Chapter 8
"Why should I help her?" Raziel's voice was calm, cold, and uninterested, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his long coat as he stood beside the young boy with tousled hair and mischief in his eyes.
The boy didn't hesitate. "You don't know, do you?" he muttered, giving Raziel a sideways glance full of disbelief. "The Songong Gang—they aren't your average alley thugs. They're monsters in human skin. Every one of them is a master at hand-to-hand combat. Most bodyguards would wet their pants facing even one of them. Even you won't beat them... probably."
Raziel didn't react. His eyes were still closed, his face still stoic.
The boy smirked. "Okay, let's make a bet! If you really beat them all up, I'll call you... Great Brother." He puffed his chest with mock pride. "But if you lose? Then not only is your pride shattered into dust, you're paying for all my snacks today. And I warn you, I'm very hungry."
A small crowd started gathering, drawn by the arrogant laughter of the Songong Gang across the street—six muscle-bound fighters in flashy clothes, mocking a girl in a white dress standing her ground.
Raziel stayed silent.
Then—
"Looook heeereee!" the boy suddenly screamed, pointing at Raziel as if introducing a champion wrestler. "He said he'll beat them up!"
That got to him.
Raziel opened one eye lazily, his expression flat. "I never said that."
"You didn't deny it either," the boy grinned. "Now go teach them a lesson, Great Grand Brother!"
Raziel sighed. A soft breeze stirred his black hair. "I'll show you how a real warrior fights."
Across the street, the clowns—no, the Songong Gang—burst into laughter. One of them stepped forward, the so-called "First Clown," cracking his knuckles.
"Look at him. Fragile arms, pretty face. He looks like a tailor's apprentice." He charged forward planning to end the fight in seconds.
But the next moment—
BOOM!
A sharp gust of wind exploded around Raziel. Before anyone could blink, the First Clown vanished from view.
Gasps filled the air. People craned their necks, scanning for him—until someone shouted, "Up there!"
Everyone looked. The man was dangling unconscious from the upper branches of a tree like someone hung laundry.
Mouths dropped.
"I don't see him move…" the woman in white whispered, astonished.
Even the boy blinked. "Cool."
Raziel stood in the same spot, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "Next?"
That was all it took.
"Get him!" the leader of the gang shouted, shaking off his stupor.
The rest charged, forming a wide arc.Feet stomping in rhythm. Battle cries rising.
Raziel walked toward them, hands still behind his back.
The second fighter tried a spinning kick—SWISH! Raziel tilted his head. The leg flew past harmlessly. Raziel flicked his finger.
The man was launched sideways, crashing into a fruit cart. Watermelons flew like grenades.
The third and fourth attacked together, dual punches aimed at his ribs.
Raziel stopped walking.
Two swift movements—a blur—and both were kneeling, cradling broken arms and coughing blood, eyes wide with disbelief.
One of them muttered, "Monster…"
The rest panicked but fought on . One tried a leaping knee strike. Another unleashed a punch. But Raziel moved like mist. A shoulder bump here, a palm tap there—each one sent his enemies flying like paper dolls.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Within minutes, the playing ground was littered with groaning bodies. The gang leader, the last one standing, roared in frustration and rushed forward. He was big. Muscles flexing, veins bulging. His speed was monstrous. His fists like sledgehammers.
Raziel stood still until the last second.
Then, WHAM!
A knee drove into the leader's stomach like a cannonball. The man froze—then crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
Silence.
Dust settled.
Raziel stood alone, surrounded by unconscious bodies, his coat still pristine.
From the sidelines, the boy screamed, "SUPER COOL!!"
He dashed forward, his eyes practically glowing. "You won our bet! From now on, you're not just my brother, but my Great Grand Brother!"
Raziel sighed, shaking his head. The more time I spend with humans, the more I'm convinced they're all insane.
Then, the woman he saved stepped forward, trembling slightly.
"P-please, I just want to say... you're... ha-handsome…" she stuttered. Her face turned red as a tomato. She had only now dared to truly look at him. That face—chiseled, ethereal, flawless.
She stood stunned, her brain short-circuited.
Raziel turned without a word and began to walk away.
But the footsteps behind him didn't fade. Glancing to his left, he saw the boy. On his right, the lady in white.
He raised an eyebrow. "What do you want now?"
The boy scratched his head. "Well... since you're now my Great Grand Brother, you have a duty."
