THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Young nobles, both men and maids, clustered around a figure who radiated authority like a sun radiating heat. His attire was a masterpiece of regality: a black tailcoat, meticulously tailored to hug his broad frame, gleamed with gold embroidery. Epaulettes, like golden wings, whispered of military prowess and high rank.

The stark contrast between the deep black fabric and the opulent gold created a stunning visual impact, as if a raven had adorned itself with stolen jewels. A crisp white shirt peeked out from beneath the coat, a perfectly knotted bow tie adding a touch of elegance. A double-breasted gold waistcoat, fastened with gleaming buttons, further accentuated his imposing presence.

Every detail, from the intricate patterns on the cuffs hinting at a warrior's lineage to the meticulously styled dark hair, spoke of a man accustomed to command. His face, handsome in a harsh, chiselled way, was set in a resolute expression. Golden eyes, like molten metal, held a glint of unwavering determination, a leader born and bred. David felt a prickle of unease.

Who was this man, and why did his arrival send a tremor through the usually carefree group of nobles? David, with a sixth sense honed from years of navigating social minefields, spotted trouble brewing. This opulent parade of nobles, fawning over the figure at its centre, was a collision course he wanted no part of. He tucked his head slightly, hoping to slip past unnoticed.

"Young Master Eric, you outshine the sun today!" boomed one of the men, his voice thick with sycophantic praise. A ripple of agreement echoed from the maids, their giggles punctuated by whispers about Eric's mythical handsomeness. David felt a flicker of irritation. This nauseating display was enough to curdle anyone's stomach.

Suddenly, the path ahead narrowed as a man, less opulent than the rest, spotted him. His eyes narrowed, a silent curse escaping his lips. "Can't this eyesore make way for Lord Eric?" he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. Apparently, subtlety wasn't his forte. He quickened his pace, hand outstretched with the intention of shoving David aside like a bothersome insect. Big mistake.

Years of gruelling MMA training kicked into overdrive for David. Reading the man's telegraph punch, he reacted with lightning speed. A fluid motion – a catch, a twist, a slam. The man found himself pinned against the cold stone wall, his wrist screaming in a vice grip. "Agh!" he shrieked, his feigned arrogance cracking under the sudden assault.

The rest of the group, momentarily stunned by this unexpected display of martial prowess, gaped like startled fish. "Let go of me, you trash!" the man snarled, his bravado a pale imitation of his former bluster. David's jaw clenched tight. "Trash, huh?" he muttered, his voice a low growl.

"Seems like someone forgot they're not the main character." A dark glint flashed in his eyes as he applied more pressure to the man's wrist, eliciting another yelp of pain. "Lord Eric," the man whimpered, his gaze darting towards the central figure, "tell this… this ruffian to release me!" The once-confident smirk had morphed into a mask of desperation. A tense silence descended upon the corridor.

All eyes were on Eric, the supposed leader, waiting for his next move. The question hung heavy in the air – would he uphold the fabricated social hierarchy or acknowledge the unexpected strength before him? Eric's voice, a low rumble laced with scorn, rolled towards David.

"Little brother," he drawled, "what is the meaning of this little display?" David grinned, recognizing the man under his arm as the one who'd called out for Eric – Lord Eric De Gor himself, the second son of Lord Hilton. Though renowned for his charm, the novel painted him as an average fighter at best.

"Nothing much, dear brother," David replied, his voice dripping with mock sincerity as he tossed the stunned man aside. "Just a friendly greeting between noblemen." Eric's face contorted in a sneer. "Greetings, you say? Sounds more like something you'd pick up at a tavern brawl, drunk as a skunk." The man David had subdued cowered behind Eric, eager to see his leader put this upstart in his place.

David shrugged, his nonchalant attitude bordering on infuriating. "Not entirely," he chirped, arms raised in mock surrender. "But before you launch into a lecture, dear brother," he said, his voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm, "I'm afraid a pressing engagement cuts our delightful chat short.

Vielleicht… over tea another time?" (Perhaps… over tea another time?) David sashayed away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. The man behind Eric, still smarting, inched forward to speak, but Eric held up a hand, silencing him. A furrow etched itself between Eric's brows. "Something's different about him," he mused, a flicker of unease flickering in his eyes.

His entourage, realizing they were lagging behind, scrambled to catch up, leaving the corridor echoing with the unspoken question: What had become of the coward wastrel they once knew? Fury simmered within David, a slow burn that threatened to erupt. He could practically taste the sourness of the day, a bitter residue left by the previous owner's actions.

He wasn't about to get harassed by a couple of suckups orbiting a preening peacock., "f*ck them, just you wait, I'll put them in their place" he muttered under his breath. A dangerous glint flickered in his eyes.