they looked back at Oliver.

All the arrogance vanished from their faces, what the hell just happened?

Just one punch, Just one, and this was the result.

As a few more teeth clinked to a stop on the floor, the remaining men stared at Oliver, some swallowing hard, others backing a half-step without realizing it.

At that moment, seeing the subtle tremble in a few of the men’s fingers and the way their legs refused to move, Oliver tilted his head slightly and smiled not the kind of smile that offered comfort, but the kind that made grown men doubt everything about themselves.

"Come on, boys," he said calmly, dusting the shoulders of his shirt as if bored. "Don’t tell me one punch and you’re all frozen. Where’s that energy you had a few seconds ago? Hm?" His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of provocation, like he was daring them to try something foolish. "You’re really going to let your friend lie there with his face buried in the ground like trash... and do nothing about it?"

His words hit like slaps. The man closest to Oliver clenched his jaw so tight his teeth creaked. Another man’s nostrils flared, his breathing quickening. One of them muttered, "Screw this," under his breath, but didn’t move. What they had just witnessed one punch completely rearranging a man’s face and knocking him out cold was not something they could shake off.

But pride is a dangerous thing, within seconds, a few of them snapped out of their shock. Fury took over, masking their fear. Muscles tightened. Teeth ground. The man to Oliver’s left let out a sharp whistle, and five men surged forward like a wave.

And just when they thought they had him surrounded just when it seemed Oliver was finally going to be overwhelmed he did something that no one in that room expected.

Oliver moved, but not like an ordinary fighter. Not like someone trying to hold his ground or brawl. No he glided. His body twisted like water, smooth and terrifying. He ducked beneath the first swing, grabbed the attacker by the collar, spun him around, and sent him flying into two others with bone-cracking force. The sound of bodies colliding and furniture shattering echoed across the room.

One of the men lunged with a yell, swinging a metal rod he must’ve hidden beneath his coat. But before it even came close to Oliver’s body, Oliver caught it mid-air—without flinching and slammed the man’s wrist down hard, bending it backward with a snap that sounded like dry wood. The man dropped like a sack of stones, howling in agony.

In the chaos, Oliver spun again, landing kicks and blows so fast and so clean, it was hard to believe a human being was doing it. One by one, men fell groaning, unconscious, or completely immobilized.

Now, of the original twenty or so men, only about thirteen or fourteen remained upright shocked, frozen, or trying to quietly edge away. Some still had their fists clenched, but none dared move.

Even the fake customers who had joined earlier now pressed against the walls, their confidence shattered.

That was when the woman in charge, the same one who had laughed earlier and mocked Oliver, stepped forward slowly. Her eyes were no longer playful. They were sharp now. Focused. And for the first time... uncertain.

She stared hard at Oliver. Her fingers twitched slightly as she took in the bruised and broken bodies scattered across the floor like tossed-out trash.

"...Who the hell are you?"

At that moment, hearing what the lady just said, Oliver’s lips curled into a slow, dark smile. He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. His voice was low, calm, but heavy with danger.

"I’m your worst nightmare," he said. "I’m the person they whisper about in fear... the one they pray never to cross paths with. The kind of man you don’t even want breathing the same air as you. And yet... here you are."

Cora, who was still sitting nearby, had her heart thudding in her chest. The calm in Oliver’s voice wasn’t soothing it was terrifying. She could feel it. Something had changed in the air. It was like the room itself had gone cold, even though no wind blew. She stared at him. Oliver wasn’t bluffing. He had just dropped the mask completely.

The woman who a moment ago was confident, smug even felt a chill run down her spine. Her confidence started to crumble. Her hands trembled slightly, but she tried to hold her ground, tried to understand why her instincts were suddenly screaming at her to back away.

Then, in that same slow and deliberate motion, Oliver adjusted his rolled-up sleeve. He pulled it even higher exposing his arm just enough. And that was when her eyes landed on it.

A tattoo.

A baby dragon, inked close to his upper muscle.

It was simple but fierce, drawn in black ink with golden eyes staring out from the creature’s face. But it wasn’t just the dragon that stopped her breath it was the script inside it. Etched along the spine of the dragon was a string of foreign characters, a language most people would never recognize. But she did.

She knew it.

She had grown up hearing the stories. Her grandfather used to whisper them to her, late at night when thunder rolled over the mountains. Stories about people who carried dragons not on their backs but in their blood. Stories about a symbol, a secret mark. A warning, and her boss also knew the story.

And now, right in front of her, stood a man with the very same tattoo... the same symbols her grandfather once told her translated to a single title:

"The Heir."

Her face turned pale.

Her legs gave out beneath her before she could stop herself. And with no hesitation, she fell to her knees.

Everyone around her froze in confusion. But she didn’t care.

Her body trembled. Her forehead touched the ground.

"I... I deserve to die for this."