Asmon’s bold declaration sent a shockwave through the crowd, like someone had just announced they’d found a dragon in their backyard. The whispers started immediately—excited, scandalized, and everything in between.

“Is he serious?” one guest muttered, eyes wide.

“Does he even 'know' what he’s saying?” another replied, as if Asmon had just offered to arm-wrestle a tiger.

In a world where strength ruled, seeing a so-called weakling challenge a powerhouse like Stelter wasn’t just unusual—it was practically asking for a front-row ticket to humiliation. Stelter, however, didn’t look amused. His icy glare could’ve frozen fire.

“Asmon,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension, “do you honestly believe 'you' have what it takes to be patriarch?”

Asmon met his gaze, unfazed. “Isn’t that the whole point of this family? To prove who’s worthy?”

That one sentence was like a slap. Stelter’s face twitched, and for a moment, it looked like he might spontaneously combust. But no, he wasn’t about to lose his cool in front of the entire Thrumpwood family and their esteemed guests. Instead, he forced a grim smile, the kind that made you wonder if he was imagining strangling you.

“Very well,” Stelter said, his tone as sharp as a blade. “If you’re so eager to embarrass yourself, I’ll give you the opportunity.” He waved a hand, summoning a lean, cold-eyed youth to the platform. “Thurman, step forward.”

Cue dramatic entrance. Thurman leaped onto the stage with the kind of grace that screamed 'I’m better than you'. The kid was sixteen or seventeen at most, but his confidence could’ve filled a stadium. He stood beside Stelter, his sharp features set in a permanent smirk.

“Asmon,” Stelter continued, clearly relishing this moment, “if you want to lead this family, you can’t just 'talk' about it. Leadership is earned through strength.” He gestured toward Thurman, whose smirk widened. “This is Thurman, the prodigy of our family’s younger generation. If you can defeat him, then maybe—just 'maybe'—I’ll consider you qualified.”

The crowd sucked in a collective breath. Thurman wasn’t just any prodigy; he was 'the' prodigy, handpicked for Silvercrest Martial Institute’s inner palace and currently sitting pretty at the third level of Imperial Qi Realm. In other words, Stelter wasn’t just stacking the deck—he was using a loaded dice.

“Oh, come on,” someone whispered from the sidelines. “This isn’t a challenge—it’s a public execution.”

“Yeah,” another muttered, “the poor guy doesn’t stand a chance. It’s like bringing a butter knife to a sword fight.”

Asmon, meanwhile, looked less than impressed. “Stelter really went all out, huh?” he muttered under his breath, his gaze narrowing on Thurman. “Even dragged this lapdog back home.”

Thurman stepped forward, his voice ringing out with icy authority. “Asmon, the position of patriarch isn’t a prize for wishful thinking. If you want it, you’ll have to take it from me.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Asmon raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Thurman, you’re just a pawn, barking on command. You think you can take me down? Please.”

Thurman’s smirk faltered. “What did you just say?”

“Did I stutter?” Asmon replied lazily. Then, with a flick of his hand, he turned to the woman standing behind him. “Merilyn , you deal with him.”

The crowd collectively lost their minds. 'Merilyn? Merilyn Snow ?!'

As the rumors went, Merilyn Snow was a genius among geniuses, the second-ranked talent of Silvercrest Martial Institute, and basically the walking definition of untouchable. And now, here she was, stepping onto the platform at Asmon’s command. Thurman’s smirk evaporated faster than a snowflake in a furnace.

“M-Merilyn Snow ?” Thurman stammered, his bravado cracking. “What are you doing here?”

Merilyn Snow didn’t bother answering. She simply looked at him with an icy stare that could’ve chilled a volcano. “Fight me,” she said coolly. “Or don’t. It doesn’t matter—I’ll end this quickly.”

Stelter, however, was not having it. “You insolent girl!” he roared, his patience snapping like a twig. “Stay out of the Thrumpwood family’s affairs!” With a furious wave of his hand, he unleashed a surge of energy straight at her.

Big mistake. Merilyn Snow moved with lightning precision, deflecting his attack like it was a pesky mosquito. The resulting crack reverberated through the air as Stelter Thrumpwood stumbled back, his face a mix of shock and humiliation.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice shaking.

“I am Asmon’s maid,” Merilyn Snow replied, her tone as calm as if she were discussing the weather. “Is that a problem?”

The crowd collectively gasped. 'His MAID?!' The words hit like a thunderclap. A girl powerful enough to trade blows with Stelter himself was willingly serving Asmon?

Stelter, clearly rattled, tried to regain control. “This is an internal family matter!” he bellowed, pointing a shaky finger at Asmon. “If you want to be patriarch, you have to prove your strength personally! Relying on others only shows your weakness!”

Asmon laughed—a low, lazy chuckle that carried across the square. “You’re really reaching, aren’t you? My maid just sent you flying, and you’re still talking about strength?”

The crowd erupted into a mixture of laughter and disbelief. Asmon’s tone shifted, his gaze sweeping over the gathered onlookers. “Fine,” he said, his voice steady and commanding. “If anyone here thinks I’m not fit to lead, come at me. I’ll beat down every last one of you if I have to.” Asmon’s voice rang out with the kind of confident swagger you’d expect from someone about to drop a mic. His eyes sparkled with a cold, almost mischievous glint as he pointed a finger at Stelter and Thurman, his tone as sharp as a freshly forged blade.

"Didn’t you two want to see what I’m made of? Let’s skip the pleasantries—come at me, both of you."

Thurman shot up from his seat, his sneer practically screaming, 'I’ve got this.' “Asmon, don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need help to deal with you. You’re still the same old family disgrace, no matter how you dress it up.”

He was brimming with confidence, the kind that said, 'This is going to be a walk in the park.' After all, if he couldn’t take down Merilyn Snow , the second-ranked genius on the Silvercrest Genius List, he could at least clobber Asmon—the so-called “waste” of the family. Sure, Asmon had shed that nickname, but how much could really change in such a short time? No way this upstart could match Thurman, the family’s golden boy. Or so he thought.

Asmon tilted his head, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, please. ‘Genius’ this, ‘genius’ that—it’s nothing more than a party trick to me.”

Before Thurman could retort, Asmon vanished. One moment he was there, the next he was a blur. Thurman blinked, confused. “What the—”

BAM!

Thurman’s world turned upside down—literally—as a fist slammed into his stomach, sending him somersaulting through the air. He landed at the edge of the stone platform with an unceremonious 'thud,' coughing up blood.

“You…you…” Thurman wheezed, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. The realization hit him like the punch had: he’d just been flattened. One move. ONE.

The crowd? Dead silent. They weren’t just watching a fight; they were witnessing a miracle. Was this really Asmon, the family’s former punching bag?