The Seven Sisters and Their Hidden King-Chapter 145 – “I Confess!”, Tristan Goodman Cried

As one of the top martial experts in the country, his status was just beneath the league leaders—figures revered like deities in martial circles. No one dared speak to him that way... except perhaps the head of the Martial Alliance.

Carlos's words hit the mark, stoking the fire that was already building in Tristan's chest.

Tristan Goodman was a high-level martial artist.

In the martial world, Levels 1–3 were considered beginners.

Levels 4–6: seasoned warriors.

Levels 7–9: elite masters—where Tristan currently stood.

Above Level 9... were the rare Heaven Masters.

And above them all, the towering U.S. Martial Alliance, divided into five powerful branches—Central, Southern, Eastern, Northern, and Western—each governed by a Heaven Master and protected by their four elite Guardians.

Tristan Goodman, Guardian of the Southern Martial Arts League, was one of these elite.

But to John Lopez, he was... irrelevant.

John stepped forward calmly, his eyes locked on Tristan's.

"If you hadn't interfered, I might've just taken Carlos Branton's legs today."

"But since you stepped in—"

"I'll take his miserable life instead."

"How dare you—!" Tristan began to bellow.

CRACK!

Before he could finish, John was already in front of Carlos, and with one swift motion—he crushed his neck beneath his foot.

Carlos's eyes widened in disbelief. A grotesque sound escaped his throat, and then... silence.

He was dead.

Not from cruelty, but from necessity.

John hadn't killed blindly. When Carlos had turned to glare at him moments ago, a look of pure murder flashed in his eyes. The intent to kill was clear. Leaving such a snake alive would only endanger John—and more importantly, his sisters.

So, he acted.

Silence gripped the courtyard once more.

No one moved. No one dared breathe.

He had just murdered Carlos Branton—in front of a Martial League Guardian.

"My... my son..."

After what felt like an eternity, Barron Branton collapsed to the ground, wailing over Carlos's body in hysterical grief.

Even Tristan Goodman was momentarily dumbfounded. Never, in all his years, had anyone dared defy him like this.

When he finally recovered, his voice was cold and official:

"John Lopez, I hereby declare you a top-level wanted criminal of the Martial Alliance. Surrender now, or be executed on the spot!"

He wasn't bluffing. With a single report submitted to the Martial Alliance's internal system, John would be branded an enemy of the state—a national threat.

But John only laughed.

"A top-level wanted criminal?"

"And who exactly gave you the authority to order that?"

BOOM! BOOM!

A terrifying wave of energy burst from John's body like a typhoon.

The shockwave slammed into Tristan, sending him flying back over ten meters.

Gasps filled the air.

This wasn't ordinary martial power. It was overwhelming—unnatural.

Even Alan Brown, hardened by years in the underworld, was visibly shaken.

What the hell had John become?

Just what had his old friend gone through after leaving the orphanage?

He wasn't just a genius doctor. He wasn't just a martial artist.

He was something else entirely.

Tristan Goodman, an elite of the Martial League, was horrified.

He could feel it clearly—John's aura wasn't that of a Level 9 master.

It was beyond that.

He was a Heaven Master.

John Lopez should have been labeled S-class or higher—perhaps even placed under direct surveillance from the central Martial Alliance itself.

If Alan had known what Tristan was thinking, he would've burst out laughing.

Heaven Master? You think that's the ceiling?

You haven't seen anything yet.

Mr. Lopez is a cultivator.

But Tristan Goodman tried to salvage the situation, his voice now laced with fear and calculation.

"If you're truly a Heaven Master, then by all rights, I should address you as 'Senior.'"

"But even with such power, you've committed murder in cold blood. No matter how high your level, that's no excuse for killing recklessly."

How righteous he sounded.

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How noble.

In truth, it was a last-ditch attempt to shift the moral ground—to make John the villain, and himself the upholder of order.

It was the Martial Alliance's favorite tactic: use the banner of justice to pressure anyone who didn't fall in line.

Many Heaven Masters, though stronger than the Guardians, still had to yield to the League's political power.

But there was always a however.

John Lopez sneered.

"Justice?"

His tone changed. His aura darkened.

And when he spoke next, it thundered like the voice of a god.

"My soldiers—

The men and women of the Martial Alliance—

Risk their lives every day guarding our borders, shedding blood to protect this country."

"And what does that sacrifice buy us?"

"Corruption. Greed. Cowards like you—fattening yourselves off their backs, abusing your power, and calling it 'justice.'"

"What a joke."

John's aura surged once more.

His voice shook the heavens, and the killing intent in the air pressed down on everyone like the weight of a mountain.

Even Tristan Goodman, hardened and proud, felt something ancient stir inside him—an uncontrollable urge to kneel.

His mind screamed: Why?

Why do I feel like I'm standing before a god?

Then—

A flash of golden light burst through the air.

John tossed something toward him.

Tristan caught it—and the moment his fingers closed around it, his face turned pale.

And then—

THUMP!

He fell to his knees.

Trembling.

"I... I confess!" he cried out.