Saintess's Worthless Husband Turned Dragon Commander novel Chapter 72

CHAPTER 72

The crumpled bodies of Tyler King’s white-clad martial artists lay scattered across the cracked asphalt like discarded puppets. Marcus Steel straightened his jacket, his expression utterly calm, as if he’d just finished a light warm-up rather than decimating four elite fighters in under thirty seconds.

Aaron Jackson wiped blood from his knuckles, his breathing steady but his eyes sharp with satisfaction. “Four down. King’s reputation just took a beating worse than his men did.”

From behind a rusted shipping container fifty yards away, Tyler King watched through binoculars, his hands trembling-not from fear, but from barely restrained fury. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth threatened to crack. The lead instructor, Master Chen, had trained for forty years. The man could break concrete with his bare hands. And this… this Marcus Steel had killed him like swatting a fly.

“What the hell is he?” Tyler muttered, his voice hoarse. The way Steel moved-it wasn’t human. The speed, the strength, that terrifying presence that made the air itself feel heavy. Tyler had seen cultivators, had trained with masters, but this was something else entirely. Something ancient and monstrous.

He lowered the binoculars, his face twisted with hatred. “You think you’ve won, Steel? You just made the biggest mistake of your worthless life. I’ll make you watch your precious Saintess wife suffer before I end you both.”

With that venomous promise hanging in the air, Tyler King slipped away into the shadows, leaving his dead men behind without a second glance.

The abandoned cement factory loomed against the darkening sky like a monument to industrial decay. Rusted metal beams jutted from crumbling concrete walls, and knee-high weeds pushed through the cracked parking lot. The entire district had been dead for a decade-perfect for the kind of business nobody wanted witnesses for.

Marcus, Aaron, and Dominic Martinez stood in the center of the factory’s main loading bay, with Quamaine Potter bound and gagged in a chair between them. The young heir’s face was a mess of bruises, his left leg splinted and swollen. He glared at them with impotent rage, unable to speak through the gag.

“Three hundred million for this piece of trash,” Aaron said, checking his watch. “Stanislaus better not be late.”

Marcus’s eyes scanned the perimeter with dragon-enhanced senses, detecting multiple heartbeats approaching from the west entrance. “They’re here.”

Six black SUVs rolled into the lot with military precision, forming a semicircle around the loading bay. The doors opened in perfect unison, and a squad of bodyguards emerged-all wearing tactical gear, all moving with the controlled efficiency of professional killers.

But it was the man who stepped out last that commanded everyone’s attention.

Harlan Potter was in his mid-fifties, lean and hard as tempered steel, with silver streaking through his close- cropped black hair. He wore an expensive charcoal suit that couldn’t quite hide the coiled violence in his frame. His eyes-cold, gray, utterly emotionless-swept across the scene with the detached precision of a predator calculating kill vectors.

“The Shadow,” Aaron murmured, recognizing him instantly. “Stanislaus sent his best.”

Harlan walked forward slowly, hands clasped behind his back, utterly confident. His bodyguards fanned out but he paid them no attention-they were backup he didn’t expect to need.

“Gentlemen,” Harlan said, his voice smooth as silk over razors. “I appreciate punctuality. It’s rare in your line of work.”

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“Cut the pleasantries,” Aaron shot back. “You brought the money?”

Harlan smiled-a thin, humorless expression that never reached his eyes. “Of course. Three hundred million, as agreed. Though I must say, you’re remarkably stupid for showing your faces. Do you have any idea who you’ve kidnapped?”

Marcus stepped forward, and something in his movement made Harlan’s eyes narrow fractionally. “We know exactly who he is. That’s why he’s worth three hundred million.”

“Is that so?” Harlan circled closer, studying Quamaine’s battered condition with clinical detachment. The young heir tried to shout through his gag, his eyes wild with fury and humiliation. “My, my. You’ve roughed him up quite thoroughly. Young Master Potter looks like he went through a meat grinder.”

“He earned every bruise,” Marcus said flatly.

Harlan chuckled, a sound like gravel scraping glass. “I’m sure he did. The boy’s always had more ego than sense.” He turned those cold gray eyes on Marcus. “But you-you’re the real prize here, aren’t you? Marcus Steel. The nobody who married a Sacred Saintess. The man who’s made enemies of half of Grayson City in the span of a week.

11

“The money,” Aaron interrupted sharply. “Show it, or we start mailing Quamaine back to his father in pieces.”

Harlan’s expression didn’t change. He gestured lazily, and two bodyguards brought forward a reinforced case, setting it on the ground and opening it to reveal stacks of bundled cash.

“Three hundred million, as promised,” Harlan said. “Now release the young master, and perhaps I’ll let you walk away with your lives. Perhaps.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. Harlan’s posture was too relaxed, his tone too confident. This wasn’t a man negotiating-this was a man biding his time.

“Count it,” Marcus ordered Dominic.

Dominic moved toward the case cautiously-

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