My Borderline Supervillain-Slash-Hero System-Chapter 79 – On the Eve of the Tournament (Part 2)

Artemis, The City of Awakened, was, by most standards, one of the most technologically and magically advanced Smart Cities on Earth. Skyscrapers glistened like diamond spires, and floating vehicles darted across layered highways in perfect rhythm.

But like all glittering utopias, Artemis had its shadows. Beneath the towers and bright façades lay a very different world—one of alleys, rusted corners, and whispers. Scattered across the city were slums—forgotten zones carved out by the weight of class and lineage.

Tonight, in the heart of the western slum, inside a dimly lit and rundown motel, a secret gathering was underway.

Nine figures sat around a long, uneven table, feasting in silence. The food was lavish—imported meats, enchanted wines, and rare delicacies that had no place in a place this filthy. Yet not a word was spoken. They were waiting.

These nine youths weren’t ordinary. Each one carried the blood of powerful lineages—bastards born of Super Families and Nobility Houses. Many had never met before, but all knew of one another. Names carried weight in their world.

And in this world, legitimacy was everything.

A slender youth with spiked yellow hair leaned back in his chair and downed a tall can of glowing green beer in one gulp. He belched loudly, the sound echoing through the cracked ceiling tiles.

Everyone frowned.

"Two hours," he snapped. "Two whole hours sitting in this piss hole. Where the hell is that damn bitch?"

The insult lingered in the air. His eyes locked on the girl sitting across from him—his real target all along.

The girl—Maeve Greystone of House Greystone—stared at him coldly, her fingers tightening around the base of her glass.

Two boys beside the yellow-haired youth snickered, clearly encouraging the provocation. They were Neo Hargraves and Sylas Silvermane, heirs of medium noble families in their own right—Hargraves and Silvermane.

Maeve’s eyebrow twitched. Her voice was sharp. "Shut up, Bicky. Every word that leaves your mouth smells like sewage. Do you even brush your teeth, or do you gargle swamp water for fun? No one’s making you stay. You’re free to crawl back to whatever hole you came from."

Across the table, three girls chuckled—not with humor, but mockery. Helen Gravemoor, Laura Solmiran, and another girl leaned back in their seats, openly siding with Maeve.

Bicky Blackthorn’s pride burned. The bastard son of House Blackthorn, he wasn’t used to being insulted—especially not by someone like Maeve.

He stood abruptly, his javelin already in hand. "You shut up, bitch. I heard your mother was a whore in a pleasure house. Seduced your old man and popped you out. Tell me, is that true?"

The room fell tense. Maeve looked down, her shoulders shaking—not with shame, but rage. Her knuckles turned white as she clenched her fists beneath the table.

Bicky grinned cruelly. "Aww... that hit too close to home? Come on, sweetheart. Why are you even here? You don’t belong at this table. Go spread your legs in a back alley like your mom—"

Steel sang.

Maeve’s sword was out in a blur, her blade slicing toward Bicky’s head in a perfect arc. He barely raised his javelin in time to deflect it. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed.

The other bastards backed away. No one moved to stop them.

Maeve wasn’t done. Her strikes came fast and brutal, her sword flashing like a fan of steel and fury. Bicky stumbled back under her relentless assault, barely holding her off. Then she ducked low, twisted, and launched a spinning high kick.

Her foot struck his stomach with a bone-crunching thud.

Bicky went airborne, crashing into a row of chairs. Wood splintered as he hit the ground, groaning.

Maeve stepped forward, her chest heaving—not from exhaustion, but adrenaline. She tossed her hair aside and sneered.

"How’s that taste, little bastard of Blackthorn?" she hissed. "Maybe my mom was a whore—but yours? Nobody even knows who she was. You got dumped like trash on your father’s porch with a note full of hate."

Bicky tried to rise, breath ragged and eyes burning with rage, but Maeve stepped in closer, her sword gleaming beneath the flickering ceiling light. She pressed the cold blade gently against his cheek.

"You don’t even know your mother’s face," she whispered, voice low and venomous. "You’re not a bastard, Bicky—you’re an orphan wrapped in rejection. I pity you. No—scratch that... I enjoy watching you break." Her lips curled into a sneer. "Tell me—what do they call you back home? Bicky the Bastard, isn’t it?"

The words struck him like lightning. Bicky the Bastard. It rang in his ears like a cruel childhood rhyme—words carved into his soul by the cold halls of the Blackthorn household. Forgotten birthdays. Mocking glances. Locked doors.

His breath hitched. Then, he snapped.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UUUUP!!"

He clutched both sides of his head, falling to his knees as a scream tore from his throat, animalistic and raw.

Maeve only laughed, sharp and cruel.

"Who is your mother, Bicky?" she taunted. "Or was she just a shadow you screamed for in your cradle? Where is she?"

Bicky’s eyes flashed. The veins on his neck bulged with fury.

"In your whore mother’s cunt, BITCH!" he roared, and hurled his javelin like a thunderbolt straight at her throat. freёweɓnovel_com

Maeve didn’t flinch. With the grace of a dancer, she twisted her wrist, her sword flicking upward in a metallic blur—CLANG!—deflecting the javelin. It embedded deep into the wooden wall behind her, still vibrating from the force.

"You missed," she said coldly.

But Bicky wasn’t done. With a snarl, he charged, his boots thundering across the floor. He leapt and swung his leg in a vicious arc toward her head.

Maeve ducked, letting the kick whistle past her, and spun in a practiced motion. Her blade danced forward, aimed at his thigh.

Bicky, agile as ever, backflipped away and kicked off the wall. In one smooth motion, he snatched his javelin from the wooden panel and landed in a low crouch.

They circled each other now, blades gleaming, eyes locked with unfiltered hatred.

Every other bastard in the room backed away, pressed to the corners, unwilling to step between them. The air was thick with bloodlust. The fight wasn’t about pride anymore. It was about history—ugly, raw, unhealed.

Profanities flew from Bicky’s mouth with every clash of steel. Maeve met each word with silence and blade. They were equals in skill—neither giving ground for long.

Then—

Laughter.

A loud, grating laugh exploded through the hall, like a trumpet made of rusted metal. It rang out like an insult to the ears, interrupting the duel mid-movement.

Everyone turned.

The door creaked open, and a boy entered—barely five feet tall, with chalk-white skin and a baby face that didn’t quite match the aura around him. His black track pants and blue button-down shirt clung loosely to his frame. But what drew the most attention were the earrings—dangling purple gemstones that shimmered like eerie twin stars.

He grinned, though the expression felt... wrong. The smile was wide, overly forced, and unsettling in its stiffness—like someone who had practiced it in a mirror a thousand times but never quite got it right.

"Wow," he said, looking around with childlike awe. "What a lively place."

Then he placed one pale hand over his chest and declared, "Hi, I’m Henry Bloodgale." His voice was soft—too soft, like silk draped over a blade.

They all stared at him in stunned silence.

Still grinning, Henry tilted his head slightly, his pale face lit by the shimmer of his purple earrings. His eyes gleamed with something unreadable—a madness wrapped in innocence—and his voice, light and melodic, spilled into the room like a haunting lullaby.

"Do you wanna be friends with me?" he asked sweetly.

The words echoed in the silence.

But that smile... that voice...

It was the kind of thing no one would ever wish to hear—not even in their worst nightmares.

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