You Have No Right To Challenge Me

The ultra-luxurious parlor on the ninth floor fell into a dead, heavy silence following Warren’s desperate question. Nobody dared to breathe too loudly. The classmates stood frozen among the museum-quality artwork and gold-trimmed mahogany, their gazes glued to Vance. The plain, unbranded clothes he wore now looked like a billionaire’s eccentric disguise to their hungry eyes. The blatant curiosity burning in their stares was almost palpable in the chilled, climate-controlled air.

Sylvia pushed her way to the front, her previous sneers evaporating into thin air. She batted her eyelashes, leaning her body in a deliberate, suggestive arc toward Vance. "Vance, I didn't know you hid such immense influence," she cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. She reached out, her manicured fingers aiming to hook around his arm.

Vance did not blink. He took a fluid, silent step backward. Her fingers grasped nothing but empty air.

The sugary smile on Sylvia's face shattered into a stiff, awkward grimace. Her hand hung suspended for a humiliating second before she pulled it back to her side.

Next to her, Nadine let out a high-pitched, girlish giggle, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "Oh, stop it, Vance. You're just pretending to be poor to hide your real power from us, aren't you? Booking the legendary ninth floor with a single, casual phone call... That's beyond amazing!"

Standing a few feet away, Warren felt his stomach twist into painful knots. The blood pounded behind his ears, painting his face a dark, mottled red. This was supposed to be his golden hour. He had orchestrated this entire gathering, meticulously planning every detail just to flaunt his newfound wealth. He had risked everything to sell a stolen cultural relic, pocketing a staggering hundred million dollars. That money was meant to make him a god among these people. He wanted to blind them with his success, to have Sylvia and Nadine hanging off his every word. Instead, Vance had effortlessly hijacked his grand moment without spending a single dime. The injustice of it seethed inside Warren, brewing a toxic concoction of rage and humiliation.

Before Warren could formulate a snide remark to salvage his ruined pride, a deep, resonant voice cut through the murmurs.

"Perhaps I can clear this up."

The heavy, tattooed figure of Troy Evans stepped forward from the periphery of the reception area. The sheer mass of the man commanded immediate, suffocating silence. Intricate, dark ink crawled up his thick neck and covered his scarred scalp, painting a picture of brutal, unyielding violence. His aura was a heavy blanket that settled over the classmates, forcing their mouths shut and their eyes wide. This was not a man who tolerated interruptions.

Troy swept his cold gaze over the group before letting it settle on Vance. "Yesterday," Troy began, his voice echoing off the marble walls with deep contempt, "Ms. Maxwell went on an outing. She accidentally fell into the water. Vance here happened to be walking past. He pulled her out."

Troy paused, letting the words sink into the silent room. He stepped closer, towering over the group. "To show her appreciation, Ms. Maxwell wrote him a check for a million dollars. She also made a promise. She swore to fulfill one single request of his, provided it was within her power. Is that the truth?"

Having laid out the facts, Troy glared at Vance. His face remained expressionless, but his pupils contracted, gleaming with sharp disdain. To Troy, the situation was a sick joke. The kid had gotten lucky. He pulled a billionaire out of a river and somehow thought that earned him a seat at the table. To waste such a monumental, sacred favor just to drag a bunch of loud, obnoxious nobodies up to the pristine ninth floor was a profound insult to Diana's generosity. Troy gritted his teeth, a dark, murderous thought taking root in his mind. He silently plotted to rip this arrogant brat apart the moment the opportunity presented itself.

Vance met Troy's hostile glare with a blank stare. His face remained an unreadable mask. "Yes. You're right."

He did not elaborate. He felt no urge to defend himself or boast about his capabilities. Wasting breath on these shallow, small-minded people held zero appeal to him. He was a man who had walked through hell, conquered unimaginable horrors, and reached the absolute pinnacle of power. Explaining his god-like status to a group of brats squabbling over a free meal was beneath him. His only goal today was to ensure Toby received his two-million-dollar commission. Nothing else mattered.

However, his simple confirmation acted like a bomb in the middle of the parlor. The grand illusion of Vance's secret, unfathomable wealth shattered into a million jagged pieces.

