Chapter 60
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 59
Chapter Title: Real and Fake
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Turning his back as if dodging Jevella's dazed expression and the stares of the retainers, he hurled himself without hesitation into the hole in the wall that had just been punched through.
At this point, there was no turning back.
It meant that until the moment he grew old and died, he would have to bear the glory and duties that weren't truly his, without ever letting anyone catch on.
It certainly wouldn't be as easy as it sounded. Perhaps the burdens he'd have to endure as a Zahav would outweigh the privileges.
But he had already made up his mind.
In the end, it was simple greed—he didn't want to hand over House Zahav... or the connections he'd built... to a bastard like Shakhar.
At the same time, it was a sense of duty, a desire to live up to the expectant gazes directed at him for the first time in this life or his past one...
Above all, it was stubborn pride—the refusal to abandon the basic humanity he'd clung to through hellish days in Calypso Territory, the humanity he never wanted to give up.
From now on, Shakhar would have to become the fake Zahav.
And in turn, he would become the undeniable real Zahav.
So how should he go about it? He agonized over it repeatedly during the brief fall.
Thud!
By the time his feet hit the ground, he had his answer.
It was simple. He just had to prove he was Shakhar's superior in every way.
Fortunately, the power he wielded closely resembled the Zahav bloodline ability.
The moment he reached that conclusion, Shakhar burst out from the pile of debris and the dust cloud shrouding it.
"Enoch...! You filthy bastard! Know your place!"
Arrow-fast speed. Beast-like golden eyes gleaming with blind murderous intent, channeling it into raw violence.
A straightforward punch with no finesse. But fast and powerful. As if that was enough.
And it would be, for most opponents. Overwhelming physical superiority rendered all tricks irrelevant.
But not for him.
"Shakhar. If you're gonna fight, do it in the ring."
His neck and waist bent at superhuman angles, dodging the punch—a trick honed against those assassin scum.
Shakhar's eyes widened, clearly not expecting the evade. He drove a kick into the bastard's gut like he was shoving him away.
Thump!
A drum-like boom echoed as Shakhar flew far back. He crashed into the plaza used for the teleport to the western front.
Once he shook him off, the plaza seemed the closest spot fit for a stage.
As he lightly rolled his neck and shoulders and headed toward the plaza, the retainers who'd just been gathered in the audience chamber began surrounding the area.
Just like the day they'd seen him off to the western front.
...Or like they were finally giving the homecoming welcome he deserved.
Amid the crowd, Shakhar dragged his battered body to its feet.
Damn, he was sturdy. He hadn't meant to kill him, but he'd put real force into that kick—yet here he was, barely fazed.
Ptooey.
Shakhar spat out sand-mixed saliva, either from tumbling or whatever.
No longer bothering to hide it, veins bulging in his neck, he radiated pure rage and killing intent.
"...I was even gonna treat you like a little brother, but no. I'm killing you."
"Give it a shot if you can."
He lazily tilted his head. In response, Shakhar exploded forward with a mighty stomp.
Boom!
The ground shattered. Shakhar was already in his face with a punch.
This time, he didn't dodge. He took it head-on.
Smack!
A dull thud, and his vision whipped around. A touch of dizziness, followed by delayed pain.
"Ow."
But that was it.
A blow that would've crushed most monsters' skulls outright couldn't faze him now—not after properly mastering aura and growing stronger through brushes with death.
"...Huh?"
His head had snapped back, but otherwise he looked far too fine. Shakhar stared in bewilderment.
He swung a fist right back at the bastard.
Wham!
Shakhar's face took the hit squarely. His body buckled, one knee hitting the dirt. Blood dripped from his busted lip as his wide eyes locked on.
A look like he couldn't comprehend what was happening.
Of course, it twisted into demonic fury moments later as he staggered up.
"Fancy tricks...!"
"Fancy tricks? Zahavs don't need that crap. Though I gotta say, jumping straight to suspecting foul play? You really are a monster in disguise."
"You calling me the fake right now?! You son of some gutter whore!"
"Son of a whore? Watch your mouth."
The random diss soured his expression too.
"My mother was Calypso's number one whore."
"...?"
"Put 'number one' in front next time."
Crime was daily life in Calypso. Naturally, the sex trade thrived... and she'd held the top spot for over a decade.
