Chapter 18

Kamal Al-Farsi stood amidst the shattered remnants of Tariq's phone, his face a mask of cold fury. He looked at Khalid, then back at Tariq, who stood in the center of the villa's reception hall like an immovable stain on the family's prestige. If this delusional loser continued his antics, the Farsi family's reputation would be dragged through the mud before they could even secure the Mansour Corporation investment. The boy wasn't just a nuisance anymore; he was a liability that needed to be purged. "Grandfather Kamal," Khalid said, stepping forward with a sharp, predatory glint in his eyes. He adjusted the cuffs of his expensive suit. "This trash has no respect for his elders or this house. He's disrupted your birthday and insulted the Mansour name. If you give the word, I'll teach him the manners his own parents clearly failed to instill." Kamal didn't speak. He simply took a slow step back, clearing the space between Khalid and Tariq. It was a silent, lethal mandate. The Farsi family members immediately caught the signal. Yasmin leaned in, her eyes wide with anticipation. "Khalid is a black belt in Hapkido. He trained for years. This is going to be brutal." "He deserves it," another relative whispered, leaning against a marble pillar. "Maybe a broken rib will finally wake him up from this 'CEO' dream. Khalid, don't hold back!" The air in the villa grew heavy. Khalid began to bounce slightly on the balls of his feet, his movements fluid and practiced. He looked at Tariq with pure disdain. "You think because you can talk, you're a man? In the real world, power is settled like this." Layla Al-Farsi watched from the periphery, her hands trembling. A sudden, sharp pang of worry tightened her chest. She had spent months scolding Tariq, looking down on him, and wishing he would just be better, but the sight of Khalid preparing to physically dismantle him made her stomach turn. She wanted to shout for him to run, to apologize, to do anything to avoid the violence, but the words caught in her throat as she realized she didn't want to see him hurt. "Tariq, just leave!" she finally managed to gasp out, but her voice was drowned out by a sudden roar. Khalid lunged. He didn't just strike; he launched himself into the air, his body twisting with the practiced grace of a Hapkido master. It was a flying kick aimed directly at Tariq's chest, a move designed to end the fight instantly and spectacularly. "Hapkido flying kick!" one of the younger Farsi cousins shouted, pumping a fist in the air. "He's finished!" Tariq didn't move. He didn't flinch as the sole of Khalid's shoe whistled through the air toward his sternum. He simply watched the trajectory with a gaze that was disturbingly calm. "Flashy and useless," Tariq said, his voice cutting through the whistling air like a blade. "In a real fight, leaving the ground is suicide." Just as Khalid's foot was inches from impact, Tariq's hand blurred. It wasn't a block; it was a grab. Utilizing the core principles of White Crane Qigong, he pivoted his weight, letting Khalid's momentum carry him forward while his hand clamped onto Khalid's ankle like a vice. The transition was so fast the onlookers barely saw the grip tighten. Tariq didn't just stop the kick; he redirected the force. With a sharp, downward jerk of his arm, he slammed Khalid's leg toward the floor. The sound of the impact was sickening—a dull thud followed by the sharp crack of bone meeting polished marble. Khalid's body didn't land; it collapsed. He was whipped around by the force of Tariq's throw and sent skidding across the floor, his head narrowly missing the edge of a heavy mahogany table. The villa fell into a tomb-like silence. Khalid lay sprawled on the ground, his expensive suit rumpled and covered in dust. He groaned, a pathetic, wheezing sound, and tried to push himself up. His arms shook, and his leg—the one Tariq had caught—twisted at an unnatural angle. He slumped back down, his face pale, unable to regain his footing. The Farsi family stood frozen. The Hapkido black belt, the rising star of the Mansour Corporation, the man who was supposed to be their savior, had been dropped like a sack of grain by the man they called a "scooter-riding loser." Tariq looked down at Khalid, his expression devoid of heat. He didn't look like a man who had just won a fight; he looked like a man who had just swatted a fly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a second, smaller device, his eyes scanning the room as the shock began to turn into a new, sharper kind of tension. Khalid's fingers clawed at the marble, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he glared up at Tariq with a look of pure, unadulterated venom. ════════════════════════════════════════