The realization hit the classmates like a bucket of ice water. He wasn't a hidden billionaire. He wasn't the heir to a massive syndicate. He was just a lucky, foolish guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time.

Sylvia’s artificial sweetness morphed into deep, physical disgust. She recoiled, taking three rapid steps back as if Vance carried a contagious disease. She crossed her arms over her chest, her upper lip curling into a sneer. "So, you just pulled her out of a river? Why on earth were you acting like you owned the place?"

Nadine’s girlish giggles vanished. She rolled her eyes hard enough to strain them, turning her back on Vance. "What a letdown. And here I thought you actually mattered," she muttered, the bitter disappointment clear in her tone.

A wave of derisive whispers rippled through the rest of the group. The awe that had filled their eyes just moments ago twisted into overt, venomous mockery.

"I can't believe it. What a fool," a guy in a blue suit whispered loudly to his neighbor. "Diana Maxwell's promise is worth its weight in gold. A blank check to change your life forever, and he uses it on a dinner reservation?"

"Right? If I had that favor, I'd demand a penthouse downtown or a garage full of sports cars. Hell, I'd ask for ten million in cash. Instead, he cashes it in just to show off to us for an hour. Brainless."

"He probably thought we'd worship him. Instead, he just proved he's going to be poor for the rest of his life."

The heavy gloom that had been suffocating Warren vanished in a heartbeat. The sick feeling in his gut morphed into a soaring, triumphant high. A massive, smug smile stretched across his face, splitting it from ear to ear. The threat was gone. Vance was still a nobody.

Amidst the growing chorus of insults, Troy let out a faint, dry chuckle. He locked eyes with Vance, his gaze dropping several degrees in temperature. "Pretty impressive," Troy said.

His tone was thick with danger, heavily laden with a meaningful threat that bypassed the oblivious classmates and targeted Vance directly.

Vance’s eyelids drooped slightly. He caught the lethal intent swirling in Troy's eyes. A sudden, dark laugh rumbled in Vance's chest, breaking through his usual stoic demeanor. He took a measured step forward, closing the distance between them.

"Are you threatening me?" Vance asked. His voice did not rise, but the casual indifference was gone, replaced by a chilling edge.

To Vance, Troy was merely a guard dog. A loud, aggressive lackey. Snapping his neck would require no more effort than breaking a dry twig.

Troy cracked his thick neck, the bones popping like small firecrackers in the quiet room. He dipped his chin in a solemn nod. "Whatever. You can think of it like that."

The crowd of classmates practically tripped over themselves scrambling backward. The mockery died on their lips, replaced by a sudden, primal fear. They wanted a show, but they wanted to watch it from a safe distance.

They knew who Troy Evans was. The man was not merely Diana Maxwell's bodyguard. He was the undisputed, blood-soaked head honcho of the Saber Alliance. He ruled the underground of Oakhaven with an iron fist and a trail of broken bones. Even the most powerful tycoons in the city walked on eggshells around him. Offending Troy in his own territory, surrounded by his own men, was nothing short of signing a brutal, irreversible death sentence.

Vance stood his ground. He tilted his head, meticulously scrutinizing the massive crime boss from head to toe. His gaze was clinical, devoid of fear.

"You have no right to challenge me," Vance stated. His voice dropped to a terrifying whisper that seemed to chill the very air in the room. He spoke it as a simple fact of the universe. In his world, a man of Troy's low caliber stepping up to him would spark an international incident.

The dismissive words struck Troy like a physical blow. Extreme anger flashed across his scarred face. The veins on his thick neck bulged, and a dangerous, explosive tension flooded the parlor. The air grew so thick and heavy that the classmates found themselves gasping, their chests tightening under the sheer pressure of Troy's wrath.

"If not for the fact that you saved Ms. Maxwell's life yesterday," Troy snarled, his massive fists clenching until his knuckles turned white, "I would have strangled you to death right here!"

The threat hung in the air, dripping with malice.

Vance’s expression shifted. The faint trace of amusement vanished, replaced by an incredibly serious, dark focus. He slowly, purposefully stepped toward Troy. The soles of his shoes made no sound against the mahogany floor.

