Marcel didn't feel like wasting his time looking at these people anymore. He said, "Let's get this done. I have things to do," his tone commanding.
Ren couldn't agree more. He turned his head to look at a guy in a hood and said, "Lance, get in the ring."
The man stepped forward as he pulled down the hood. When they saw the man's face, a lot of people were astonished, and it wasn't without reason. Anyone who watched MMA fights could recognize that face. His name was Lance Marino. He was a retired heavyweight champion, but what was he doing here, hanging around someone like Ren?
Ren patted Lance's shoulder and said, "Beat that idiot up and the debt you owe me, poof, gone."
Lance, desperate to be free of his gambling debts, said, "Yes, sir." To him, that was going to be an easy fight. The sooner he knocked him out, the better.
Ren slapped his back and said, "Make me proud." Lance climbed into the ring. He slipped between the ropes and met Marcel's gaze, his expression fierce as though to intimidate his opponent.
Lance said, "Let's not waste each other's time. You better tap out, otherwise I will break your legs."
Marcel wasn't at all intimidated; in fact, he was eager to poke the bear. He retorted, saying, "It's a shame to see such a legend fall to this degree."
Those words were a stab right at the heart. Lance's face turned ugly as he snarled, "You are fucking dead."
Marcel rolled his shoulders back with a sly smirk on his lips that made Lance even more furious that he wanted to punch it off his face. Lance, despite years of drinking, indulging himself, and not stepping through the door of a gym, was still imposing. At his prime, Marcel wouldn't stand a chance.
As soon as the bell rang, Lance rushed forward, the killing intent in his eyes intense. He had the air of a true champion about him, but in Marcel's eyes, he was a true champion past his prime.
Lance swung his fist. The punch was powerful enough to knock Marcel's teeth out, but Marcel was faster. He slipped away, the air rushing past his ear as Lance's fist brushed past. The difference between the two of them was obvious. Lance had immense strength honed from years of training, and Marcel's advantage was his speed.
Sounds of insults and cheers filled the room, and with each swing and dodge, the crowd grew louder and even more excited. Some were even placing bets, with most of Ren's men placing their bets on the retired champ.
Marcel was like a slippery carp. Each time Lance thought he had him corner, he would slip away, his motion smooth and elusive then proceed to counter with a sharp jabs that forced his opponent's head back.
Lance's frustration grew the longer they played this cat-and-mouse game. He stood there breathless and raging inside when he caught a glimpse of Marcel's movements. He realized that Marcel, his actions though subtle, instinctively protected his left leg. Having realized this point, a sly grin appeared on his bloodied face.
Marcel truly underestimated his opponent. When Lance attacked, Marcel was prepared to dodge and strike, but this time he was caught off guard. His leg was struck so hard he could see stars. The pain was excruciating, so excruciating that he almost passed out from the pain.
Ren's voice roared from outside the ring. He yelled, "Finish him!" while striking the ring in excitement.
The noise became distant and muffled. Marcel's ears were ringing and his vision blurred. He staggered back, his leg screaming, and his balance faltering. Lance surged forward, swinging again, confident that this fight was about to be over. Archie and the others shouted from the sidelines, panic in their voices.
But Marcel's reacted quickly. At the last second, he ducked, slipping past the strike heading towards him. He moved with a burst of energy like his body was no longer under his control. His fist shot upward, connecting squarely with Lance's jaw.
The impact was vicious, matching Marcel's expression. He showed no mercy. Lance staggered backward. His massive frame swayed before crashing down to the mat with a thunderous bang.
A pool of blood formed beneath him as he lay there unmoving. The silence that followed was deafening. No one dared to move or breathe loudly just in case Marcel turned his anger on them.
Marcel stood over Lance's collapsed body, his rage still burning fiercely. Instead of fighting fair, this bastard almost crippled him. He wanted to beat him to death, but he restrained himself.
His leg was in so much pain that he couldn't put weight on it. He was forced to balance it on his tiptoe. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his bruised face, but his eyes were filled with defiance.
