CHAPTER 167: IT CAN’T BE!!

"Luna?" Kyle’s voice cracked as he pushed himself off the floor, eyes wide in disbelief.

The entire hall froze for a second—then whispers started spreading like a current through the gathered relatives. Faces turned, questions floated under their breath.

"Who is she?"

"I’ve never seen her before."

"Wait... did he say Luna?"

Most of them had no idea who this girl was. Only three people in that room did—Miles, Kyle, and Silvey.

Chester slammed his palm on the table, furious. "How dare you, girl! Guards—capture that girl!"

Before anyone could move, a sharp voice cut through the chaos.

"No one. Dare. To move."

Miles had stepped in front of Luna, his voice cold as ice. The words struck like thunder. Every guard hesitated as his gaze swept across the room.

Gordon rose from his chair, his cane trembling in his hand. "Enough!" he shouted. "What is the meaning of this, Miles?"

Miles’s expression didn’t waver. "This woman," he said, turning slightly, "is one of the victims of Kyle’s cruelty."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The Sterling name had been spoken with pride for generations, but now—every whispered word tasted of scandal.

Kyle’s face twisted with disbelief. "Luna! I raised you! I gave you a home! How can you do this to me?"

Luna’s voice cracked, but it carried strength. "You killed my father! You’re a monster!"

The room went still. Even Silvey froze in her seat, her eyes wide, tears threatening to spill. Luna...the friend who had stayed close all this time, hiding under another name—Layla.

David clenched his fists on the wheelchair armrests, his voice shaking with rage. "Dad, Kyle and Chester have violated more family rules than anyone in this room. He tried to kill me just to get a chair!"

"You need evidence, right?" Miles said, voice suddenly sharp, dangerous.

He reached into his suit, pulled out a thick folder, and slammed it on the table with a crack.

"Take a look."

The sound echoed in the marble hall. Everyone flinched.

Miles’s eyes were cold as stone. "These are the records of his illegal activities for the last two decades. You talk about being clean, about following the family code—yet you’ve been running filth under the name Sterling."

One of Gordon’s aides hurried over and picked up the folder, handing it to him with trembling hands.

The old patriarch opened it slowly. Pages flipped—each one filled with proof: offshore accounts, money laundering trails, bribes, shell companies. As he read, his expression darkened, line by line, word by word.

A low murmur grew around the hall. The family’s younger generation exchanged horrified looks; the elders whispered to one another, faces twisted in disgust.

All eyes turned toward Chester and Kyle.

Disdain. Disbelief. Betrayal.

Kyle was still sitting on the ground, clutching his ribs, his mind spinning. He’d planned everything perfectly. David was supposed to stay unconscious. The doctor was supposed to keep quiet. Miles was supposed to be stuck in Star Harbor. But somehow, everything had fallen apart.

He played me, Kyle thought. He outplayed me at my own game.

Gordon’s cane hit the floor with a loud thud. "What the hell is this, Chester?!" he roared. "I never expected something like this from you!"

His eyes shifted to Kyle—burning with fury. "And you! You tried to kill my son—my blood! How dare you!"

Gordon’s voice cut through the chaos, rough and urgent. "Silvey — call the authorities. Now."

Silvey rose, voice trembling but determined, and fumbled for her phone

But before she could move another step—

Kyle suddenly stood. And then—he laughed.

At first, it was low. Then louder. Then wild. A manic, echoing laughter that filled the entire room, bouncing off the marble walls like a mad symphony.

"You think it’s that simple?" he said, pacing in a slow circle, his voice rising with every step.

Then he stopped—and clapped.

A hollow sound, once, twice, three times.

And in that instant, every aide standing along the balcony and the corners of the room moved in unison.

Hands slipped into coats. Metal glinted.

Guns.

Dozens of handguns were drawn and cocked, aimed at the family members seated around the table. The hall transformed from a boardroom into a battlefield.

Screams erupted. Chairs fell. People ducked for cover.

Kyle stood in the center, smiling like a man who had just pulled the pin on a grenade.

"Welcome to the real family meeting."

Kyle’s laughter still echoed through the grand hall, bouncing between the marble pillars like the voice of a madman. He held his gun steady, his eyes locked on Miles.

"What did you think, huh?" Kyle shouted, his tone shifting from amusement to fury. "That I came unprepared for the worst? My dear nephew Miles... you ruined my plans, and now you’ll repay me with your life!"

The metallic click of the hammer filled the silence as Kyle aimed straight at Miles’s chest.

But Miles didn’t move.

He didn’t flinch.

He just stood there — calm, steady, eyes sharp as glass.

David gripped the arms of his wheelchair tightly. "You’re going too far, Kyle!"

Kyle’s grin turned cruel. "Brother, you should’ve just died in that crash."

Chester sat beside him, his lips curling in pride. He wasn’t shocked — he was satisfied. The chaos in the hall only made him lean back further, watching the destruction unfold like it was long overdue.

Gordon’s voice thundered across the room. "You won’t get away with this!"

"Shut the hell up, old man!" Kyle snapped, spinning toward him, gun still in hand. "I’ve heard enough of your empty speeches! From now on, you’ll do what I say!"