Vance was not a man who went out of his way to pick fights. He possessed a calm temperament, preferring to stay out of petty squabbles. But he operated on a strict, unbreakable code. If left alone, he was harmless. But the moment someone crossed his bottom line, the moment someone offered a genuine threat to his life, his retaliation was swift and merciless. He had no qualms about brutally eliminating a threat. If pushed far enough, he would eradicate a man and trace the bloodline until nothing remained.

Troy met Vance's advance with a fearsome, evil grin. His teeth flashed under the ambient lighting, making him look like a starved beast cornering its prey. He raised his massive hands, cracking his knuckles again, his muscles bunching as he prepared to launch a devastating strike.

A blur of motion broke the standoff. Toby, his face pale as a sheet of fresh snow, rushed directly into the line of fire. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his limbs trembling uncontrollably.

"Vance, stop! Please!" Toby shrieked, grabbing Vance's sleeve. "He's Troy Evans! Don't do this!"

Ignoring Vance's unyielding posture, Toby spun around and bent at the waist, bowing frantically to the crime boss. "Mr. Evans, I am so sorry! I truly apologize for him. He doesn't know what he's saying. Please, I beg you, be magnanimous! Forgive his foolishness!"

Retreating further into the lavish corners of the parlor, Warren and the rest of the classmates watched the spectacle with gleeful anticipation. The initial shock had worn off, and now they were thrilled. In their eyes, Vance had dug his own grave. Troy had spent years carving a bloody path through Oakhaven's criminal underworld. He had done terrible, ruthless things to men twice Vance's size. If Diana Maxwell didn't keep him on a short leash, Troy would have already conquered the entire city. Vance was dead meat. They were just waiting for the first punch to land.

Vance ignored Toby's desperate pleas. He gently but firmly shook his friend's hand off his sleeve. His gaze locked onto Troy, the killing intent intensifying. It pooled in his dark eyes like a gathering storm, cold and unforgiving. He calculated the distance, the angle of Troy's jaw, the exact amount of force required to shatter the man's cervical vertebrae. He prepared to strike.

Just as Vance shifted his weight to snap Troy’s thick neck, a metallic click echoed through the parlor. The heavy, intricately carved mahogany doors swung open with a smooth glide.

A stunning woman stepped across the threshold, instantly shattering the suffocating tension in the room.

She wore an alluring, skin-tight red dress that clung to her flawless figure, the vibrant color drawing every eye in the space. Her beauty was otherworldly, possessing an ethereal quality that made the extravagant art on the walls look cheap in comparison. Her skin was pale and unblemished, her dark eyes shimmering with an intense, captivating light. She radiated an immense aura, an unspoken authority that commanded the entire space the moment her heel touched the floor.

"What are you doing?" Diana Maxwell asked softly.

Her voice was sweet and melodic. It rippled through the parlor, immediately taking every man's breath away. Even amidst the adrenaline of the standoff, the sound of her voice tugged at the collective focus of the room.

The transformation in Troy Evans was instantaneous and visceral. The fearsome crime boss, a man who had been mere seconds away from unleashing lethal force, snapped his jaw shut. He retracted his fierce, murderous aura, pulling it back so fast it was as if he had been struck.

His chest heaved as he sucked in a rapid breath. Without hesitation, the massive man lowered his scarred head. He glued his hands to his sides and stood motionless. The terrifying head of the Saber Alliance now looked exactly like a subservient, terrified child who had just been caught doing something terribly wrong.

In the corner, Sylvia and Nadine stared at the newcomer, their jaws slack. A bitter, sour wave of jealousy washed over them. They were women who prided themselves on their looks, but standing in the same room as Diana made them feel invisible. Her perfection was infuriating, impossible to ignore.

Diana did not look at the stunned classmates. She did not look at the opulent surroundings. Her gaze landed directly on the massive man shrinking before her.

It was a quick look, seemingly unconcerned, an idle sweep of her dark eyes. Yet, beneath the calm surface, it glinted with a sharp, menacing light. It was a look that promised severe, uncompromising punishment.