Chapter 179: The Gap

Chapter 179: The Gap

"Ha…"

Caesar's undisguised chuckle scraped raw against a few very tender nerves.

One of Noel's lackeys jumped forward instantly, face burning red as he jabbed a finger at Caesar and screamed, "Shut your mouth! Mr. Noel is wearing gear so he doesn't hurt you! He's the current NCAA Fencing Championship title holder—you ignorant piece of trash!"

Noel raised a hand.

"Shut up."

He shoved aside the metal mask and chest guard his lackey was holding out.

"Mr. Montague." His voice dropped low, his eyes going sharp as a hawk's. "You're right."

"No gear. I'll face you in a real duel. Man to man."

The crowd around them let out a collective gasp, then—by silent agreement—scrambled back, clearing a wide circle in the middle of the tree-lined path.

Noel took his position off to one side, feet shifting quickly into stance.

Textbook-perfect fencing form: body turned sideways, right shoulder forward, center of gravity dropped low, the tip of his saber angled upward at Caesar's throat. His free arm swept back with elegant precision to balance his weight.

And Caesar?

He stood there completely at ease. The slender saber dangled loose in his grip, the point actually dragging on the ground, tracing lazy little circles. He was wide open from every angle—not even the most basic defensive posture to speak of.

Caesar lifted his empty left hand and crooked his fingers with careless disdain.

"Come on, champ."

Noel's eyes narrowed. The balls of his feet exploded off the ground, and he launched forward like a leaping panther.

An NCAA champion's foundation wasn't earned for nothing. His burst of speed was ferocious, footwork fast as lightning, the point of his blade whistling through the air straight for Caesar's right shoulder.

A flawless lunge.

And then… he hit nothing.

Caesar simply seemed to roll his shoulder, and Noel's sure-thing strike slid harmlessly past the leather of his jacket.

Noel's pupils snapped tight.

But he was still a top-tier, professionally trained athlete. The instant the first thrust missed, he pulled back into a defensive recovery, two quick shuffle-steps carrying him to a safe distance.

He'd expected Caesar to press the advantage.

Instead, Caesar didn't move a single foot. He just parted his lips and let out a bored yawn.

"Too slow. Again."

Noel gritted his teeth, adjusted his angle, and his second thrust struck like a snake's tongue, aimed at Caesar's left flank.

Caesar shifted maybe half a footprint to the right.

The blade grazed his clothes and stabbed empty air again—still missing by less than an inch.

"Again."

Noel felt utterly, unbearably humiliated. His attacks began coming down like a driving storm.

Third thrust.

Fourth thrust.

Fifth thrust.

His footwork got faster and faster, dress shoes shrieking against the asphalt. Lunges, cuts, flicks, parries—every professional technique that had carried him to victory on the strip, one after another.

But Caesar was a ghost. Every single time, at the last possible instant before the point touched his body, he slipped away by some impossible, hairsbreadth margin.

Noel's blade was always short. Always by just that little bit.

The relentless anaerobic exertion had his breath coming ragged now, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.

That was when Caesar finally dropped the mocking expression.

"Warm-up's over. You're too slow."

"My turn."

Not one person watching saw how Caesar drew his blade.

They only saw a streak of silver lightning flash through the air and vanish.

A faint breeze stirred, lifting a single fallen leaf off the roadside.

Noel froze, then looked down at his right arm. His prized white fencing jacket now bore an inexplicable two-inch slit across the sleeve, clean and smooth.

The fabric had been sliced open in an instant—yet he hadn't felt so much as a flicker of pain.

Only then did it register. He staggered back two steps, horror flooding his face.

The leaf drifted gently to the ground.

Caesar still stood exactly where he'd been, as if he'd never moved at all.

"Ready to defend yourself?"

The words weren't even finished before another flash of silver cut through the air.

Noel had no time to react. The sleeve on his left arm split open with a matching cut. The blade had opened the fabric alone, once again perfectly avoiding the skin.

"Left."

Caesar's voice sounded through the evening air. The blade came slashing down diagonally from the left.

Noel raised his saber to parry on pure muscle memory.

But all he heard was a sharp clang—his blade knocked aside by some terrifying force. Caesar's point had already carved a long tear down the left flank of his jacket, running from beneath the ribs all the way to his waist, exposing the white compression liner underneath.

Cold sweat poured off Noel.

He knew, with perfect clarity, that on a real battlefield he'd already be gutted open.

Caesar's cold voice was a Reaper's countdown.

"Right."

Silver flickered, and the fabric on Noel's right side split apart.

"Left."

"Right."

"Too slow."

Before every strike, Caesar announced the direction it was coming from.

Noel swung his saber wildly, desperately. But every time he thought he'd blocked it, Caesar's blade landed on his clothing anyway—arriving at some eerie, physics-defying angle, effortless.

In thirty seconds flat.

