CHAPTER 73: The Grand Party-2

CHAPTER 73: The Grand Party-2

From a distant table, someone was watching the scene. He was an enormous man, at least eight feet four inches tall, with his feet propped up on the table as if he were on his own territory. His shoulders were so broad they seemed those of a giant, his skin leathery and marked by scars that spoke of a past filled with battles. His presence was imposing even without moving.

The man smirked contemptuously and raised his voice:
"So this one... lets a fight slide as if he has no blood in his veins. What a disappointment."

The comment was like a dart. Several glances turned towards them. Phoenix clenched his jaw, raising his head.
"It's not cowardice, it's knowing when to fight," he replied in a firm tone, though with a hint of irony.

The man clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed. With a slow, heavy, almost ritualistic movement, he removed his feet from the table and stood up. As he rose to his full height, he eclipsed the scene. A dazzling light, an almost blinding aura, began to radiate from his body. The atmosphere grew tense, and for a moment Phoenix felt the air grow thick.

*Too tall... damn... his mere presence makes me tremble...* thought Phoenix, his heart pounding.

The man walked until he stood facing him. The difference in stature was intimidating; he seemed like a living mountain. The silence was absolute. The man's voice boomed directly into Phoenix's mind, as if speaking without needing words.

"Is this all you are? An excuse-making dog, a boy hiding behind reasons?" The voice was deep, profound, like an echo resonating in Phoenix's skull.

Phoenix swallowed, trying to stand firm. His body betrayed him, wanting to retreat, but his feet remained rooted to the floor.
"Who... are you?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

The man smiled, leaning down enough for his eyes to be level with Phoenix's, though he still seemed a giant.
"Azazael," he pronounced, each syllable charged with a power that made everyone's skin crawl.

Phoenix held his gaze, though fear gnawed at him from within. He took a step forward and responded with the firmest voice he could muster:
"Phoenix Roger."

Azazael arched an eyebrow, as if evaluating him, measuring every heartbeat. And then, the tension in the air became almost unbearable.

Phoenix still stared at him fixedly, his pupils trying to defy the man's overwhelming height. The atmosphere remained charged, heavy, as if the tavern had forgotten to breathe. Then, Azazael, with that deep voice that seemed to rise from the bowels of the earth, narrowed his eyes and asked an unexpected question:

"Tell me, brat... was your mother's name, by any chance, Elizabeth?"

Phoenix's heart stopped for an instant. He didn't need to answer; the slight tremble in his hands, the glint of surprise in his eyes, the involuntary tightening of his lips... everything gave him away. Azazael understood instantly. His hardened face softened just a bit, but not from tenderness, rather from the weight of a revealed truth.

"So... it's true," he whispered, letting his feet drop from the table with a dry thud. "You are my offspring."

The silence shattered like glass. Phoenix's group was struck mute; no one dared to say a word. Enid, Lucian, Marcus... all seemed petrified.

Azazael took a step forward and his shadow completely covered the lycan.

"Son," he said with brutal conviction.

Phoenix gritted his teeth and took a step back, his face contorted with fury and denial.

"Don't call me that!" he spat, his tone harsh. "I am not your son. You... you are nothing to me."

The murmurs from the onlookers grew, like waves hitting an invisible shore.

Azazael tilted his head slightly, not taking his eyes off him.

"You're stubborn, just like her..." he muttered with a mix of melancholy and reproach. "But you are still my flesh and blood."

"Shut up!" Phoenix raised his voice, trembling with contained rage. "Don't try to claim what you never were. If you were really my father, you would have been there... not now, not in this circus, not playing at intimidating me."

Azazael's face hardened completely, and his aura, bright like a crimson sun, expanded. The pressure in the air caused several glasses on the tables to shatter, the wooden floorboards to creak as if about to split.

With a grave, cutting voice, like thunder in the middle of the tavern, he boomed:

"Spoiled brat. You have no idea who you're disrespecting."

A shiver ran down Phoenix's spine. Instinct screamed at him to run, but pride kept him standing, defying this living storm.

Azazael disappeared in the blink of an eye. No one saw him move, not even Marcus's trained eyes. A whisper of wind was the only evidence of his movement.

Suddenly, Phoenix felt a sharp, stinging burn and a dry sound echoed:

*SPANK!*

A brutal spank, loaded with supernatural force, hit him. The blow wasn't just humiliating: it sent him flying like a ragdoll. His body crashed through several chairs, slammed into a table, and ended up smashing into the fountain in the center of the tavern. Water erupted in a disordered cascade, soaking him completely.

The young lycan stumbled out, gasping for air, his cheeks burning with shame, his eyes glazed over. A tear slid down his cheek, not so much from physical pain, but from the outrage.