Dragon Raja 2; Chapter 86: A Sight on the River Cam (3)

Dragon Raja 2

“The new… Dragons?” Anjou nodded slightly.

In the next instant, something incredible happened. The young man’s black suit and white shirt exploded into hundreds of shreds, flying in all directions, leaving his muscular torso completely exposed, with only the stiffened collar remaining.

For those staring at Anjou, something even stranger happened. Suddenly, the calmly seated Anjou disappeared, but the champagne glass he held remained suspended in mid-air. After hovering for an instant, it naturally fell, shattering on the floor. The golden liquid splashed everywhere.

In the next instant, the naked young man was seated in the high-backed chair, looking around blankly, like someone waiting for a barber to shave him.

His barber stood behind the chair. Anjou was twirling a folding knife about twenty centimeters long, the blade’s glint dancing across the young man’s chin. The blade was covered with the distinctive patterns of Damascus steel, wild and beautiful. He was still humming that song.

The young man didn’t dare move. Their positions were now reversed, the height advantage shifting immediately, a pressure like a mountain weighing him down, pinning him to the chair, leaving him without even the strength to lift a finger. His carefully groomed mustache fell away in the wind, and he heard his skin split open with a clear sound—a crack spreading across his face, a thin line of blood slowly emerging.

“Honestly, while I was listening to you, I kept thinking about trimming your mustache.” Anjou smiled. “But there’s a little blood, so I guess I won’t charge you.”

“Hey, Anjou, don’t be mad at the kid,” Henkel said flatly.

Anjou took a drag of his cigar. “One must teach lessons; you know I’m an educator. Young man, didn’t you realize that, in the eyes of pure-blooded dragons, you’re just a dwarf? You have their blood but not in a complete form—you talk big but feel inferior. The new Dragon Raja? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re just trying to steal that gold.” He blew a puff of smoke in the young man’s face. “Your speech about history was impressive. Yes, great men don’t care about some people dying because their view is broader. When I studied at Trinity College in my youth, my teacher also said that those who wield power must look at history from a higher vantage point, like watching a battle from a mountain. The people below trample each other to death like ants, but you don’t feel pain because they’re too far away. You’re elegant, and not a drop of blood stains your sleeve—so impressive! But I can’t do that, because I’m not on the mountain. I’m on the battlefield, where every moment people die around me, their pain surrounding me. I see their faces, their blood, their broken bodies—each face familiar, each one a companion. Henkel, I’ve never been a calm person, have I?”

“No, you haven’t,” Henkel replied calmly. “You’re just cool.”

“That’s why I’m already blood-crazed. Can you reason about the wheels of history with a blood-crazed man?”

“No.” Henkel agreed.

“Henkel, I suggest you teach your kids more about simple life truths. Tell them that Wall Street nonsense doesn’t work on blood-crazed desperadoes. If you want to negotiate with me, you’d better understand what kind of person I am. Don’t tell me, ‘Don’t put too high a price on the dead,’ making me sound like a corpse-trading ghoul. And don’t talk to me about being a ‘new Dragon Raja.’ All Dragons, whether born or self-proclaimed, are my enemies!” Anjou flicked his cigar’s ash. “Those who’ve been my enemies always end up badly.”

“But I do agree with your assessment of Frost. He’s just a jumpy ram. Good rhetoric, though.” He patted the young man’s stunned face and walked out the door.

The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the wall.

The young men all came from prominent hybrid families and were the new generation’s elites, the representatives of their families. Their senses were far sharper than humans’. Some of them were natural marksmen, capable of hitting targets a kilometer away with an ordinary military rifle, without a scope. But none of them had seen the previous scene clearly. It was as if a segment of time had been cut out of Anjou’s actions—one moment he was calmly seated, the next, his folding knife was spinning. In that missing time, one of them had lost the mustache he had so meticulously kept for years.

If given only a folding knife, how long would it take you to shave a mustache? At least half a minute, right? Then… Anjou stole half a minute from them. In that half-minute, how many times could someone stab with a knife? Thirteen stabs shouldn’t be a problem—enough to kill them all!

The chilling sensation lingered in the throat of the young man who had lost his mustache. He clutched his neck, breathing heavily. Cold sweat had soaked all their shirts. They sat there, trying to recall that severed moment in time, and the overwhelming majesty that had erupted from Anjou—a spontaneous domain, born from the burning of his bloodline. Ancient legends spoke of dragonslayers who could not look directly into a dragon’s eyes, for such a gaze would shatter the hearts of those with weak wills and even destroy their souls.

Dragon Fear!

Henkel dipped a handkerchief in the ice bucket and handed it to the injured young man. “Wipe your face. Don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to reach any agreement with him. I just wanted to gauge his reaction. You did well.”

“Oh, oh.” The young man fearfully took the handkerchief, pressing it to his face. Icy water mixed with blood dripped down, staining his shirt cuffs red.

“It seems that our sudden proposal for cooperation was a bit impulsive. The Secret Party is showing considerable resistance,” another young man said.

“Not necessarily. Cassell College indeed needs our help. Their strength alone gives them very little chance of taking on the Four Kings. But remember this lesson: in front of Hilbert Ron Anjou, you can discuss terms, make jokes, but do not try to challenge his bottom line.” Henkel turned to the injured young man.

“Bottom line?”

“Don’t insult his fallen comrades,” Henkel said, struggling to his feet with his cane. “Anjou is over 130 years old, right? At that age, he should be preparing his coffin and peacefully listening to his grandchildren’s stories. But when he quietly sat in front of me drinking champagne, I felt his body was taut, ready to pounce, like a crocodile before a hunt.” He pulled open a drawer, taking out two golden, old-fashioned revolvers. He removed a bullet and placed it on the table—a .50 Magnum revolver round. Even unmodified, this bullet could bring down a hippo with a single shot, and the bullet’s tip bore the mysterious engravings unique to alchemical weapons.

Alchemical revolvers—“Texas Dawn.”

The young men looked at each other, realizing they had been too careless in their attitude toward Anjou. Henkel hadn’t taken out these revolvers—once used to write hybrid history—for years. He was a prominent leader among hybrids, far past needing to resort to violence. Yet facing Anjou, he remained fully armed.

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