The sea glistened under the morning sun like shattered glass. From the deck of the luxury yacht Aetherion, I watched the mainland approach—Busan's skyline gleaming in the distance.
Behind me, Asura stood silent, arms crossed. Even without looking, I could feel his tension.
"We're on schedule," he finally said. "Convoy is in position at the pier."
I didn't respond right away. The invitation from Tom Lee still sat in my coat pocket, heavier than it looked. This wasn't just about me. It was about the Park Family. And for once... we were stepping onto the board.
I adjusted my tailored suit—jet black, double-breasted, hugging my six-foot-five frame like armor. My tie bore the faint silver crest of our hidden island. Even out here, image mattered.
The yacht docked with silent grace.
At the pier, the convoy waited: a polished Rolls-Royce Phantom in the center—mine. Ahead and behind, two matte black Audi RS7s. Each was armored, engine-tuned, and reinforced with undercarriage plates. The drivers stood by in black suits and earpieces, eyes like razors. My security. My shadows.
They bowed the moment I stepped off the yacht.
"Status?" I asked, voice low.
Gunwoo stepped forward, his suit crisp despite the sea wind. "All routes cleared. Target location confirmed. Eyes are already watching us from rooftops. Someone wants to test you today, Young Master."
I smirked. "Let them."
The door to the Rolls opened. I slid inside.
The convoy moved.
Calculating. Precise. Like clock hands trained in war.
POV: Ian Park – Age 18
As we cruised into the urban veins of Busan, I noticed a shift. Locals paused, some pretending to tie shoelaces, others sipping coffee slower than normal. Observers. They were scattered and trained—not amateurs.
The city felt quieter than it should've. Even with my convoy rolling through Busan like a parade of ghosts—two sleek black Audis flanking my midnight Rolls-Royce Phantom—there was something... still.
Asura's voice crackled through the comms. "Sir, hostile pickup confirmed. Five hostiles at the next overpass. Armed. Waiting."
I sighed. "Five?" I reached inside my coat pocket and popped a mint into my mouth. "Tell them to bring more next time."
Asura chuckled. "Copy that."
The convoy screeched to a halt as the black van ahead blocked the tunnel exit. Five men jumped out—tattoos, brass knuckles, chains, and all the delusions that come with thinking numbers could stop a Park.
The one in front, their supposed "leader," was barking orders.
"Get him out of the car! That's Ian Park, right?! Grab him—we'll get millions!"
Millions?
Cute.
Gunwoo, stepping out from the front Audi, looked back at me for the go-ahead.
I waved him off.
"I'll stretch my legs," I said, opening the Phantom door and stepping into the flickering light of the tunnel.
The air shifted.
The five thugs froze. One even took a step back. Maybe it was my height—6'6" in polished leather shoes. Or maybe it was the way my custom-tailored midnight black suit hugged my frame like armor forged in a penthouse.
But most likely, it was my eyes.
Cold. Bored. Unamused.
"You guys really thought this was going to work?" I asked.
One charged—swinging a chain like it was a light saber.
I raised a hand.
Slap.
He spun. Literally spun. Eight meters down the tunnel like a broken fan blade before crumpling beside a concrete pillar. He wasn't getting up.
"Oh shit—!"
The next thug lunged, knife flashing under the sodium lights.
I flicked his forehead.
Click.
He flew backward like someone had yanked his spine with a fishhook. His body ragdolled into the van, denting it.
"Two down," I muttered. "Three more chances to run."
They didn't take the hint.
One tried to blindside me with a pipe. I tilted my head an inch.
The pipe whooshed past my ear.
I grabbed his face mid-swing with one hand and lifted.
He dangled like laundry.
"You think strength is this?" I asked him.
Then I threw him—straight into the ceiling.
CRACK.
He got stuck. In the ceiling.
The last two looked at each other.
"Y-you're dead! You don't know who we work for—!"
I stepped forward.
They stepped back.
"Let me guess…" I said, brushing invisible dust off my lapel. "Some underground syndicate that thinks the Park Family no longer matters? Or maybe one of those little roach-factions trying to make a name?"
They tried to run.
Didn't get far.
I blurred forward, my shoes barely clicking.
One slap each.
Two unconscious bodies hit the ground like wet laundry bags.
I walked over to their leader—the guy who'd ordered the hit. He was twitching on the floor, trying to crawl away.
I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him one-handed.
"Million dollars, huh?" I murmured.
"P-please—wait, wait, I didn't know! I didn't know you were really—!"
I tightened my grip. His feet kicked uselessly in the air.
My voice dropped low.
"You tried to ambush me. You came after my my life. You don't get mercy. You get forgotten."
I squeezed—
—and suddenly, Gunwoo appeared beside me.
"Sir," he said calmly, "the cops are ten minutes out. Want me to clean up?"
I dropped the twitching body.
"Let the medics clean them," I said. "He'll tell his friends what it means to cross me."
Gunwoo nodded, giving the signal.
Then a van arrived and stopped in the distance a few meters of the scattered bodies, a black-suited subordinates moved in, clean and precise like surgeons in war. Bodies disappeared. Evidence vanished. Within minutes, it was like the fight had never happened.
I dusted off the imaginary dust of my black gloves and slid back into the Phantom.
Asura handed me a tablet.
"New intel, sir. Tom Lee's not acting alone. There's movement in Seoul. Ex-mercs. Old school hitters. The kind of guys who bury cops, not bribe them."
"Perfect," I said, grinning. "Maybe someone worth punching next time."
I leaned back against the leather seats as the convoy glided forward again—silent, unchallenged.
The underworld had sent its first message.
I just sent one back.