Miso was red with anger as he watched Lance crash on the mat, defeated. He couldn't accept it. His hand darted into his jacket, pulling out a knife. Ren's eyes widened. He wanted to stop this stupid brat, but it was already too late.
Miso rushed into the ring, his blade glimmering under the lights. He swung the blade wildly, slashing and thrusting like a maniac. With brutal force, Marcel grabbed him by the throat and slammed him hard on the mat. The knife fell a distance on the mat. Miso struggled. He tried to hit Marcel's hand to pull it off his throat and stretch his hand to reach for the blade, but it was pointless. Marcel only tightened his grip. Miso's face turned red, his veins throbbing.
Ren's men reacted instantly. They drew their weapons, pointing them towards the opposite side, but they forgot that this was, after all, Marcel's territory. Marcel's men reacted in kind, the tension in the air growing so intense you could smell the gunpowder in the air.
Ren wasn't a fan of his stupid nephew, but he still couldn't let him die. His eyes bloodshot, he said, "Let him go," his voice stern, but there was a slight tremor that was hard to conceal.
Marcel met his gaze with a cold smile. "Lower your weapons first," he ordered, his voice sending a chill across the room.
Ren truly hated his nephew right now for being so impulsive. His jaw tightened to the point of snapping. If he so much as brought his nephew with so much as a scratch on him, his brother would never let him off. He was about to tell his men to lower their guns when the doors swung open.
Men clad in black suits walked in with an air of authority, like they owned this place. Their immaculate shoes clinked on the floor. In front of them, a man with three of the top buttons of his shirt undone. With a loud pah pah pah sound from his slow clap, he said, "Brother... you have been busy.
A group of men in suits strode in, their polished shoes clicking against the floor. At their head was a man with three of his shirt buttons undone, his chest exposed, confidence radiating. He clapped his hands slowly. "Brother, you have been busy." Marcel loosened his grip, and Miso scurried away on all fours, scurrying back to his uncle.
Ren gritted his teeth. He still wanted to settle scores with Marcel, but today wasn't the day. He grabbed his coward of a nephew and said, "Since you have company, I will leave you to it."
Marcel clenched his jaw; the pain from his leg was not his focus right now. He glared fiercely at the newcomer. It was his half-brother, Luis Verrochi. They had the same father but were raised differently. One was a prince in the golden palace, and the other was a knife to keep the prince wealthy and well-fed. Just the sight of him made his blood boil.
When Ren and his men were gone, the tension didn't dissipate. It only intensified. The guns remained raised; the air suffocating.
Luis smiled with an evil glint in his eyes. "Brother, what's wrong?... Aren't you pleased to see me?"
Marcel's voice was cold as he replied, "I have no business with either you or your family... so why are you here?"
Luis tilted his head slightly and said, "Come on, brother. I missed you. I came to what do you call it... to rekindle our relationship?"
Marcel turned around to leave, walking away with a limp as he stepped out of the ring. Archie rushed over to help, but Marcel brushed him off, muttering, "Get lost." He limped away.
Luis looked at that straight back, walking away with an aloof air like he didn't care about anything or anyone. Like an immortal detached from this world, but he did care about someone. Some people, to be exact. Luis sneered before he said, "Don't you want Thalia's ashes?" The air froze instantly, sending chills through their bodies.
Marcel stopped mid-step. He clenched his fist, his nails cutting through his flesh. The pain calmed the storm that was brewing inside of him. He turned around swiftly and snatched the gun from one of his men. His speed startled everyone. He aimed it at Luis, his eyes burning with intense rage.
Who was Thalia? It was his mother. Her death was said to have been a suicide, but Marcel didn't believe it. By the time he got home, she had already been turned to ashes. When he begged for her ashes, his maternal grandfather said if he wanted them, he could jump in the ocean and join her. Marcel knew his maternal family very well. They held on to anything that could be used to control him, and those ashes definitely weren't in the sea.