Lord of Caldera - Chapter 288

Chapter 288: Chapter 288

Sylas’s fist connected with the man’s chin, sending him flying. He crashed to the ground, rolling several times before trying to get back up. His vision blurred, and his balance wavered as though he’d been struck by a thunderbolt.

“Why… why can’t I hit you?!” the man shouted, desperation creeping into his voice.

“Why?” Sylas smirked. “Because your attacks are predictable. No matter how fast you are, your intent and stance give you away. You’re practically announcing your moves.”

“Bullshit!”

“You’ve never fought anyone on your level, have you? You’ve only ever crushed weaker opponents, haven’t you?” Sylas’s words hit home, and the man froze, his silence betraying the truth. Sylas chuckled knowingly.

“Your movements are raw, untested in real combat. It doesn’t matter how good your technique is if you’ve never used it against someone equal—or stronger.”

“Shut up!” The man roared, throwing another punch. But Sylas was already prepared, his fist extended in anticipation.

Thud.

The man’s punch stopped short as his own momentum carried him straight into Sylas’s waiting hand.

“Urgh…” The man gasped, realizing Sylas hadn’t even counterattacked. He had simply placed his fist in the perfect spot, and the man had run into it.

“I’ve been outclassed…”

He couldn’t deny it any longer. This opponent, younger though he appeared, was superior in both strength and skill. The realization sapped the fight from him.

“Want to keep going?” Sylas asked with a casual smile. “Or would you rather kneel and end this?”

“…Over my dead body!” The man spat, staggering to his feet. His pride wouldn’t allow him to give in, even if it meant his death.

Sylas’s smile faded. “Is that so?”

“…”

A shiver ran down the man’s spine as he sensed something shift. He realized, far too late, that he had made a terrible mistake.

“W-wait. I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up.”

Whoosh.

Before the man could finish, Sylas surged forward like a gust of wind. The man barely managed to raise his hands in a defensive stance when Sylas’s fist filled his vision.

Isaac’s life had never been easy. His family, a fallen noble house, existed only in name. He had no real home, no family to speak of.

He had never known his mother, and his father was the worst kind of man—a selfish, abusive drunk.

“A father’s duty is just to keep his brat alive, nothing more,” his father would say.

Despite earning a fortune through his underhanded dealings, his father gave Isaac nothing but cheap barley porridge to eat, pocketing the rest for himself. Whenever his father returned to their shabby inn room, he reeked of perfume and cheap makeup from the women he frequented.

One day, Isaac had dared to complain. “You make plenty of money. Why can’t I have one decent meal? Just once!” It wasn’t rebellion—just a frustrated plea.

The response had been a brutal beating. As his father rained blows on him, he snarled, “You dare talk back to me? Do it again, and I’ll beat you so bad the rain won’t be able to wash away the dust!”

At the time, Isaac hadn’t understood the phrase. He’d had no one to teach him idioms or proverbs. Only later, as an adult, did he realize the cruel irony. Dust doesn’t rise on wet ground.

“What kind of madman beats his child and calls it a father’s duty?”

The memory haunted him, and now, as he lay battered on the ground, it surfaced again.

“Ah, I see. This is what it means to be beaten so badly the rain can’t clean it up.”

His body was a wreck. Both eyes were swollen shut, his cheeks were puffed like a squirrel hoarding nuts, and every movement sent shocks of pain through his battered limbs.

“Hey,” Sylas’s voice jolted him back to the present.

Isaac flinched, trembling at the sound.

“You said you’d rather die than kneel. Is that still true?” Sylas asked, his tone sharp.

“One more hit and you might actually die. Want me to make that happen?” Sylas asked casually, his tone ice-cold.

Isaac shook his head weakly, his body trembling. He wanted to say, No, I’m sorry, please spare me, but his swollen tongue and bruised throat refused to cooperate. Thankfully, Sylas seemed to understand his unspoken plea.

“You should’ve acted like this from the start,” Sylas muttered, shaking his head.

“Urgh… gugh…” Isaac groaned, his body slumping as his eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, he appeared lifeless, but the faint rise and fall of his chest betrayed the truth—he was alive, barely.

“How noisy. If it hurts, just sleep,” Sylas said, his voice carrying an edge of disdain.

With Isaac incapacitated, Sylas turned his attention to the other prisoners, who were staring at him with a mix of awe and terror.

“H-he took down the Butcher barehanded…” one of them stammered.

“Who… what are you, sir?” another asked hesitantly.

“You don’t need to know,” Sylas replied curtly, his sharp tone silencing further questions. His gaze swept the cell, landing on a glass of wine perched on a nearby table. He picked it up and took a small sip.

“A fine bed, red carpets, and southern wine? Who designed this? This doesn’t feel like a prison at all,” Sylas remarked.

“It… it’s not exactly a prison,” a rat-faced prisoner stammered, cautiously stepping forward.

“Not a prison?” Sylas asked, raising an eyebrow. He gestured toward the iron bars. “Are these just for decoration, then?”

“In a way… yes. The Butcher could bend those bars and walk out anytime he wanted,” the man explained nervously.

“The Butcher?” Sylas said, his gaze flicking to Isaac. “You mean that guy?”

“Yes, the man you just defeated,” Rat-Face confirmed, his tone deferential. “He’s the ‘Butcher’ in title as much as name.”

“Explain,” Sylas ordered. “If this isn’t a prison and he’s not just a prisoner, then what is this place?”

Rat-Face hesitated, but Sylas’s piercing stare left him no choice. With a trembling voice, he began to explain. The cell, as it turned out, wasn’t a prison but an execution chamber. Isaac, the so-called Butcher, acted as the executioner, carrying out killings in exchange for payment. All the luxurious furnishings were rewards for his grim services.