novelraw Chapter 171: Pride Broken in the Alley
Chapter 171: Pride Broken in the Alley
Pride Broken in the Alley
He couldn’t hold on any longer.
At last, Lucas decided to cast aside his pride.
For a man like Lucas—blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, blue eyes bloodshot with fury and humiliation—that choice was far harder than enduring pain.
Pain could be resisted.
Pain could be clenched through.
Pride... pride was something else.
It had carried him his entire life.
Pride in his talent.
Pride in being counted among the rising prodigies of Obsidian Wing.
Pride in the cold certainty that he stood above ordinary men.
That he was predator, never prey.
That he would be the one forcing surrender from others—never begging for rescue.
Yet now, with blood thick in his mouth and his limbs trembling from exhaustion, even that pride began to crack.
The crack started small.
A tremor in conviction.
A whisper of survival drowning dignity.
Then it spread.
His chest heaved.
His breathing turned ragged.
The alley behind Night Wing Stay seemed to tighten around him, every wall pressing in, every shadow watching.
His fists shook.
Not from fear alone—
from rage.
Rage at his own helplessness.
Rage that these old monsters had driven him this far.
He drew a deep, burning breath, forced air into battered lungs—
and shouted,
"Help!"
The cry tore through the back lot behind Night Wing Stay.
Sharp.
Raw.
Desperate.
It echoed off the concrete walls and iron service doors, carrying farther than Lucas expected.
And to him, it sounded unbearably shameful.
Like admitting defeat.
Like swallowing poison.
The two Old Martial Arts bodyguards exchanged glances.
Their expressions darkened.
They had nearly finished him.
Another few breaths.
Another few coordinated strikes.
Another ruthless exchange—
and perhaps this enemy would have fallen for good.
Lucas could feel it too.
He had been inches from collapse.
One misstep.
One slower dodge.
And his corpse might already be cooling on the pavement.
But fate was rarely so clean.
This was, after all, a high-end hotel.
Luxury bred vigilance.
And vigilance always brought people.
Almost immediately after Lucas’s shout rang out, movement stirred from the corridor.
Patrolling security guards came running.
Flashlights cut through the dim back passage in hard white beams.
Boots pounded against stone.
Voices rose.
"What’s going on back here?"
"Hey—stop!"
One guard pushed forward, shining his light over the scene, eyes widening at the blood, the torn suits, the unmistakable signs of a violent clash.
"What are you doing?" he barked.
"Who allowed you to fight here?"
Then, absurdly irritated, as though the destruction offended him more than the violence, he added—
"If you want to fight, go to the dance studio."
For one bizarre second, even the suffocating tension seemed to stumble.
The line was so ridiculous it nearly shattered the atmosphere.
Even Lucas, panting and half-broken, almost thought he’d misheard.
A dance studio?
The two bodyguards from Bianca’s side looked irritated but helpless.
Their killing intent, moments ago so sharp it felt tangible, now dulled beneath practical restraint.
There were too many witnesses.
Too many eyes.
Too many questions that would follow if Lucas died here.
Killing him before security, cameras, and hotel staff would be troublesome.
And Miss Bianca had given orders clearly.
Strike hard.
Teach him a lesson.
Cripple him if needed.
But do not expose the De Dominicis household.
That line could not be crossed.
One bodyguard clicked his tongue, frustration flickering in his aged eyes.
"Lucky dog."
The other muttered coldly,
"Next time your life won’t be so cheap."
Then both retreated into shadow.
Fast as ghosts.
Gone.
After they left, Lucas collapsed onto the ground.
Not elegantly.
Not like a prodigy.
Like a beaten stray.
His chest rose violently.
Humiliation burned hotter than pain.
He... Lucas...
had actually been beaten until he cried for help by two Iron Realm martial artists.
Iron Realm.
Weaklings.
In his mind the words repeated like a curse.
How long had it been since he arrived in Valemont?
He counted bitterly.
Once against Julian.
Once through his own scheme.
Now this.
Three times.
Three beatings.
Three disgraces.
His fist dug into the pavement until the knuckles whitened.
(I will kill him.)
(I will kill Julian D’Aurelius.)
Hatred rose so strong it nearly steadied him.
One of the guards crouched near him.
"Are you okay?"
"Do you need us to call the police?"
Concern.
Simple, normal concern.
And somehow Lucas took offense at even that.
His face twisted.
"Get lost."
His voice was hoarse, venomous.
"I don’t need your meddling."
He pushed himself halfway upright and glared.
"If any of you dare talk about today’s incident..."
His eyes gleamed dangerously.
"Don’t blame me for being impolite."
The threat landed like a slap.
The guards froze.
Then their expressions darkened.
Concern curdled into disgust.
One muttered under his breath,
"What kind of lunatic begs for help then threatens rescuers?"
Another spat to the side.
"If we knew he was this brainless, we wouldn’t have bothered."
They turned and left cursing.
Their footsteps faded.
Lucas sat alone in silence.
Cold air moved through the alley.
A paper cup rolled in the wind.
For one moment, no enemies surrounded him.
No subordinates.
No schemes.
Only ruin.
And himself.
He touched blood at his lip.
His hand shook.
Not from fear.
From rage.
His thoughts drifted unwillingly to Julian.
That calm black-haired bastard with golden eyes.
That seemingly ordinary smile.
That strange unpredictable strength.
Everything since arriving had gone wrong around him.
As though fate itself favored Julian.
(Fortune’s Chosen...)
The thought came bitterly.
He despised even thinking it.
Yet could not deny it.
Even tonight—
his trap had reversed.
His allies betrayed him unknowingly.
His prey walked away laughing.
And he... ended in the dirt.
He almost laughed.
A broken laugh.
Half madness.
Half disbelief.
Then his expression hardened.
No.
This was not over.
A cultivator’s road was built on reversals.
Humiliation could temper steel.
He would remember every blow.
Every insult.
Every sneer.
And return it.
Tenfold.
Slowly, painfully, Lucas rose.
Every movement hurt.
His ribs screamed.
His legs felt unstable.
But he stood.
That alone seemed stubborn defiance.
A black luxury car remained parked beyond the service lane.
He staggered toward it.
Opened the door.
Paused.
Then glanced once back at the hotel towering behind him.
Its golden lights looked almost mocking.
Inside those walls,
Julian was likely resting peacefully.
Bianca perhaps smiling in secret.
And somewhere...
Hemil and the Scythe Division were probably pretending loyalty.
His eyes narrowed.
A thread of suspicion stirred again.
Was Thalia really responsible?
Or had something else happened?
But his battered mind could not untangle it now.
Pain drowned reason.
He slid into the driver’s seat.
Started the engine.
Hands gripping the wheel too tightly.
Then drove into the night.
Streetlights smeared past in gold ribbons.
The city blurred.
His body ached with every turn.
More than once he nearly blacked out.
Yet he forced himself onward.
To the hospital.
With his injuries...
it would take a while to fully recover.