Even after popping out two kids along the way. That said it all.
It was a bigger deal than it sounded. His mother had quietly taken pride in it while alive.
Of course, outsiders to Calypso Territory wouldn't get it.
Even he, born and bred there, had taken time to accept it—thanks to memories from his past life.
Shakhar gave up trying to understand and charged again. Fiercer than before, his knee rocketed toward the ribs.
So he just took it. Then returned the favor exactly.
"Guhk!"
Shakhar flinched but, unlike the unscathed him, crumpled to one knee again.
Poison in his eyes, Shakhar lunged repeatedly, flailing limbs wildly.
An elbow slicing down like it would shatter the collarbone.
He met it head-on and slammed his own down. Shakhar's collarbone exploded inward.
Even screaming, Shakhar twisted into a whip-like kick.
He spun on the opposite leg, firing his own.
Shins clashed midair. Shakhar's snapped.
Limping but low, he sprang with a rising uppercut.
Tensing his neck to brace, he rocketed his fist into Shakhar's jaw.
Unable to withstand, Shakhar floated briefly before staggering back.
The brutish brawl dragged on.
No blocks, no dodges. Primitive: eat a hit, land a hit, repeat.
But each exchange made the outcome clear.
A bit of pain and soreness for him—bruises at worst later. Shakhar's body broke somewhere with every block he took.
Yeah. Overwhelming size made all skill meaningless.
...But against an even bigger fish, size was useless.
This was the best way to etch the real Zahav into everyone's minds.
After mere exchanges, Shakhar—body a total wreck—finally halted, unable to attack.
Naturally, he stopped the rhythm too. Standoff.
Honestly, he was a little impressed. Most foes would've been mush at this power.
Bones broken, flesh torn—yet he stood on his own feet, burning with unshaken killing intent.
A wastrel not even worthy of the name, but damn, Zahav blood was something.
Shakhar, eyes still blazing, let out a deep sigh.
"Hoo... Fine. Guess there's a reason Father handed you the patriarch seat without a word."
"Switching to talking instead of fists? We already said everything... Unless you're stalling, fake."
"Who're you calling fake...! Hah! Fine. I'll show you a Zahav's real power."
Grinning like he had an ace, Shakhar's aura ballooned massively. It surged through his body, centrifugal force leaking it outward naturally.
Whoosh.
Flame-like aura enveloped him. Like helplessly burning... or phoenix-like rebirth.
Moments later, his wounds began healing.
Crack.
Broken bones realigned, swelling receded, bleeding stopped seamlessly.
Super-regeneration from aura pushed to extremes, specs already sky-high breaking limits.
Familiar sight.
So that's how he looked to others.
Pretty cool.
Flames swirling, Shakhar cackled madly, drunk on overflowing power.
"Hahaha! How's that! Only direct Zahav heirs from proven blood can wield the sun's power like this! A bastard like you couldn't dream of it!"
"Hm."
He scratched his chin awkwardly.
He wasn't alone. The retainers gathered to watch as ordered showed similar unease.
"...What? You rabble too blind to grasp how amazing this is?"
"We're just used to it."
"What...?"
Right in front of baffled Shakhar, he flaunted it—drawing up the aura he'd tamped down.
Complex patterns bloomed from his heart, spreading body-wide. Tattoo-like circuits ignited with flames, soon cloaking him fully.
Bright, fiercer than Shakhar's—blazing vividly even in daylight.
"Aura like that... Hah, but surely..."
Finally realizing his mistake, Shakhar froze. He shrugged at him.
"Sadly, no injuries to heal. Can't show that part."
"..."
"But this works."
First proactive move since the real fight began. He lunged, punching at Shakhar.
Fist blazing fiercely. Shakhar reflexively crossed arms to guard.
Crack!
His patterns heated intensely, flames surging. Shakhar's guard aura scattered feebly, crumbling.
A technique used instinctively before mastering aura properly.
"Huh?"
His fist slipped through Shakhar's aura effortlessly, smashing home. Shakhar skidded back, carving long gouges in the dirt.
The cocky confidence was gone; his face paled.
The retainers watched in shocked awe too.
Naturally.
Scattering Shakhar's aura, striking his forearm directly...
His flames devoured Shakhar's, burning fiercer.
Perfect hierarchy.