Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 802

Chapter 802: Dark Regent

Genuine, pathetic hope flared in those ruined eyes—one last, trembling spark.

There was hope. Small. Guttering. Pathetic. The human animal’s capacity for self-deception truly was a marvel—almost admirable if it weren’t so contemptible. The man had heard the stories whispered in back rooms. He had seen the aftermath dragged out in black bags or left as warnings on concrete floors.

He knew—bone-deep, soul-deep—that the Dark Regent was not a man who could be fought, outlasted, or bargained with. He was something older wearing a tailored suit, something that smiled while it peeled away layers of sanity and flesh.

And still he hoped.

Because when everything else has been stripped away—dignity, future, functioning limbs—hope is the last cheap drug left in the system.

"You... you mean it, boss?" The words came out wet and small, blood dripping in thick strings from his split lip to his chin.

"Absolutely." The Dark Regent’s smile was warm sunlight on winter skin—kind, almost paternal. "Beat me. Put me down. Even once. And you walk. My word on it."

They released him.

He dropped like a sack of wet meat. Destroyed knee folding inward, shattered ankle collapsing sideways, torso crumpling under the weight of ribs that no longer held shape. He hit the turf face-first with a soft, meaty thud. Lay there gasping—each breath rattling through a throat already filling with blood—trying to remember how standing worked.

The Dark Regent waited. Patient. Almost gentle in his stillness.

Slowly—agonizingly—the man began the climb back to verticality. One trembling arm levered against the ground.

Shattered shoulder grinding bone shards together with every ounce of pressure. He dragged the ruined leg underneath him like dead weight. Pushed. Groaned. Somehow—through sheer animal refusal—got his one working leg planted. Rose.

Swaying. Vision tunneling. Blood streaming from mouth, nose, ears. One arm dangling like a broken branch. One leg bent at angles biology never intended. But standing.

He raised his one good fist. The gesture was laughable. Heroic in the most futile, heartbreaking way.

Hope.

"Good," Dark Regent said softly. "I respect a man who refuses to lie down and die."

He circled once—slow, relaxed, hands loose at his sides.

The man lunged.

A single, desperate haymaker. Slow. Telegraphed. The swing of someone whose body had already quit but whose mind hadn’t caught up. The effort alone nearly toppled him forward.

The Dark Regent didn’t step aside. Didn’t raise a hand to block.

He caught the fist in his open palm. Closed his fingers. And squeezed.

Metacarpals compressed first—pinky and ring buckling inward with wet pops. Middle finger followed. Index. Thumb. Each knuckle gave in sequence like firecrackers under skin. The hand folded backward on itself, bones grinding into splinters, ligaments tearing free in wet snaps.

The scream started high and thin—then climbed into something raw and endless.

Dark Regent released him. Let the ruined hand fall. Watched the man stagger back three steps, cradling the mangled claw against his chest, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood mask on his face.

"That was your free shot," the Dark Regent said quietly. "My turn."

He moved.

Not fast. Not flashy. Just efficient. Every motion calibrated for cruelty disguised as economy.

A short jab to the throat—precise pressure on the cricoid cartilage. The windpipe collapsed inward just enough to turn every inhale into razor blades without killing him outright. Air whistled through the narrowing passage in wet, panicked gasps.

A palm-heel strike to the left ear—perfect alignment—ruptured the tympanic membrane and drove pressure waves into the inner ear. Blood trickled immediately, warm and bright, down the side of his neck. Balance vanished; the world tilted violently.

Then the knee.

A single rising strike to the floating ribs on the right side. Surgical. The impact folded two ribs inward; jagged ends tore through intercostal muscle and drove into the soft tissue beneath. Something punctured—likely lung, possibly diaphragm.

The man folded. Dropped to his knees. Then to his face. Body convulsing in short, helpless jerks.

"Stand him up."

The guards obeyed without expression.

"You know what your real crime was?" The Dark Regent studied his own knuckles—still clean, still unmarked. "It wasn’t the deviation itself. It wasn’t even the arrogance of believing your judgment superior to mine."

He stepped close. Cupped the man’s swollen, blood-slick face between both hands—almost tender, almost reverent.

Then drove both thumbs into the pressure points just below the ears—mastoid processes—pressing inward and upward with slow, increasing force.

The man’s entire body seized. Every muscle locked at once. Spine arched backward in a bow that should have snapped vertebrae. His mouth stretched impossibly wide—silent scream, throat too crushed to make sound—tendons in his neck standing out like steel cables. Eyes bulged, whites flooding red with burst capillaries. Veins throbbed at his temples.

"Your crime," the Dark Regent said, wiping his thumbs on a fresh towel one guard extended without being asked, "was planting doubt. Making me wonder—if you bent this order, what other orders have you quietly rewritten? What other instructions have you ’improved’ behind my back?"

"You infected the chain of command with uncertainty. And uncertainty is a cancer I excise without anesthesia."

"Stand him up."

"It is, isn’t it?" The Dark Regent’s smile was almost wistful. "I think about that sometimes. How many last skies I’ve given out. How many final sunrises. How many clean breaths of open air. Most people die in fluorescent rooms, tubes in their arms, machines beeping. But the ones I finish? They die up here. Sun on their face. Wind in their hair. It’s almost a kindness."

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