CHAPTER 473: CHAPTER 473: COME AT ME

The leader of the invading men—broad shoulders layered with sun-toughened muscle, three natural stripes wrapped around each arm like fierce animal marks earned through blood, war, and evolution—stared up at Zyran with a deep frown.

These weren’t painted lines or carved decorations.

No.

Each stripe was a beast-mark, a clear sign of status and power—gifts awakened only after surviving life-threatening trials, killing something stronger than yourself, or breaking past a cultivation wall with your body alone. They were said to burn into the skin like molten iron when awakened, glowing red-hot before settling into permanent, ink-black bands.

One stripe meant: novice warrior.

Two stripes meant: elite hunter.

Three stripes meant: someone strong enough to kill a mountain lion with bare hands.

This man?

He had three on each arm.

His expression said, Who the hell is this flamboyant menace on a tree?

Zyran only smiled back like he’d been waiting all week for someone to ask.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, gripping his spear.

Zyran didn’t miss a beat.

"I asked first."

The leader’s mouth opened—

But Zyran raised a single finger.

"Ah—"

Then—

"A-paPA!"

Zyran pushed off the tree branch with the effortless grace of a shadow-born predator—silent, fluid, lethal. When he landed, it wasn’t a thud; it was a purr of impact, dust curling around him like it recognized royalty.

The golden goblet in his hand shimmered once... then smoothly shifted into a carved wooden wine bottle, because apparently even gravity obeyed his theatrics.

(Where did the bottle come from? Nobody knew. Not even physics knew. Physics was in a corner crying.)

The raiders stumbled back, spears lifting. They stared at him like he was a rabid squirrel that might suddenly start speaking in tongues.

Zyran twirled the bottle like a toy.

"You all look so angry," he said cheerfully.

"Like you want to fight me. Alright then."

He winked at Cyrus.

Just a quick flick of his eyes—warm, amused, disrespectfully confident.

Cyrus ignored him. Completely.

He was done. Finished. Tired.

If Zyran wanted to cause chaos, he could. Cyrus was beyond caring. He leaned against a wooden table he had crafted days ago, crossed his arms, and mentally prepared himself for whatever headache Zyran was about to unleash.

The raiders slowly spread out, preparing to charge.

And Zyran said softly, "Come at me."

They moved—

Except... they didn’t.

Every single one froze.

Mid-step.

Mid-breath.

Mid-battle cry.

It was like someone hit pause on twelve grown men.

Their eyes went wide.

Their legs refused to move.

Their spears trembled uselessly in their fists.

One man’s mouth hung open mid-yell, stuck like a broken statue.

Zyran stood in the exact center of them, smiling like a parent watching toddlers struggle with sticks.

The leader’s voice cracked.

"Y-you! What did you do to us?"

Zyran blinked innocently.

"I don’t know. Why are you asking me questions? you didn’t answer mine when I asked"

Ophelia snorted.

Valen glared at her for having the audacity to find this funny during a hostage situation.

Zyran walked casually among the frozen men, swirling his drink.

He tapped one on the shoulder.

The man couldn’t even twitch.

Zyran grinned wider.

"Now," he said, pacing like he was teaching children pottery,

"who did you say you were looking for?"

The leader swallowed. Hard. "We are here... for the woman... the one our king wants. The one they call the goddess. The one who—"

"Ahhhhh."

Zyran dragged the sound out dramatically, nodding like he finally understood the meaning of life.

"I did think I heard that wrong."

He put one hand on his hip and gestured with the wine bottle as he walked around them like they were museum exhibits.

Cyrus rubbed his face tiredly.

He wasn’t even tense anymore.

If Zyran was here, these men were already dead—they just didn’t know it yet.

Ophelia stood behind Valen, clutching his arm with big, worried eyes but also... was she slightly entertained?

Yes.

Yes she was.

Even she couldn’t deny watching Zyran in action was like watching a beautifully unhinged theater performance.

"You know," Zyran sighed loudly, pointing his bottle at Ophelia,

"this cute fluff ball over here is actually right. My goddess isn’t here."

Ophelia gasped.

"Fluff ball??"

Zyran ignored her.

He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically.

"She ran away from home," he lamented. "Left me heartbroken. Devastated. Ruined."

Valen whispered, "Please don’t encourage him."

Zyran strutted around the frozen men like a storyteller around a fire.

"And THIS man—"

He jabbed his bottle in Cyrus’s direction.

"—she REJECTED him."

Cyrus didn’t even look at him.

"I was not rejected."

"It’s basically the same thing."

"It is not."

"It is. Don’t lie to the children."

Valen coughed, confused.

"What children?"

Zyran waved him off.

"Spiritual children."

The invaders watched with complete horror.

This man was insane.

He was insane AND strong.

The worst combination.

Finally, the leader snapped, "Let us go!"

Zyran turned slowly.

His smile sharpened.

"Oh no. No no no."

He clicked his tongue.

"I’m not done talking. Don’t interrupt me."

The man wilted.

Zyran continued strolling like he was recounting a tragic love story.

"And you know, she broke my heart like this—"

He lifted his hand dramatically.

"Pa..."

He pointed at one man.

"Pa..."

He pointed at another.

"PAAAA."

He pointed at a third.

Everyone blinked.

What kind of Stone Age opera was happening?

Then—

Zyran slashed his hand to the side lazily.

Just a gesture.

Barely a flick.

Silence.

Then—

THUD.

A head rolled on the dirt.

Then another.

Then another.

Three heads.

Three bodies collapsing like puppets with the strings cut.

The sound echoed across the entire village like thunder.

Ophelia grabbed Valen’s arm so hard he almost yelped.

Valen froze mid-breath.

Cyrus’s tail jerked once in shock even though he knew Zyran was reckless. But then again this was expected.

Even the frozen raiders and their leader seemed MORE frozen than they were already—eyes blown wide with raw, animal fear.

They hadn’t even realized Zyran had moved.

They couldn’t understand how someone without a single stripe on his arm—zero—could kill three of them with one hand swipe.

Cyrus closed his eyes briefly.

He suddenly understood why Isabella said Zyran had "no home training."

Zyran clapped the dust off his hands.

"Okay!" he chirped brightly.

"Now that we’ve taken attendance, who wants to answer my question properly?"