Revenge: A Path of Destruction
Chapter 180: Check, Not Mate

Chapter 180: Check, Not Mate

Lauren tilted her head slightly, one brow arched, her lips drawn in a subtle, unreadable line. Not amused. Not angry. Just off.

She didn’t react the way Marc expected.

No tension pulled her jaw tight. No defiance sparked in her eyes. No weary submission. Just... a strange look.

Marc, who had seen every manner of response in rooms like this—rage, desperation, fake diplomacy—was momentarily thrown off. His smirk faltered ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed, not in threat, but in curiosity.

What in the world is that expression?

He leaned forward just a little, elbows on knees again, studying her like a child observing a puzzle that didn’t make sense.

Then Lauren finally broke the silence.

"I’m not a princess."

Her tone was simple. Straightforward. Unbothered.

Marc blinked. Twice. The silence that followed dragged out longer than anyone in the room anticipated.

A blink of disbelief. Another mild insult.

"...Is that all you have to say to my statement?" Marc asked, genuinely perplexed now. His voice was laced with a confusion he didn’t bother hiding, and for a moment, the infamous Joker of the Wind Clan looked more like a bewildered schoolboy than one of the most dangerous young powerhouses in Europe.

Even Liam, seated beside her, turned slightly in her direction, his brows drawing together. What the hell are you doing? His expression silently screamed.

But Lauren didn’t respond to either of them right away.

She folded her legs neatly and brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. Her face bore the faintest trace of smugness—so subtle that it might’ve gone unnoticed if Marc wasn’t already squinting at her.

Then she added, as if offering an afterthought, "Also, even if you are in a higher rank than us, don’t forget we’re older than you. A little respect wouldn’t hurt."

Marc stared at her.

His mouth opened—then closed.

His eyes scanned her face again, like he was searching for a clue, a crack, a sign that she was joking or baiting him or maybe just insane.

But Lauren’s face remained calm. Steady. Unapologetic.

For the first time in a very long while, someone had taken one of Marc’s statements—something meant to intimidate or provoke—and sidestepped it completely.

He expected resistance.

He expected negotiation.

He expected a biting retort or tense silence.

He didn’t expect this.

Then, after a few moments, something else flickered in Marc’s eyes. A light. The gleam of admiration wrapped in mischief. The smirk returned.

Wide.

Genuine.

Playful.

"I have to give it to you," he said, a low chuckle rising from his throat. "That was impressive. For a minute, I thought you lost it... But you got me."

His voice held a tone of appreciation now, the same kind reserved for a worthy opponent on the battlefield—or a rare find at a masquerade ball.

Liam remained in his seat, his gaze darting between the two of them as a knot of unease tightened in his stomach. It felt as if the very ground beneath him might give way; he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had.

Their conversation had morphed into a tangled web of words and emotions that left him utterly bewildered, like an audience member at a play, desperately trying to follow along without having read the script.

Confusion washed over him as he struggled to piece together the threads of their exchange, each line slipping further away from his grasp.

Marc stood up slowly, brushing invisible dust off his coat. He stretched a little, rolling his shoulders before walking toward the double doors of the drawing room.

His boots made no sound on the polished stone floor.

Just before he exited, he paused with one hand resting lightly against the doorframe. He glanced over his shoulder, that infuriating smirk once again painted on his face like a badge of pride.

"We’ll continue this talk later. Tomorrow," he said.

His eyes found Lauren’s. Still amused. Still curious.

"But for now... enjoy the estate. You’re our guests. Don’t hold back on calling the maids for anything you might need."

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and slipped out of the room, the heavy door whispering shut behind him.

The silence that followed was thick and strange.

Liam exhaled, finally leaning back on the couch. He rubbed his temple.

"...Do you mind telling me what the hell just happened?"

Lauren didn’t answer right away.

