CHAPTER 310: CHAPTER 310 ESTATE

"Today," Alexander continued, each syllable falling like an executioner’s blade, "you will kill him. Not as an executioner. Not as an assassin. But in equal combat. No chains. No mercy."

The words echoed in the hall like a decree from the heavens.

"And should you fail..." Alexander paused, letting the silence stretch like a noose around Riley’s neck. "...he will walk free. His crimes forgiven. His chains broken. And as for you... you will die a gruesome death."

The prisoner threw back his head and laughed, a sound of savage joy that filled the chamber.

His eyes blazed with hunger, his grin splitting wider, showing yellowed teeth.

Riley’s pulse hammered in his ears, but his face remained serene, betraying nothing.

He wore the mask of an obedient son, his posture straight, his chin lifted.

Inside, however, his mind was a storm—calculations and contingencies racing like wildfire.

So this is it, he thought. A trial by blood.

Alexander stepped closer, his presence a wall of authority. "Do you understand the terms?"

Riley met his father’s gaze and nodded slowly. "Yes, Father." His voice was steady, controlled, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

The chains rattled one last time before the guards stepped forward, unlocking the shackles one by one.

Each clink of metal hitting the ground was like the tolling of a death bell.

The prisoner rolled his massive shoulders, the muscles flexing like coiled steel. His grin widened into something inhuman.

"Finally..." he growled, his voice vibrating with savage anticipation. "Let me taste freedom with blood."

Riley exhaled softly, loosening the last thread of pretense from his mind.

His eyes—calm, calculating—lifted to meet the man’s.

The fight was about to begin.

"Riley, you may choose your weapon for this fight," Alexander said, his voice carrying the weight of a verdict.

The flames from the torches along the stone walls flickered, stretching their shadows into monstrous shapes across the hall.

A rack of weapons gleamed dimly nearby—blades of varying lengths, spears, axes, even a pair of spiked clubs meant for breaking bone.

The smell of sweat, iron, and rot clung to the air, mingling with the stench of old blood seared into the stones from countless past executions.

Riley didn’t spare the weapons so much as a glance. Instead, he let his eyes drift toward the man across from him—the beast who was once a warrior of the clan, now reduced to a snarling animal thirsting for carnage.

"Anything is fine," Riley said at last, his tone smooth, almost bored. "I don’t think I’ll need any advantage over this... monster."

His words were like a blade drawn slowly, deliberately, to cut not flesh but pride.

Even the guards holding the chains stiffened, their gazes flicking toward the boy with disbelief and a trace of fear.

The man in chains—huge, scarred, his muscles twitching like coiled serpents—threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming in the enclosed space like thunder.

"HAHAHAHA! Bold words from tender meat!" His voice was harsh, cracked by years of rage and broken vows.

"I’ll tear your spine from your back and wear it like a trophy! I’ll drink your blood from your skull, boy, and then—"

"Silence him," Alexander commanded coldly.

A guard slammed a fist into the brute’s gut, forcing the words out in a strangled grunt.

Still, his grin lingered, wide and wolfish, and his eyes burned with a hunger that spoke louder than any threat.

Riley began to walk forward. His steps echoed in the quiet that followed, measured and unhurried.

The light painted him in streaks of fire and shadow, his youthful face calm, his expression unreadable.

Behind him, Alexander’s jaw tightened.

He wanted to speak—to tell his son to arm himself, to temper his pride—but the words lodged like stones in his throat.

He had forged Riley himself, hammered discipline into his bones, sharpened him into a weapon unlike any other.

He had seen this boy dismantle veterans twice his age with grace and precision that bordered on artistry.

But sparring was an illusion of war. This was truth—brutal, unflinching.

A single mistake and the boy’s brilliance would be smeared across the floor like any other corpse.

Alexander exhaled slowly, masking the storm in his chest. Arrogance or confidence?

The line is razor-thin. And even the sharpest blade snaps under enough pressure.

His gaze flicked to the far corner, barely perceptible.

In the gloom, a figure stood unmoving, draped in shadow.

Only the glimmer of metal betrayed his presence: a bow drawn halfway, arrow nocked, aimed squarely at the brute’s head.

Their eyes met for the briefest instant. The man gave a shallow nod.

Alexander returned it.

Insurance. A silent promise: If Riley falters, you end it. No hesitation.

For all his trust in his son, Alexander was not a fool.

Bloodlines could not continue on faith alone.

Riley, oblivious or perhaps uncaring of this silent exchange, stopped a mere arm’s length from the weapon rack.

His hand drifted toward it—not with urgency, but with almost casual ease—before brushing past every gleaming blade.

His fingers curled instead around a plain wooden staff leaning in the corner, worn and unadorned, its surface marked with scratches from years of neglect.

He lifted it and gave it a lazy twirl, the wood whistling through the still air.

A wooden staff.

Against a man whose arms looked like tree trunks, whose chained wrists strained against steel links thick as a child’s wrist.

A ripple of disbelief ran through the guards.

Even the chained brute blinked once, then grinned wider, a feral sneer tearing across his face.

"Boy," he growled, his voice low and dripping venom, "I’ll snap that stick and then your spine."

Riley tilted his head, his gaze steady and almost bored. "Try."

That single word cracked like a whip in the silence.

The guards hesitated, then looked to Alexander.

"Release him," the clan head ordered.

The clink of chains filled the hall, followed by a sound like thunder as the brute shook himself free.

His laugh rolled through the chamber, savage and eager.

The floor seemed to tremble under his steps as he closed in, a predator sensing easy prey.

And yet... there was something in Riley’s stance. Loose. Relaxed.

His grip on the staff casual, his breathing calm, as if the air itself bent around him in quiet obedience.

Alexander felt his heart tighten.

This is the moment, he thought. Will I watch my son ascend—or fall?

The hall grew deathly still. The torches flickered as if shrinking from what was about to unfold.

Then, without warning—

The brute lunged with crazy precision.