The Retired Young Mercenary Is Secretly a Billionaire
Chapter 46: The Dent!!

Chapter 46: The Dent!!

Miles eased his car to a slow crawl along the moonlit avenue, the hum of the engine soft against the night’s stillness. The glowing skyline of Star Harbor shimmered in the rearview mirror, a peaceful reflection of the calm he was heading home to—until everything changed in an instant.

From both sides of a narrow street, black heavily-tinted sedans surged forward, cutting him off and forming a ring around his vehicle like vultures encircling prey. Tires screeched, engines revved, and headlights flared, forcing Miles to slam the brakes. The car jerked violently to a halt—then crack!—a sharp jolt hit from behind.

The impact wasn’t serious, but enough to crack the rear license plate and dent the bumper.

Miles’s eyes narrowed. His grip on the steering wheel loosened calmly as if nothing had happened. Without a word, he pushed the door open and stepped out, his boots pressing quietly onto the pavement. Around him, doors burst open and over a dozen bulky men exited their vehicles, half in leather jackets, half in dark casuals—mercenary types, or overconfident bodyguards-for-hire.

One of them swaggered forward, a cruel grin on his face. "Where are you going, boss?" he sneered. "You should stay here tonight... forever."

Miles ignored him.

Instead, he walked to the rear of his car, crouched slightly to inspect the damage. His eyes passed over the dent, the cracked plate, the faint scrape of paint—and then he stood back up slowly.

The man closest to him chuckled mockingly. "That’s your future tonight," he said, kicking the bumper slightly.

Miles’s head tilted.

His eyes, once calm, sharpened into something cold. Final.

Without a word, he raised one hand... and brought it crashing down on the offending car’s front bumper. The sound was like thunder meeting steel.

CRACK!

The entire front panel exploded inward. A front tire snapped from its suspension and ricocheted across the street, thudding against a lamppost with a metallic clang!.

Silence.

A wave of shocked stillness rippled across the gathered men. One of them, closest to Miles, took an instinctive step back, his bravado leaking from his face.

Miles slowly turned to look at him.

His eyes said everything—try me.

The air thickened.

The air around Miles grew denser, like a storm tightening its grip before it broke loose. All around him, the circle of men adjusted their stances. Some cracked their knuckles. Others tugged their sleeves or rested hands on their belts, thinking sheer numbers were enough.

But Miles wasn’t a man of numbers—he was a man of precision.

One of the goons lunged first, a wide-armed swing aimed at his head. Too slow. Miles ducked under effortlessly and spun his body with fluid speed. His elbow rammed into the man’s ribcage, driving the air out of his lungs. Before he could even stagger, Miles swept his leg out from under him. The man hit the ground flat on his back with a dull thud.

Another came from behind, aiming to tackle him at the waist—but Miles heard the shifting gravel and twisted aside at the last second. He grabbed the attacker by the collar and used the man’s momentum to slam him against his own car’s hood. The impact dented the metal, and the man slumped off the side groaning.

The group hesitated. Their target wasn’t just fighting back—he was dismantling them.

"Take him down!" someone yelled.

Three charged at once.

Miles didn’t retreat—he advanced. His right fist connected with the nose of the first man, sending blood spraying as he dropped to his knees clutching his face. The second man tried to grab him in a bear hug from the side, but Miles slammed a knee into his stomach, then threw a rapid palm strike into his chin, snapping his head back.

The third attacker managed to grab Miles by the shoulder.

Big mistake.

Miles turned with lightning speed, trapping the man’s wrist in an iron grip. With a twist and a pivot, he sent the attacker flipping over his shoulder, slamming into the ground with a grunt. Miles didn’t even look as he stepped over the body—his eyes were already scanning for the next threat.

One of the braver ones pulled a baton from under his coat and lunged. He aimed low, hoping to sweep Miles’s legs. Miles side-stepped, caught the baton mid-swing, yanked it free, and jabbed the blunt end into the attacker’s stomach. The man doubled over—only to receive a swift uppercut that sent him sprawling backward.

By now, the rest of them had backed off, breathing hard, circling with caution.

No more taunts. No more cocky laughter.

Just wide eyes and trembling limbs.

Miles stood calm at the center of the chaos. His breathing wasn’t even heavy. His shirt, neatly tucked at the beginning, was now creased from the motion, and a strand of dark hair fell over his brow. He flicked it back with a single motion and tossed the baton to the ground like it wasn’t even worth holding.