That expensive white NCAA champion's fencing jacket had been shredded to ribbons, hanging off him in tatters.

Noel was soaked through with cold sweat, hands braced on his knees, gasping down great heaving lungfuls of air.

From start to finish, he hadn't so much as touched the hem of Caesar's clothes.

Silence blanketed the crowd. Every one of them had been struck dumb by a beatdown so lopsided it felt like a different dimension.

"Aaaargh—!!"

Noel's mind teetered on the edge. He roared, gripped his saber in both hands, and hurled himself into one final, reckless thrust.

Whish—

Caesar's saber shot out like a viper from its den—moving second, arriving first—and stopped dead, its point poised right in front of Noel's throat.

Less than a millimeter from his carotid artery.

Noel's motion locked mid-air. His Adam's apple bobbed with visible effort, feeling the lethal chill radiating off the steel point.

If Caesar pushed his wrist forward another half-inch, it would punch straight through his throat.

Caesar tilted his head slightly, his tone as calm as a man asking for directions.

"Still want to go?"

Noel swallowed hard. The saber clattered out of his grip and hit the ground, his voice cracking and hoarse. "No… no. I'm done."

Caesar rolled his wrist, and the saber carved a beautiful flourish through the air.

Then, casually, he threw it.

Thunk—!

That light, unsharpened saber drove into the trunk of a thick oak nearby like an armor-piercing round, sinking a full three inches deep, the handle still vibrating wildly.

The silent crowd erupted.

"My God… what did I just watch?!"

"His feet never even left that circle, right?!"

"Noel's a national champion! Next to this old guy, he looked like a baby who just learned to walk!"

Luna had both hands pressed to her flushed cheeks, stamping her feet with excitement. "Oh my God! Pops is unbelievable! He's a real-life John Wick!"

Natasha stood rooted to the spot. The night breeze lifted the hem of her wine-red velvet skirt.

Her lips parted slightly. She watched Caesar pull open the door of that black Hummer and slide into the driver's seat—and couldn't manage a single word.

…

Meanwhile.

In a dark alley a few blocks from campus.

Hild lounged comfortably in the leather backseat of a Ferrari, a glass of Macallan on the rocks in his hand.

In the passenger seat, his right-hand man Maddox had turned around, reporting deferentially on what had just gone down at the school.

"Mr. Hild, it all played out exactly like you predicted."

"That idiot Noel was never any match for this Caesar guy. Got worked over like a punching bag."

Hild raised the crystal tumbler and took a sip, a mocking sneer curling his lips.

"A meathead with nothing but muscle. You really expected him to accomplish anything? I only used him as a stepping stone—to test the waters on that Caesar."

Maddox nodded rapidly. "Brilliant as always, boss."

Then his brow furrowed, and he pressed on, choosing his words carefully. "So what's our next move, boss? A lot of people on the street have their eyes on that 'thing' Natasha's dead brother left behind. But we still don't even know what it looks like, or what it actually is."

He watched Hild's expression as he added, hesitant, "You think… maybe there's no 'thing' at all? Maybe it's just an urban legend?"

Hild's face went dark in an instant.

"Watch your mouth, Maddox."

Maddox flinched and dropped his head. "Sorry, boss. My mistake."

But Hild didn't press it further. Instead, he let out a cold laugh.

"Maddox, you've been with me all this time and you still haven't learned how to survive in this family."

He swirled the glass, ice clinking crisply. "Whether that thing actually exists doesn't matter at all."

"What matters is that I use it as an excuse to let my father see me handling business seriously—and handling it beautifully."

"Come here."

Hild beckoned toward the front seat.

Maddox leaned his ear in close.

Hild lowered his voice and rattled off a few quick instructions. "Here's what we do next… like this… and like this…"

By the time he finished, the tight knot in Maddox's brow had smoothed completely away.

He threw up a thumbs-up, his face all fawning approval. "Boss, that's genius! Pull the firewood right out from under the pot. This way, that Russian girl won't have a choice but to fall in line!"

The praise had Hild feeling pretty pleased with himself. He tossed back the rest of the whiskey in one swallow.

"Get it done. Keep it clean."

"Yes, boss." Maddox pushed open the door and vanished into the night.

…

Meanwhile.

Noel had returned, hollow-eyed and shattered, to the exclusive fencing club in the university basement.

The lights in the central hall were a stark, sickly white.

Eight young men in full black fencing kit, épées in hand, had a ninth figure—also in a black mask—surrounded on all sides.

"Go!"

At the low command, all eight moved at once.

The shriek of steel blades tearing through the air rose all at once. Eight men, striking from different angles, different directions—like a wolf pack running down prey—all lunged for the man in the center at the same instant.

Their movements were sharp and coordinated, clearly elites forged through countless drills of live-combat teamwork.

And then, in the very instant those eight blades were about to strike home—

The man in the center vanished into thin air.