Revenge: A Path of Destruction

A low growl of rage reverberated through the dimly lit chamber, followed by the sharp crash of porcelain against stone. The air was thick, suffocating, as though the very walls recoiled from the fury unleashed within them.

A massive figure stood at the center of the wreckage, broad shoulders heaving with each ragged breath. His black, piercing eyes burned with barely restrained fury, and his brown hair, usually tied neatly, now hung in disarray over his face. Muscles corded like steel rippled with tension, his entire being radiating the suffocating presence of a Grandmaster.

With a snarl, he seized a heavy wooden table and hurled it against the wall. It splintered on impact, the lantern flames flickering wildly in response. More destruction followed—chairs shattered, shelves toppled, priceless scrolls scattered like the remnants of a fallen empire. The once-pristine chamber was now a monument to unbridled rage.

And yet, amidst the storm of chaos, one figure remained unmoved.

A young maid stood in the corner, hands neatly folded before her, gaze lowered. She had delivered the news and now bore witness to its aftermath. She knew better than to speak—no words could quell the tempest of his wrath.

Minutes passed. The storm raged, then gradually abated. His breaths grew steadier, though his fists remained clenched, the fire in his eyes undimmed.

With slow, deliberate steps, he turned toward the unshaken maid, his voice a dangerous whisper. "What does my mother plan to do now?"

There was something lethal in his tone, a barely veiled demand for destruction, the hunger to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his.

The maid lifted her head slightly, her expression composed despite the weight of his presence. She had served long enough to understand that Menkhaure Geb’s fury was like an earthquake—unpredictable, violent, devastating.