"A duty?" Raziel asked, dryly. "I never agreed to anything."
"You need to give me money," the boy said with the innocence of a saint. "Not small money. Great grand money!"
Raziel pinched the bridge of his nose. This devil only cares about food.
Then he turned to the woman. "And you?"
"I… I need a bodyguard," she said more calmly this time. "To escort me to an important meeting."
"How does that concern me?"
"How does that concern my Great Grand Brother?" the boy echoed mockingly, now somehow acting as her defense attorney.
Raziel frowned. "To think you humans are so arrogant as to ask me, a prince, to escort you... A nobody."
The lady's smile faltered.
A nobody?
Did he know who she was?
She straightened and spoke with grace. "I am Helen Reners. Of the Reners Family."
The boy's mouth dropped open. "Wait... what? You're that Helen?!"
And just like that, he flipped.
"Great Grand Uncle," the boy said solemnly, "I no longer need your money. You must now help this poor woman."
Raziel's eyebrow twitched violently. Uncle?! First brother, now uncle?
Helen giggled and leaned toward the boy, whispering promises of a hefty reward. His eyes sparkled like coins.
"Please, Sir Uncle," the boy pleaded dramatically. "If not for money, then for justice! For love! For the people!"
Raziel sighed again. "Fine. I'll protect you for a day."
The boy celebrated like he had just won the lottery. Helen ordered a sleek, luxury car that arrived within minutes.
As the two got in, Helen began to talk about her meeting, why she avoided using her family's branded vehicles, the political tension between noble houses…
Raziel didn't listen. His eyes stared quietly out the window.
His thoughts were far away.
Selena.
Was she safe?
Did she still hate him?
The memory of how close he came to killing her tightened in his chest. Her voice, her rage, her pain—it still echoed in his mind.
She probably despises me now… he thought wryly.
But it bothered him.
More than it should.
_ _ _ _
"We're here," Helen's calm voice sliced through Raziel's thoughts like a blade through silence. He blinked, jolted from his trance, the ghost of a distant name still echoing in his mind—Selena. That thought vanished as the car halted before a grand structure resembling both a mansion and a fortress. A heavy presence filled the air.
As they stepped inside, the temperature dropped—not from the air conditioning, but from the cold stares already waiting for them.
On one side of the massive obsidian table sat a bald, broad-shouldered man wearing a golden suit that screamed power, arrogance, and too much money. His mere aura made the guards flinch.
Tom Hanks, the richest man in the world. Silent. Calculating. Deadlier than he appeared.
Beside him, with a charming grin and unruly red curls, lounged Alex Edward, young master of the Edward family—the fourth wealthiest household. He was flanked by three bodyguards with eyes like knives, their suits struggling to contain their muscular builds. One of them yawned. Another cracked his knuckles.
Helen walked past them, ignoring their presence like one might ignore trash on the roadside. She scanned the room, irritation blooming on her face. "Where's Mark? Isn't he supposed to be here already?"
Tom didn't answer. Alex chuckled, twirling a platinum pen. "Maybe he's busy ruining another woman's life. Our favorite playboy has his priorities."
Helen's eyes twitched in restrained disgust.
Then, the door creaked open.
Three men entered.
At the front, smug and smiling, was Mark Dwargon—poster boy for bad decisions and inheritor of the second richest empire in the world.
On his right, his overly competent personal assistant Chris, typing something on his tablet with the speed of lightning.
And on the left—Zu, a bald monk whose silence alone made most fighters shudder. A verified Grandmaster level fighter, renowned for subduing entire mercenary groups with bare hands and a frown.
Mark's eyes fell on Raziel, and the smugness twisted. His swagger faltered for half a second.
Him? Again?
He sneered, trying to regain footing. "Oh? Leeching off women now, are we? I didn't know Helen liked picking up strays—"
"I'd rather pick up a stray dog than talk to you pig," Helen cut in coldly.
The room paused. The temperature dropped again. Even Chris blinked in surprise.
Mark's smile faded.
But before he could retaliate, Alex leaned forward and laughed mockingly, "So this is your bodyguard, Helen? What is he, a librarian? I doubt he's even a senior-level fighter, much less someone who could protect anyone."
Raziel sat a few feet from the central seats, relaxed, hands folded, not a care in the world. He looked like he'd dozed off.
"You trash, don't you know your place?" Alex spat, glaring at him.
Raziel didn't move.
