Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 801

Chapter 801: New Threats: Real Gods Appear

The seven iron connected with the man’s ribs like a sledgehammer kissing wet concrete.

Crack.

Not a clean break. A wet, splintering collapse. Multiple ribs gave at once—three, maybe four—shards driving inward like broken glass under skin. He folded in half, knees buckling, and hit the pristine artificial turf of the rooftop putting green face-first. Blood erupted from his mouth in a bright, arterial spray that caught the late-afternoon sun and scattered across the emerald surface like someone had flung a handful of wet rubies.

Beautiful, in the same way a slaughterhouse sunrise is beautiful. If your soul had already learned to appreciate the aesthetics of ruin.

Dark Regent appreciated it very much.

He rolled his shoulders once, adjusting his grip on the club with the casual precision of a man selecting flatware for dinner. Behind him, six guards formed a loose semicircle—faces carved from blank marble, eyes empty in the practiced way of men who had long ago decided certain memories were better left unfiled.

"You know what I love about golf?" he asked, voice mild, conversational, as though they were discussing handicaps over drinks.

The man on the ground made a wet, bubbling sound. Tried to push up on trembling arms. His left elbow buckled immediately—something inside the joint had already torn—and he collapsed again, fresh blood pooling beneath his cheek, soaking into the synthetic blades until they glistened dark.

Sixty-three floors below, the city pulsed on. Traffic crawled like indifferent insects. Pedestrians moved in oblivious clusters. None of them looked up. None of them would ever know what kind of arithmetic was being settled in the clouds.

"Golf is about precision," the Dark Regent continued, crouching to select a new club from the bag. A pitching wedge this time. Heavier head. Shorter shaft. Better for close, punishing work. "About committing to the shot exactly as planned. No second-guessing. No mid-swing improvisation. The ball either lands where you told it to, or it doesn’t. There is no middle ground."

He addressed the ball that wasn’t there. Adjusted his stance. Exhaled once, slow and controlled.

Then swung.

The wedge met the man’s right shoulder blade with textbook placement—not rage, not wild force, but surgical intent. The sweet spot of the clubface caught the scapula at the precise angle where bone met rotator cuff. The impact sounded like porcelain dropped on marble followed by a deeper, meatier crunch.

Bone didn’t crack. It pulverized.

Fragments radiated outward beneath the skin like shrapnel in flesh. The entire shoulder complex collapsed inward; the arm flopped uselessly, nerves shredded, tendons ripped free of their anchors. The scream that ripped out of the man’s throat was wet and gargling—half air, half blood—high and animal and utterly without dignity.

The Dark Regent tilted the clubhead, inspected the fresh smear of red and tissue. Wiped it clean with the pad of his thumb. Nodded once, satisfied.

"One degree," he murmured. "That’s all it takes. One degree of deviation, and the ball finds the bunker instead of the pin. One small refusal to follow the line I gave you, and the entire shot collapses."

"Please—" The word came out in a frothy gasp, lips bubbling crimson. "Boss—please—I delivered—I did what you—"

"You did what you interpreted." The Dark Regent crouched, seized a fistful of sweat-matted hair, and yanked the man’s head back until their eyes met. "There is a difference. A very large one."

The man’s gaze was already fracturing—terror, confusion, pain signals overwhelming what little coherence remained. Tears mixed with blood, carving clean tracks down ruined cheeks.

"I gave you exact instructions," the Dark Regent said, almost gently. "Specific. Unambiguous. Word-for-word. And you decided—you decided—that your version would suffice. That your judgment was equal to mine."

"But it worked!" The man was sobbing now—great, heaving, childlike sobs that made his broken ribs grind audibly. "Everything you wanted—check—check with the crew—it’s done—it’s all done—"

The Dark Regent let the head drop. Face met turf again with a soft, wet slap.

He stood.

Considered the bag. Bypassed the nine iron and selected the three iron instead—longer shaft, more mass, designed for raw power at distance. He tested the balance once, twice.

"You delivered," he repeated, tasting the word like sour wine. "Yes. The outcome was... adequate."

A flicker of desperate hope lit those swollen, bloodshot eyes.

"But adequacy is not obedience."

The Dark Regent waited patiently for the shriek to collapse into ragged, hiccupping whimpers. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

"Do you know what your little improvisation cost me?" He began a slow circuit around the twitching form. "In practical terms? Nothing. Your freelancing changed nothing about the outcome. Everything arrived. Everything worked. By any reasonable measure, you succeeded."

"I evaluate by fidelity. By whether my words are treated as scripture or as suggestion. By whether the man receiving an order understands that deviation—any deviation—is treason of the quietest, most dangerous kind. On knowing that when I give an order, it will be followed exactly." Another twist. Another silent convulsion. "Not approximately. Not creatively. Exactly."

"I’m sorry—boss—I’m sorry—I thought—"

"You thought." A soft, amused laugh. That’s the problem. I didn’t ask you to think. I asked you to do. And you decided your thinking was more valuable than my instructions. And you elevated your own judgment above mine."

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