Lord Terrace stood still, the wreckage of the courtyard around him proving the chaos that had already unfolded.
Dust settled in the air, and the echo of splintering wood, collapsing stone, and dead bodies faded into the distant noises of the city.
Across the courtyard, Paul Haylen’s panicked eyes darted around for any route of escape. The reality of his predicament was sinking in fast, but fear had yet to override his arrogance. Without hesitation, Paul turned and bolted deeper into the manor grounds.
“Let’s play.” A small smile—a cold, knowing curve of his lips—flickered across Lord Terrace’s face. He took one slow, deliberate step forward, then another.
There was no rush; this was not a chase but a foregone conclusion. Damon stood to the side, watching his father with a mix of awe and apprehension. He had seen his father fight before, but that was a spar. This was different! This was a predator playing with its prey.
Paul weaved through the corridors of his manor, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He threw open doors, scrambled through hallways, and leapt over debris. His once-grand estate was falling apart around him, each tremor caused by Lord Terrace’s methodical pursuit.
Terrified servants scattered at the sight of their master, but Paul paid them no mind. He needed distance—he needed to escape.
“Do you hear me?!” Paul screamed over his shoulder, his voice cracking. “You think you can come here and do as you please?! I am Paul Haylen of the Haylen family!”
Lord Terrace continued walking, the measured rhythm of his steps echoing through the broken halls.
Tap!
Tap!
Every obstacle in his way crumbled—walls cracked and shattered under his touch, furniture splintered, and doorways were reduced to rubble.
His movements were almost casual as if none of this deserved his full attention. It was a display of controlled power, a reminder of the gulf between them.
Paul stumbled through a side door, slamming it shut behind him. He fumbled with a latch, his hands shaking. “You’ll regret this!” he shouted, more to himself than anyone else. “My family has influence—wealth! You don’t understand who you’re dealing with!”
Bang!!
A loud crash interrupted him. The door he’d just secured was obliterated, fragments scattering in every direction. Lord Terrace stepped through the dust and debris, his expression unchanged. The rage simmering beneath his calm exterior had not reached its peak—not yet.
Desperate, Paul ran again, his mind racing. He barged into what remained of the dining hall, knocking over a table in his path.
He grabbed a ceremonial sword from the wall, its edge dulled from years of disuse, and held it out with trembling hands. “Stay back!” he yelled, sweat dripping from his forehead. “You think you’re better than me? I’ll—”
He lunged forward, swinging the blade with everything he had. Lord Terrace sidestepped effortlessly, his movements a blur. He caught Paul’s wrist and twisted it, forcing him to drop the weapon.
“Ahhh!” Pain shot through Paul’s arm, and he yelped, stumbling backward. Without a word, Terrace released him and watched as he fell to the ground.
“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be,” Lord Terrace said coldly. “But that’s your choice.”
Paul scrambled to his feet, rage, and terror warring on his face. He retreated through another door, shouting incoherent threats and insults as he ran. “Coward!” he screamed. “You can’t touch me! My family will ruin you!”
The words washed over Lord Terrace like meaningless noise. He continued his slow, deliberate walk, his footsteps pounding like a drumbeat that signaled the end.
Damon followed at a distance, taking in every moment. This wasn’t just a fight—it was a lesson.
The chase led them through the manor’s main hall, past broken chandeliers and shattered glass. Lord Terrace barely glanced at the destruction he left behind; it was irrelevant.
His focus was solely on Paul. When the nobleman burst through a back door, stumbling into what had once been a garden, Terrace was already there, waiting.
Paul’s eyes widened in disbelief. “H-how?!” he sputtered. He spun around, trying to find a path that wasn’t blocked, but the walls of his own manor now seemed to close in on him. With nowhere left to run, he tried once more to bluster his way out.
“Do you even know who I am?!” he demanded, his voice trembling with false bravado. “My family—”
He never finished the sentence. In a blur of motion, Lord Terrace closed the gap and delivered a kick that sent Paul soaring through the air.
Kraaaa!
Baaang!!
The force of the blow cracked ribs and sent shockwaves through his body. Paul crashed to the ground dozens of meters away, landing hard with a sickening thud. Dust and debris swirled around him, and for a moment, everything was still.
Lord Terrace walked forward, his eyes cold as ice. Paul lay sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath. His limbs trembled, and pain wracked his body, but he was alive. Barely. As a low-ranked noble with some magic essence, his bones were intact, but every nerve screamed in agony.
Terrace stopped a few feet away, looking down at him with something close to disdain. “Do you know my own family?” he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
Paul’s head lolled to the side. He tried to speak but only managed a pained groan. Lord Terrace sighed, the sound heavy with disappointment. “You boast of nobility and power, yet you know nothing of true strength.”
Paul’s eyes widened in recognition as the realization struck him. “Y-you’re…”
Terrace’s gaze bore into him. “I am Ashbourne Terrace,” he said, his words cold and precise. “Lord of the Terrace Family.”
The color drained from Paul’s face. The Terrace Family was feared and respected—one of the most powerful families to ever live, known for their influence, authority, and power. Paul’s bluster melted away, replaced by raw terror.
Before he could utter a plea or a protest, Terrace’s hand shot out, gripping him by the throat and lifting him off the ground. “Guhh!”
Paul’s feet dangled helplessly as he clawed at Terrace’s arm. The pressure around his neck tightened, cutting off his air. Terrace’s voice was low, but the menace in it was unmistakable.
“You threatened my family,” he said, each word dripping with controlled fury. “For that, I promise you pain.”