She was still staring at the door Marc had just walked through, a small, knowing smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

----

Immediately after the door clicked shut behind Marc, Lauren exhaled—long and deep—releasing a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

The room felt less dense now, as if the pressure that had built up during the conversation had quietly dissipated the moment he left.

She leaned back slightly into the couch, her eyes locked on the door he’d just exited from. Her mind ticked through everything—his tone, his body language, his word choice.

Everything had been a performance.

And Lauren had seen enough performances in her diplomatic career to know when someone was playing a dangerous game.

After a few minutes of silence, she finally turned her head toward Liam. He hadn’t moved, but the way he was staring at her made it clear—he wanted an explanation.

Her gaze drifted back to the closed door again. But instead of speaking, she said nothing.

Because even she was still sorting out the subtle chaos Marc had tried to sow.

Elsewhere in the manor, Marc descended a marble staircase that spiraled down toward the estate’s front gardens.

The smirk on his face hadn’t left, but it had evolved, tinged now with genuine amusement, the kind that only came when a plan almost worked... but then got thwarted in a completely unexpected way.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Lauren Blackwood.

That woman had dismantled his setup like a quiet gust of wind undercutting a perfect house of cards. Graceful. Casual. Deliberate.

To be honest, Marc’s real goal had never been about cooperation—not in the way he’d framed it.

The bounty had been a clever ruse, a mere pretext woven into a much more intricate tapestry of deception.

The unexpected call for an alliance seemed urgent, almost desperate, but it was all part of a meticulously crafted plan—one designed to ensnare the government in a web of obligation.

This was not simply a minor debt of gratitude but a significant, public commitment that the Wind Clan intended to elevate into a formidable leverage.

With this advantage, they aimed to manipulate the political landscape, bending it to their will, ultimately seeking to extend their influence over Guild branches scattered across Europe like chess pieces on a board, ready to be positioned for a grander scheme of control.

It wasn’t greed. It was chess.

And to pull it off, he needed to provoke. To manipulate. To stir the pot.

That’s why he, Marc Aeolus, and not Sophie or even the others, had been sent in person. Unlike his siblings, Marc didn’t wield brute strength or reputation to get what he wanted. No—he used words. Presence. Precision.

He had banked on Liam snapping.

He’d read the man’s file. Knew about the quiet resentment buried in that diplomatic smile. The buried inferiority complex. The subtle twitch of pride whenever someone mentioned bloodlines. Especially Higher Clan bloodlines.

So Marc had pushed.

A younger Grandmaster, talking down to him. Mocking protocol. Lacing his words with superiority. Just enough to be aggravating—but not enough to be disrespectful in an official capacity.

It should’ve worked.

Liam had been one word away from losing control.

But then Lauren stepped in.

She had perceived the facade with remarkable clarity. Although she did not grasp the entirety of the intricate plan, she sensed an underlying disarray.

Rather than directly contesting the merits of the proposal laid before her, she deftly redirected the focus of the discussion, shifting the tone with an artful finesse, disrupting the established rhythm, and expertly easing the intensifying pressure in the room.

This strategic maneuvering afforded both herself and Liam a precious interval to collect their thoughts, effectively diffusing the tension that had enveloped the conversation.

An almost playful chuckle escaped Marc’s lips as he reached the perimeter of the courtyard, the ambiance charged with an unspoken understanding.

He slid into the sleek, silver mana-sport vehicle, which stood waiting at the edge of the estate, its polished surface glinting under the delicate illumination of the pale moonlight.

As the high-tech driver’s seat gracefully contoured itself to his shape, Marc rested his hands on the innovative crystal steering control, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts amidst the serene surroundings.

Looking up at the towering structure behind him—its arched windows reflecting the twin moons above—the youngest of the Seven Pillars let the wind brush across his face through the open door.

"Lauren Blackwood," he murmured under his breath, voice soft and laced with intrigue.

A spark danced in his eyes.

"What an interesting lady."

He shut the door, and the car pulled forward, slipping into the night like a whisper riding the wind.