He reached into his coat and pulled out a set of papers — folded, creased, official-looking. He slammed them down on the table in front of David.

"Sign them!"

David glanced at the documents, his face cold. "You’re kidding. I’m not signing a damn thing."

Kyle’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. "Sign it, David. I don’t like repeating myself. The time of your rule is over — it’s my turn to take everything."

The tension was thick enough to choke on. No one dared move.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Kyle noticed something — a flicker of movement. Silvey’s hand, subtle, sliding toward her phone beneath the table.

Kyle’s eyes narrowed. His jaw twitched.

"No one moves!" he shouted. "Take their phones — all of them! Now!"

The aides moved swiftly, guns trained on the family as they went from person to person, collecting every device. Whispers and gasps filled the hall, but fear overruled every word.

Kyle walked slowly, his boots clicking against the floor, until he stood in front of Luna.

"Your phone."

Her face was calm — unnervingly calm. Cold eyes stared back at him, showing no fear.

Kyle raised his gun a little higher, the muzzle nearly touching her forehead. "I said, your phone, Luna."

Luna reached into her pocket, pulled out the phone, and handed it over.

Kyle smirked, stepping closer. "I thought I saw potential in you. I really did. You could’ve had a good future, Luna. But unfortunately—" he leaned closer, voice dripping venom "you chose the wrong side."

He turned, and now his gun leveled again — directly at Miles.

"And you..." Kyle said, his words steady but his voice trembling with anger. "I don’t believe a word you say, my dear nephew. You’re hiding something — I can feel it. Maybe under that fancy suit. So, please... strip."

David slammed his hand on the armrest. "You’ll regret this, Kyle!"

Kyle didn’t even look at him. "I wasn’t talking to you."

He motioned with his gun again. "Take off your coat."

Miles stood there, expression unreadable. Slowly, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, his eyes never leaving Kyle’s. He slid it off and let it drop to the marble floor with a dull thud.

Kyle circled him like a predator. "Now the shirt."

Miles loosened his tie.

Unbuttoned his collar.

One button. Two. Three.

The room held its breath.

And then — in one smooth motion — he pulled off his shirt.

The gasps that followed echoed through the hall.

Every person present — from the elders to the youngest cousins — froze where they stood. Even the armed aides hesitated, the barrels of their guns dipping slightly.

Miles’s torso was a canvas of scars — deep, old, deliberate. Each mark spoke of pain, of violence, of survival. His build was solid, powerful, the kind of strength born from battle, not luxury.

But what truly silenced the room... was the tattoo on his chest.

A black, coiled symbol — sharp lines and smoke-like strokes — carved over his heart.

The Grim Reaper’s mark.

Kyle’s entire body went rigid. His hand shook. He stumbled back — one step, two, five — the fear hitting him like a wave.

"You..." he stammered. His voice cracked. "You’re..."

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

The words died in his throat, swallowed by shock. His pupils widened, his breath grew uneven. His hand trembled, the gun lowering unconsciously.

Everyone watched him—confused. They had no idea what he’d just seen, what had made the arrogant Kyle Sterling, who’d threatened to kill his own family, suddenly step back like he’d seen a ghost.

Miles stood still, expression blank, unreadable. The room was silent enough to hear the faint hum of the chandelier lights.

Kyle’s mouth opened again, but no sound came out. His gaze was fixed on the mark on Miles’s chest—something about it had shattered the calm, something only he seemed to recognize.

Chester was confused. "What’s wrong, Kyle?"

No answer.

Kyle stumbled a step back, his eyes locked on that symbol like it was a nightmare pulled from his past. His voice finally broke the silence, hoarse and uncertain.

"You... how... how do you have that..."

Miles tilted his head slightly. His tone was cold, quiet.

"Now you’re asking the right question."

Miles walked forward.

"You were saying something?" he asked, voice soft but edged like a blade.

Kyle’s hands trembled so badly the gun wavered. "Don’t come closer," he stammered, every bravado drained. "If you come closer, these people will die."

Miles stopped, smirked without warmth. "What happened to you, Kyle? Weren’t you just laughing a minute ago?"

Kyle’s eyes flitted around the hall, looking for an escape that wasn’t there. "See, Miles—graveyard has nothing to do with me. Please leave. I won’t bother you again."

Miles laughed then, low and hard, the sound bouncing off the marble like a warning. "You think I’ll let you go? After you destroyed my childhood? After you made my mother suffer for years? After you ruined my father’s name seventeen years ago—do you think you walk out of this untouched?"

He stepped closer, each footfall measured, until the space between them was a breath. Kyle’s knuckles went white on the gun. Faces all around the room tightened; some began to back away, eyes flicking between the two men as if expecting the instant to explode into violence.

Miles didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. The words he let out were colder than any shout. "You killed my father," he said simply, letting the accusation hang. It was not a plea. It was a verdict.

The room froze.

Gasps rippled through the hall.

Gordon’s face went pale, his hand gripping the armrest so tight his knuckles turned white.

David’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Whispers broke among the family — quiet, frightened, disbelieving.

Even the ticking of the old clock on the wall felt louder than breath.

Everyone was staring at Kyle now — the man accused of murdering a blood relative.

To be continued.