The Ex-Con Who Conquered the World novel Chapter 92

Stefan scoffed inwardly. How hypocritical—trying to stand on moral high ground to pressure him.

He recognized the tactic as both a criticism and a setup for whatever extreme move might follow.

Too bad he picked the wrong person.

"Young man, don't be too greedy. Making tens of millions on a resale is an opportunity most people never see," someone remarked.

"Exactly! If someone's in urgent need, why not let them have it? You'd earn a fortune and gain favor with the Lessing family. A win-win," another added.

"Tens of millions aren't enough? Greed just breeds more greed," a third voice chimed in, thinly veiled disdain turning toward Stefan.

The comments grew pointed, some outright painting him as insatiable and selfish.

Many in the crowd, recognizing Elliott's connection to the powerful Lessing family—his uncle being the eldest son of the family patriarch—were quick to side with him, hoping to curry favor.

Elliott allowed himself a smug smile. Under this weight of public opinion, he was certain Stefan would have no choice but to concede and sell him the rare herbs.

Yet Stefan remained unmoved, indifferent to the surrounding judgment and entirely unwilling to be morally cornered.

He calmly packed the herbs, ready to leave.

Elliott's temper flared. Being utterly ignored was more than he could stomach. His tone dropped, cold and threatening. "I've given you every courtesy and more than fair terms. If you refuse to be reasonable, don't blame me for what comes next."

"Oh?" Stefan glanced up, a faint, curious smile on his face. "What comes next?"

"Get him! I'll take the fall!" Elliott snapped, patience gone.

After carefully crafting his image as the reasonable party, Stefan's continued defiance left no room for hesitation.

"Mr. Miller, please—let's talk this through!" Samuel stepped forward anxiously, trying to mediate.

It was too late. The men beside Elliott—brutes with a face carved from pure menace—lunged at Stefan, their presence radiating raw violence. It was the kind of aura that spoke of brutal training.

The three men's attacks were simple, explosive—no finesse, no subtlety. Just pure, concentrated force, channeled through fists that moved like battering rams.

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