Infuriated, Alex snapped, "Take care of him."
One of his bodyguards—a Master-level fighter built like a freight train—marched up to Raziel and pointed a finger in his face. "Stand up."
Raziel blinked lazily, clearly uninterested.
The guard's face turned red. He threw a punch.
BAM.
The sound echoed through the marble room.
But it wasn't Raziel who moved—it was the bodyguard who dropped.
Unconscious.
Eyes rolled.
Face dented.
A trail of drool forming.
Everyone froze. Even Zu's eyes widened.
"You—" Alex stuttered, "You two! Get him!"
The remaining guards charged.
And then Mark whispered, "Zu. Assist them. Break him."
Zu nodded silently and walked toward Raziel, eyes like a hawk circling prey.
Now it was three against one.
Raziel remained seated.
The two Master-levels lunged, fists blazing with techniques. Zu followed, his movement precise and deadly.
But none of them ever touched him.
Raziel didn't dodge dramatically. He leaned just an inch to the side, raised a finger here, tilted his leg there—every motion effortless, dismissive.
One guard missed entirely and flew past him, crashing into the wall like a human-shaped meteor.
The second tried a leg sweep—Raziel lifted his chair, spinning slightly.
CRACK. The guard's leg hit the ground. His face hit next.
Zu was different. Focused. Disciplined.
He struck out with palm strikes,
combinations no average fighter could track. The room shook with each impact—but none found their mark.
Raziel caught his final palm strike mid-air.
With two fingers.
The monk's eyes widened
Then he flicked his wrist.
Zu was thrown across the room, skidding like a rock on water.
Silence.
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Hmm... Supreme level, at least."
Mark and Alex stood frozen—beads of sweat trailing down their temples like melting glaciers, their faces pale, drained of arrogance. Their eyes refused to blink, as if closing them would allow Raziel to vanish and appear behind them. The very air around them felt heavier with every step Raziel took, each tap of his shoe against the marble floor echoing like a countdown to judgment.
Step. Alex's knees trembled. "T-Tom, are you seeing this?" he whispered, voice cracking like dry leaves.
Step. Mark had stopped breathing altogether. His usual smirk vanished. "This guy... he was sitting the whole time…"
Their bodies reacted before their minds could process it—drenched in cold sweat, backs ramrod straight like schoolboys caught cheating.
Step. He's not a fighter, their instincts screamed. He's a monster who learned to fight.
One more step and I'm dead, Mark thought.
Please just leave. Please.
And then—
"...Raziel."
The voice was soft as it rangs in his head.
But Raziel stopped cold.
His body tensed. Eyes widened. That voice.
He turned, as if compelled by something deeper than instinct.
Without another word, he leave the room.
"What... just happened?" Alex whispered, still trembling.
Tom didn't laugh. Instead, a sly grin formed on his face as he tapped Tank's massive arm. "Get me everything on that man. Birthplace. Blood type. Who he kissed in kindergarten. Everything.The world's richest men don't tremble for just anyone."
Tank nodded. "On it, boss."
Meanwhile, Helen's gaze followed Raziel as he exited.
There was something in his expression she hadn't seen before—not annoyance, not mockery.
Fear.
Not for himself—but for someone else.
And that bothers her more than anything.
---
SOMEWHERE ELSE —
Sweat rolled down Selena's brow. Her breathing was shallow.
A masked figure raised a blade, its tip glinting red under the flickering lights.
"Now give up hope and die already ," the masked man sneered.
The blade plunged—
CLANG.
A hand caught it mid-swing.
The attacker gasped, trying to pull free—but couldn't.
Red eyes glowed in the shadows.
Raziel stood there, expression unreadable.
"You... you—who are—"
Raziel's voice cut through the air like thunder.
"How... Dare... You."
The lights exploded.
---
To be continued...
---
Hey everyone!
Welcome to my very first supernatural romance novel! If you've enjoyed the chapters so far, don't forget to show your support — it truly means alot to me.
I'm planning to release 2 to 4 chapters per week, but that schedule can definitely change depending on you, the readers. With enough support, I might even increase it to 6 to 9 chapters weekly! Your encouragement directly fuels my motivation.
This story is something I hope to turn into a romantic masterpiece, and there's still a long journey ahead. Every power stone, gift, review, comment, and library add helps me push forward with even more passion.
So if you're loving the story, let me know — and stay tuned for the next exciting chapter.