Return of Black Lotus system:Taming Cheating Male Leads

Chapter 423: Chapter -423

"And those luxurious silk martial arts robes you sweated in? The expensive imported ointments you used for your muscle aches? The literal roof over your head that kept the rain off your ’honorable’ shoulders?" Heena’s voice began to drop, losing its melodic cheer and turning as cold and sharp as cracked ice. "Who paid for every single drop of your existence?"

Soram’s face turned a violent shade of red. He clenched his fists, completely humiliated. "That... that was my right as your future husband! I offer you my protection in return!"

"Protection?" Heena genuinely laughed this time. It was a cold, piercing sound.

She gestured lazily over her shoulder toward the towering, silent mountain of muscle standing right behind her.

Without even breaking eye contact, Heena reached back and smoothly drew Samuel’s heavy steel sword straight from its scabbard. The metallic shing rang out clearly in the quiet courtyard.

She leveled the tip of the blade directly at Soram’s chest.

"Let us have a little duel, Soram," Heena offered, her voice deadly calm. "Here are the terms: If you manage to land even a single strike on me—if your blade leaves so much as a scratch on my clothes—I will immediately restore all your noble honors. Not only that, but I will give you every single penny of the wealth you think you deserve."

Soram stared at the tip of the sword, his face twisting into a deep scowl.

"My Lady," Soram said, his voice dripping with condescension. "You should really be careful and not utter these types of reckless words. A sword is not a toy for a sheltered woman."

"Mr. Soram," Heena interrupted, her tone laced with pure mockery. "It looks like you really have absolutely zero confidence in your own ’warrior’ talents."

Hearing her call him Soram again made his jaw clench in absolute fury. In the high society of the empire, repeatedly calling a nobleman by his first name without an honorific title was a blatant sign of disrespect. It was something only a vastly superior lord would do to a subordinate—or something done to someone who had committed a grave crime. To him, it sounded horribly improper. It sounded like the speech of a lowly commoner.

"My Lady," Soram sneered, finally dropping his upright facade. "It seems that living amongst commoners for all those years has truly ruined your habits. But as your officially chosen fiancé, and soon-to-be your husband, it is my absolute duty to correct your improper behavior."

He turned to a nearby servant and barked an order. A practice sword was hurriedly brought to him. Soram drew the blade, dropping into a formal, highly rigid swordsman’s stance, and pointed it at Heena.

The duel had officially begun.

News of the Young Miss challenging one of her grooms to a duel spread through the estate like wildfire. Within minutes, servants, guards, and the rest of the grooms had gathered at the edge of the courtyard. Even the Old Marquis and the Grand Madam, who had been busy restructuring the estate’s finances in the main office, rushed to the scene at top speed, genuinely worried for Heena’s safety.

But what they saw when they arrived completely shocked them.

Soram wasn’t fighting a duel. He was performing like a literal circus clown.

He swung his sword with loud, aggressive grunts, stepping forward with what he clearly thought were master-class strikes. But Heena wasn’t even fighting back. In fact, she hadn’t even lifted Samuel’s heavy sword to block him.

She merely tilted her head. She took a casual half-step to the left. She smoothly pivoted on her heel. Every single one of Soram’s furious, "deadly" slashes cut through nothing but empty air, missing her by mere inches. She was dodging him effortlessly, as if he were moving in slow motion.

He is an absolute idiot, Heena thought, stifling a yawn as she easily sidestepped another clumsy thrust.

To become a top-tier Black Lotus across the multiverse, Heena had endured centuries of brutal martial arts training in countless worlds. Compared to the cosmic horrors and legendary swordsmen she had faced, Soram wasn’t even a rookie; he was just a spoiled boy using a sharp piece of metal as a plaything.

Normally, Heena preferred to keep her martial arts skills completely hidden to maintain the fragile "sickly daughter" persona. But Soram’s absolute hypocrisy and staggering arrogance had annoyed her so deeply that she just couldn’t resist the urge to physically beat him down.

Besides, her alibi was bulletproof. Samuel had only known her for a few months, so he would just assume she had secretly learned it from her ruthless Marquisate family. The Marquis family, on the other hand, had been separated from her for years—they would just assume she had learned to defend herself while living in her harsh foster home.

And if anyone actually dared to question her directly? She would just point to the Old Marquis and say two words: "Family genes." Who could possibly argue that the granddaughter of the empire’s greatest war god didn’t have a natural, terrifying talent for the sword?

"Ah," Heena sighed out loud, completely dropping her defensive footwork. "Now I am just getting bored."

She looked up at the sky, entirely ignoring the panting, sweating groom in front of her. Then, her eyes snapped back to Soram.

In a fraction of a second, the heavy, suffocating aura of a true killer erupted from her fragile frame.

Before Soram could even blink, Heena moved. She didn’t just step forward; she practically teleported, closing the distance between them in a single, fluid motion. She lifted Samuel’s massive sword with one hand and brought it down in a blindingly fast, flawless arc.

SLASH!

Soram’s sword was violently knocked out of his grip, sent spinning across the cobblestones. Heena’s blade completely shredded the fabric of his shoulder, biting just deeply enough into the skin to draw a bright line of blood before stopping a millimeter from his collarbone.

"AGH!" Soram shrieked, his legs giving out instantly.

He collapsed to his knees, clutching his bleeding shoulder as tears of sheer, agonizing panic streamed down his face. The "proud warrior" was currently sobbing in the dirt like a beaten child.

Complete silence fell over the courtyard.

Standing by the archway, the Old Marquis stared at his granddaughter, his jaw slightly slack. He had noticed her footwork. It was impossibly precise, brutally efficient, and utterly devoid of wasted movement.

My granddaughter... looks incredibly cool right now, the Grandfather thought, his chest violently swelling with immense pride.

As a legendary general, he wanted to step forward and praise the flawless tournament-level execution of her strike. But mostly, his heart was just screaming: She is so cute! She is so cool! That is absolutely, one hundred percent MY genetics at work!

The Old Marquis smugly turned his head, glancing at his useless son—the current Marquis—who was standing nearby, looking completely dumbfounded and pale.

The Grandfather scoffed in his heart. It looks like my superior genes completely skipped a generation.

He then looked at his wife, the Grand Madam, who was currently clutching her fan, her eyes literally shining with stars as she watched Heena stand victoriously over the weeping groom.

The Old Marquis sighed heavily, looking back at his son. No, he didn’t even inherit his mother’s ruthlessness or her brains, either. He has absolutely nothing from either of us. Looks like our child must have been swapped with a defective cabbage at birth. Completely useless.*