CHAPTER 582: PRICE OF SLANDER

But how could that be possible when a certain Marquis had been looking forward to this opportunity for weeks?

At first, Draven Holt had not seen any of this as a threat.

In fact, he was even generous enough to pity those poor fools whose luxury trading and private contract businesses would soon collapse because of the sudden rise of goods from that suspicious guild.

Of course, his pity came bundled with sneers. But that was the extent of it.

After all, not his backyard, not his problem.

Or so he thought.

Because who could have imagined they would have the audacity to invade his very own realm?

That stupid support-type combination mecha, made by that arrogant little brat who thought he was a genius.

Holt could still tolerate the mecha built for the Marshal, because obviously that was a one-off. With materials like that, no one in their right mind would think it could be mass-produced.

In fact, the Marshal’s mecha had actually been good for business. It gave Holt an opportunity to demonstrate the impracticality of equipping the military with such nonsense, reinforcing the value of his own work: producing solid, dependable, manual mechas.

But then that good-for-nothing boy had to ruin it by introducing a way to make combination mechas useful in contaminated zones.

Only one mecha. Only one specialized pilot.

And yet it was enough to spark interest again.

Completely outrageous.

There was no way his company and his family would be dragged back into the nightmare of near-bankruptcy. Not because of some know-it-all child who probably had no idea what he was even doing.

And then to share knowledge with other masters? Laughable. Everyone knew a real master guarded their secrets to squeeze every last credit from them.

But no. Not this brat. Of course not. Clearly, he wanted people to rush and call him a "master" early, without earning it.

And of course, it had to be that House. Always so noble, always so righteous, always climbing their high horses of virtue and generosity. What would they know of almost losing everything? They had no idea how sharp survival could taste, and so they stomped on others without a care, cloaking it in kindness.

So why shouldn’t he play dirty, too?

Only, who would have guessed it would be this difficult to find anything on the boy’s actual achievements?

Who would have thought it would be nearly impossible to even locate him? If not for a chance glimpse at the Marshal’s schedule after he himself attempted to schedule a meeting, Holt wouldn’t have even realized there was a meeting with the people of House Kyros and that accursed guild.

And that was how this plan came to be.

So then why—why was it not unfolding the way it should?

Was it because of that monster cadet? Or because Holt had trusted that con man to spin his story?

But it should have worked. It really should have. A dead woman and a missing child were more than enough to shake some faith. At the very least, it should have rattled that rumored boyfriend.

So why—

Why was he clutching his gut, coughing, spitting blood onto the floor?

Splurt!

Blood splattered from Draven Holt’s mouth, warm and bitter, staining his lips and chin.

He had agreed to the duel earlier because why wouldn’t he? It was against a posturing cadet, still wet behind the ears, probably still waking up with milk teeth.

Yet before he could even get a proper taunt out, the boy hit him so hard he thought his innards had been rearranged into modern art.

Draven knelt on the ground, clutching his body, shame and fury boiling together. His vision swam red, but then a sneer twisted his face. Because how arrogant was this child, this white-haired upstart, to actually turn his back on an enemy who was not even dead yet? Who even does that?

Well. Apparently, one who did not need eyes to "see."

Holt’s sneer widened as he signaled to his men.

The fight was not over.

Fwissh!

A hidden dart gun, sleek and extremely discreet, fired from the shadows. The bioneedle would vanish without a trace once it struck, dissolving into flesh. Perfect. Untraceable.

Only the brat sidestepped it. Effortlessly. Like he had been expecting it.

But before Holt’s disbelief could even register, the cadet vanished.

The next moment he reappeared right in front of Holt, and a boot slammed into his chest.

Crash!

Holt’s body flew like a ragdoll, straight into the watchers’ stand, knocking down not only himself but also his own men. The dart-wielders cried out as splinters and metal shards rained over them. It happened so fast that the subordinates did not even have time to evade their boss, who had turned into a projectile.

The audience erupted. Shock, awe, and even delight filled the air.

The people of House Kyros shot to their feet.

Duke Leander leapt down from the stands, ready to wring Holt’s throat himself, when Xavier’s voice cut through the noise, sharp as a blade.

"Firing a poison dart because you couldn’t win?"

The crowd hushed instantly.

"Is this a reflection of House Holt?"

Holt staggered up, spitting blood and outrage. "What kind of slander is that?! Do you even know what you are talking about?"

Xavier’s expression did not flicker. "Sure. All I need to do is find which one of you fired it, right?"

He turned his gaze to one of the soldiers.

That one look was enough. The spectators stiffened, the soldier’s face drained of blood, and panic rippled through the Holt entourage like a sickness.

Whispers exploded. Accusations. Murmurs. Suspicion.

The Holt soldiers realized in a heartbeat that they had to silence this boy, now, before he could say another word. After all, if it were like that, then there wouldn’t be any proof.

They lunged.

A fist shot toward Xavier’s head—

Thwack!

It never landed. Duke Leander’s kick intercepted it mid-flight, sending the soldier flying across the arena like a rock thrown for a game.

And then chaos broke loose.

It was an all-out brawl.

Fists, boots, and even chairs flew. Soldiers swarmed Xavier like rabid dogs, only to be floored by bone-crunching counters. The Duke waded into the fray like a storm given flesh, every strike a punishing blow that left Holt’s men sprawled and groaning. Even Butler Gary’s cane cracked against a shin with surprising vigor, while Ollie’s horrified shouts echoed from the sidelines.

And through it all, Xavier’s face never changed.

Cold. Calculating.

Unbeknownst to the crowd, the scuffle was exactly what he had wanted.

From the instant he saw which family was involved in this, Xavier knew it was business-related. It had to be. Who else would risk something this brazen over a threatened contract? The Holts had held the manual mecha production monopoly since its introduction. And Luca’s presence seemed to have threatened them.

Xavier had expected resistance. He had even expected sabotage.

But this?

But then, to touch on Luca like that? And to use a non-existent child? What if his wife were to get triggered by such words?

Obviously, that man would have to pay with everything he’s got and more.

And Xavier knew exactly how to win.

Step one: Destroy him.

Step two: Destroy his business.

Step three: Destroy their existence.

The Imperial Crown Prince had already tasked Sid to whisper to D-29 about the possible use of its particular skills.

Now all that remained was to get into Holt’s terminal amid this orchestrated disaster.

A long enough brawl. That was the perfect cover.

And after D-29 was delivered with a bow, there would be no Holt Armaments Consortium left to spit blood ever again.