Combat King Returns: My Daughter, My Protection

He was once the ruler of hell, standing atop the world. Seven years ago, he was struck by a rare poison and saved by a stranger—a woman he never knew. After that one night, he left behind a token and departed in haste—the defenses of hell were collapsing, and if he didn’t leave, humanity would perish. He thought that necklace would be enough to ensure she lived a worry‑free life. He was wrong. Late one night, a child’s voice—so weak it could barely be heard—came through the phone: “Dad… can you come save me? They’re… they’re draining my blood…” That was his daughter. He rushed back, but what he found was not a home. In an underground lab, his four‑year‑old daughter was strapped to an operating table, dozens of tubes pierced into her tiny body. His woman lay battered and bruised, curled up in a corner. The ones behind it all were the Spencer family—a century‑old, mafia‑like conglomerate. They had turned his child into the ultimate “blood‑source material,” draining her dry to nurture the awakening of their own bloodline. That day, the King of Hell opened his eyes. The Spencer family, utterly unhinged, posted a ten‑billion‑dollar global bounty on the dark web for his head. Top‑ten assassination organizations around the world scrambled to take the contract—the next second, they ran facial recognition and identified the target: The King of Hell. A forbidden existence on the scale of global annihilation. The world’s number‑one assassin organization immediately blew up its own servers and ran for the hills. Dark web traffic plummeted to zero. The market crashed in terror. As for the one small mafia crew stupid enough to accept the contract? Before they could even finish pressing the button, their entire building was shelled to rubble by other assassins. No one dared take that job. When the dark web couldn’t kill him, the Spencers played their trump card. Five thousand mercenaries surrounded the hospital? He released one ten‑thousandth of his pressure—five thousand men vaporized in an instant at tens of thousands of degrees. A century‑old SS‑rank elder emerged from seclusion? A single flick of his finger—a cloud of blood mist. A mafia‑style city lord in Los Angeles pressed a gun to his chest? He tossed out a purple‑gold medal—the scanner overloaded: nine‑star purple‑gold commander, the highest military authority in all of North America! The city lord fell to his knees on the spot, messing himself. Thirty thousand warriors laid siege to the city? Fifteen minutes later, thirty thousand corpses blanketed the plains. And he said only: “Anyone who dares touch my daughter—next life, keep your eyes wide open.” But that was only the appetizer. “You dared to hurt my woman and my daughter… Are you ready to have your entire bloodline wiped out?” He has no need for armies, no need for syndicates. He alone is an army—one capable of trampling the kingdoms of gods. Because this is no longer a war. This is divine punishment. “My little girl, don’t be afraid. Close your eyes and count to ten. By the time Daddy comes back, those bad people won’t be able to hurt you anymore. Daddy promises.”