He scanned the men still standing. "You’re not fighters," he said coldly, "you’re amateurs."

His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t have to be.

It cut.

One of the remaining men finally snapped, grabbing his injured comrade by the arm. "Let’s get out of here, now!" he shouted.

They scrambled, dragging the fallen with them, piling into the remaining vehicles. Engines roared, tires squealed, and one by one, the dark SUVs fled into the night, leaving behind the sound of crushed gravel and shame.

Miles exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulder.

"Next time," he muttered, watching the last of the red tail lights vanish into the horizon, "send someone worth the trouble."

Then, without another glance, he turned back to his car, the night air silent behind him.

Miles stood in the quiet aftermath of the ambush he deliberately let them go, bathed in the faint glow of streetlights and the occasional flicker of passing cars. The wind stirred gently through the trees lining the street, but all Miles could hear was the low hum of power in his own voice as he brought the radio close.

"Base, come in. Base, come in," he said, calm but commanding.

The reply came instantly, sharp and alert.

"This is Base. Greetings, boss."

Miles’s gaze remained on the trail of black tire marks and dust rising in the distance. "Follow the bunch of cars that just rushed toward the north block of the park from my location," he ordered. "Access the city’s surveillance system and track their final destination. I want the address on my number first thing in the morning."

"Copy that, boss. I’m on it in a sec," the voice responded with crisp efficiency, already clicking away in the background.

Miles added, "And also—arrange me another car. Take this one to repair. Handle it properly. It’s not just any car."

"Understood. I’ll send someone from within the city itself. You’ll have a new one in a while."

The line cut with a click.

Miles exhaled and turned to his damaged car. His fingers brushed over the dented rear panel, pausing at the broken license plate: 7777 . The corners were cracked, a spiderweb of damage cutting across the surface—but the numbers still gleamed in the faint city light, like silent guardians of a forgotten battlefield.

Graveyard tags weren’t just vanity plates. They were symbols. Carried only by those who belonged—those who had earned the title through blood, loyalty, and fire. Every digit of that 7777 meant something to him. Brotherhood. Honor. Survival. And now... war.

He looked down the road where the enemy fled. His expression didn’t change. It didn’t need to.

He pulled out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the dust from the side mirror gently, almost with reverence. Then, placing the cloth back, he murmured beneath his breath.

"Be prepared..." His voice was low, heavy with steel.

"I’m coming. I’m coming to make a dent in your life."

And this time, it would be one they wouldn’t recover from.

The quiet hum of the engine filled the cabin as the sleek, black sports sedan rolled to a halt near the side of the road. A man in a dark uniform stepped out, crisp and composed, holding out a set of keys.

"Greetings, sir. Here’s the key."

Miles took the keys with a nod. "Thanks for coming this late."

The man shook his head with a respectful smile. "No worries, sir. Always ready."

Miles turned slightly, pointing to the matte-gray vehicle now resting with a noticeable dent on the rear. "Take this one to the shop. Make sure they don’t mess with the plates."

The man followed his gaze and walked over to inspect it. Just beyond it, the wrecked car of the attackers sat crooked on its suspension, the front bumper crushed and one of its tires lying yards away on the sidewalk like it had tried to flee on its own.

The man raised an eyebrow. "What about that one, sir?"

Miles didn’t even look back. "Leave it there."

"...Understood."

The man gave a short nod and got into the damaged vehicle, reversing it gently down the road, leaving the broken husk of the attacker’s car behind like a warning left on the pavement.

Miles slid into the driver’s seat of the new car. The leather was smooth and still smelled like it had come straight from the showroom. He closed the door, took a deep breath, and started the engine. The machine purred to life—powerful, silent, obedient.

He didn’t look back as he pulled into the road.

The twisted steel and shattered tire of the enemy’s car remained in the rearview mirror like a corpse under moonlight.

By the time he reached home, the quiet of the street welcomed him.

A buzz came through his phone.

MESSAGE:

"Target location identified: 172-Altair Crescent, North Ridge District, Building A-12. Underground entrance behind warehouse. Surveillance blackout zone confirmed."

Miles stared at the screen for a moment.

Then a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

He whispered to himself—

"I’ll see you tomorrow."

And slipped the phone back into his pocket.