CHAPTER 80: Father vs Son-3

CHAPTER 80: Father vs Son-3

Halberg's office trembled under the roar of his fury. The windows vibrated, and even the lamps seemed to want to shrink away from his anger. His secretary, standing before the desk, cowered like a cornered animal, holding papers that no longer held any importance.

Halberg slammed the desk with such force that the crystal glasses fell to the floor, shattering.

"WHO THE HELL AUTHORIZED THIS TODAY?!" he shouted, his voice hoarse and laden with venom.

The secretary tried to stammer a response, but Halberg didn't let her.

"Today wasn't the moment!" he continued, pacing back and forth like a caged predator. "It was in two weeks, two weeks of preparation, of control, of spectacle! And now it's all gone to hell!"

With a swipe of his hand, he sent the reports he had been reviewing flying to the floor. The echo of fluttering pages filled the office as the secretary took a step back, swallowing hard.

"Everything ruined!" he roared, turning towards her with bloodshot eyes. "THEY RUINED THE MOMENT FOR ME!"

Halberg breathed violently, each word erupting like an explosion. He brought his hands to his hair, clenching his fists against his own head, as if he wanted to rip the mistake out by the roots.

"I want names!" he suddenly yelled, pointing a finger trembling with fury at his secretary. "I want to know who the incompetent was that ordered this to be broadcast today! And when I find out... I swear I will destroy him!"

The silence that followed was suffocating. The secretary didn't dare to breathe. Halberg stood before the windows, looking out at the illuminated city, but all he could see was how his perfect plan had crumbled before millions of eyes.

"Two weeks..." he whispered bitterly, hitting the glass with his closed fist. "Two damn weeks... and they've taken it all away from me."

Phoenix remained lying on the asphalt for a moment longer, feeling the world spin around him: the metallic taste of blood, the distant murmur of the crowd, the breathing of his own body begging him to surrender. He closed his eyes, searched for a center that wasn't pain, and gradually heard—very faintly—Enid's voice, Lucian's calm, the beat of his own will.

He forced himself to his feet. Every muscle burned, every rib ached, but there was something inside him that no longer wanted to yield: a decision forged in wounds and comfortless nights. He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and let the rage transform into focus.

Azazael looked at him with the same stony calm as always. He didn't attack again; he merely observed, like a teacher assessing a student's effort. When Phoenix stood fully upright, the giant took a few short steps and approached.

"Good," Azazael said slowly, without harshness but without sweetness. "You got up. That shows character. Now listen to something else you should know: never depend on a weapon as if it were your identity. A weapon is a tool. It might save your life once, maybe twice, but it won't give you permanent control. When everything boils down to iron and gunpowder, you lose the part that makes you a real predator: your mind, your technique, your calm in the storm."

Phoenix swallowed. His hands still trembled, but his gaze was clearer; he processed each word like someone receiving instructions that could either save his life or shatter it further.

"I know," he replied in a rough voice. "The Matilda... gave me security, but it's not who I am." He paused, looking Azazael in the eyes for the first time with less hatred and something more akin to curiosity. "Thanks for the lesson. I don't know why you're giving it to me, but... thanks."

Azazael fixed him with an intense gaze, almost imperceptibly proud.

"Favors are neither asked for nor thanked, son. They are demonstrated. Now demonstrate that you can fight without crutches."

Phoenix felt the mental fog that had accompanied him begin to dissipate. It wasn't total clarity; it was a thin thread of control tightening in his mind. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs with the night's cold air, let the pain, however fierce, become a companion and not a master.

"Then we continue," he murmured. "This doesn't end here."

Azazael nodded, without smiling: the invitation to continue was, in itself, a twisted approval.

Both men fell into their stances again. The circle of people surrounded them like a second world; the city held its breath. Phoenix didn't seek a full transformation: he sought control. Measured movements, marked breathing, eyes reading the adversary's body. Azazael, patient but relentless, waited for the first move.