novelraw Chapter 170: Dogs Bite the Drowning Tiger
Chapter 170: Dogs Bite the Drowning Tiger
Dogs Bite the Drowning Tiger
The stairwell still trembled with the aftermath of violence.
Dust drifted lazily through the dim yellow light overhead, shaken loose by the earlier struggle. One of the wall lamps flickered, buzzing faintly, casting broken shadows across cracked concrete.
Lucas stood breathing hard, chest heaving violently, blond hair fallen into wild disorder, blood dark at the corner of his lips.
His knuckles were skinned.
His suit was torn at the shoulder.
Pain pulsed through his ribs every time he inhaled.
Before him, Hemil and the other three abruptly halted their assault.
As though some unseen command had struck them all at once.
Their faces changed instantly—ferocity vanishing, replaced by exaggerated horror so dramatic it would have been laughable under any other circumstance.
All four dropped to one knee.
"We deserve to die!" they shouted together.
"We thought it was Julian coming down!"
Lucas nearly coughed blood from rage.
His face twitched.
Veins bulged at his temples.
A muscle near his jaw jumped uncontrollably.
He had indeed ordered these four to ambush Julian here.
Everything had been arranged.
Every angle planned.
Every contingency considered.
And yet—
who could have predicted the scheme would twist into this grotesque nightmare?
Julian and Bianca had not been poisoned.
Instead—
he had fallen into his own trap.
His own drink.
His own scheme.
His own humiliation.
And then, after being caught in that obscene disaster...
forced to wear a mask, shift blame, preserve face—
he returned only to be ambushed by his own men.
A clown.
No—
worse.
A joke written by fate.
The thought made something in his chest burn.
"Damn it!"
His roar exploded through the stairwell, echoing floor after floor like an enraged beast.
He pointed trembling fingers at Hemil.
"Do you know who tampered with my drink?"
The accusation was almost a snarl.
Hemil’s face showed startled confusion.
Perfect confusion.
Inside, however, his thoughts were far less innocent.
Yes.
I did.
So what?
But outwardly, he looked loyal enough to die.
Eyes lowered.
Posture submissive.
Voice urgent.
"I don’t know, Young Master," he said quickly.
Lucas stared at him, eyes narrowing.
Suspicion flickered there.
Disbelief.
Calculation.
For a heartbeat, the air felt taut enough to split.
Hemil suddenly looked as though recalling something.
His brows jumped.
He slapped his forehead.
"Wait..."
His voice dropped.
Careful.
Measured.
As if revealing something dangerous.
"I did see President Thalia speaking privately to a waiter."
Lucas’s eyes sharpened.
Hemil leaned closer, lowering his voice further.
"She handed him cash."
Silence.
Then the others, sensing the opening, moved immediately.
"Yes, Young Master!" one added without missing a beat.
"That woman’s eyes were on you from the start."
Another nodded solemnly, face full of righteous indignation.
"She might have done it herself."
A third leaned in.
"She wanted you."
The lie began weaving itself.
Thread by thread.
Smoothly.
Almost too smoothly.
Lucas’s fury faltered.
His breathing slowed, just a fraction.
Could it...
actually be that sow?
His mind unwillingly returned to the banquet.
Her reaching for him.
That heated gaze.
The way her voice had softened.
At the time, he had dismissed it.
Now—
through the lens of humiliation—
the possibility seemed grotesquely plausible.
A trap born of lust.
His jaw clenched.
Hard enough to ache.
He pointed at Hemil again, hand shaking with fury, wanting to explode—
to smash someone’s skull.
To vent this humiliation in blood.
But...
he restrained himself.
Barely.
His fingers slowly lowered.
Hemil watched him through lowered lashes, hiding the smile threatening to form.
Lucas looked away, chest rising and falling.
His pride had been wounded too many times tonight.
He needed an enemy.
Someone to pin this madness on.
And Thalia—
for this moment—
fit perfectly.
At last he spoke, voice low and murderous.
"The plan had a slight hiccup."
The words came through gritted teeth.
A "slight hiccup."
As if tonight had not become a catastrophe.
As if he had not been dragged through layered humiliation one absurd disaster after another.
But no one dared.
The stairwell fell silent again.
Only Lucas’s ragged breathing remained— and the heavy feeling that this was far from over.
His voice was forced calm.
"You... are very loyal."
The words nearly scraped his throat.
Because what else could he do?
Punish them?
They had only followed his own orders.
And in appearance... even protected his interests.
Hemil bowed lower.
"It is our duty."
The four spoke in unison.
Half-kneeling.
Perfectly obedient.
Almost saintly.
Lucas took a breath.
His body swayed slightly.
He was truly in terrible condition.
"I’m feeling... unwell."
That was putting it mildly.
He looked half dead.
"I need to leave for a while."
Then even now—still unwilling to let go—his eyes sharpened.
"You stay at the hotel. Watch for a chance to poison Julian and his group."
"If you succeed, inform me immediately."
Even broken and humiliated... he still clung to revenge.
Hemil nearly admired the persistence.
"Understood, Young Master."
Lucas turned.
And dashed out.
He needed water.
Soap.
An ocean.
The greasy smell clinging to him felt unbearable.
He wanted to scrub skin off.
But fate had one more joke.
The moment he ran out the hotel’s back door—
two figures exploded from the roadside shadows.
Fast.
Precise.
Like crouching wolves.
Boom!
A fist.
Wham!
A kick.
Both landed before Lucas fully reacted.
His body jolted backward.
The attackers were Bianca’s two Old Martial Arts bodyguards.
Peak Iron Realm.
Both formidable.
And they had waited a long time.
Taking advantage of Lucas’s chaotic mental state, they launched a perfect sneak attack.
Then pressed the advantage without mercy.
Punches stormed.
Kicks sliced.
A palm strike nearly shattered his breath.
Lucas was furious enough to burst.
He—a dignified peak Silver Realm expert.
A prodigy of the Obsidian Wing.
Compared to him, even Obsidian King Evan would pale.
When had he suffered humiliation like this?
Bullied by two weaklings not even at Silver Realm?
Under normal conditions he could crush both with one hand.
One hand.
But now?
His previous injuries remained.
Vital energy depleted.
Three hours of drug-driven madness.
Then beaten by the Scythe Division.
At this moment his limbs felt like boiled noodles.
Heavy.
Slack.
Powerless.
And against two peak Iron Realm fighters attacking like starving dogs...
he was being driven back.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Worse—
these two were ruthless.
Their blows aimed to kill.
No hesitation.
One hissed while striking,
"For Miss Bianca."
The other answered,
"Break his ribs first."
Lucas nearly exploded.
"Trash!"
He forced a counter.
A palm blasted one attacker back three steps.
But the second drove a knee into his side.
Crack.
Pain ripped through him.
Blood sprayed from his lips.
He staggered.
His condition worsened rapidly.
His breathing became ragged.
Vision dimmed.
Another blow hit his shoulder.
Then another.
And another.
After sustaining more injuries, Lucas spat out a large mouthful of blood.
Warm scarlet stained the pavement.
His heart sank.
Danger.
Real danger.
For the first time tonight...
he sensed death.
His pride warred against survival.
Then survival won.
With a deep breath—
he cast pride aside.
And shouted with all his strength,
"Help!"