The Almighty Dominance

Everyone saw Michael launch forward, rage blazing in his eyes as he charged at Alex.

While Alex, fueled by his own fiery anger, threw out a swift jab to meet him.

The spectators held their breath, convinced Alex had sealed his own fate.

Michael, known as the Thunder Fist, was notorious for shattering ten-inch concrete walls with a single punch.

Against a mere human body, survival was impossible.

A deafening explosion shattered the tension.

In an instant, Michael hurtled backward through the air like a ragdoll, crashing brutally onto the VIP seats with a sickening crunch.

The chairs splintered under his weight, sending terrified VIPs scattering in panic.

Michael lay motionless amid the wreckage, eyes wide open but empty, limbs twisted unnaturally beneath him.

The arena plunged into stunned, deathly silence.

No one could process what had just happened.

Michael, the Paris undefeated champion, lay broken and lifeless, defeated by nothing more than a single jab from Alex.

"What the hell just happened?" someone finally muttered, breaking the heavy silence.

"Impossible! Did Michael really lose?"

The whispers quickly became cries of disbelief, growing louder and more frantic.

"This is rigged! That little bastard must've cheated! Someone's messing with the bets!" shouted one furious spectator.

Shock rippled through the crowd, and heads shook in denial.

Lyra gripped the arms of her chair so hard her knuckles turned white.

A tremor surged through her, then another-until her whole body shuddered. Her legs tightened, her breath caught in her throat, and then-

Orgasm.

Release.

A raw, overwhelming climax tore through her as she just won: $300 billion.

She moaned a deep, primal sound-as her body convulsed with the force of it.noveldrama

Her vision blurred. Her spine arched. Every nerve in her body lit up like fire, electricity ripping through her veins.

As she collapsed back into the leather, chest heaving, lips parted in a euphoric gasp, a slow smile curled across her face.

***

Meanwhile, in the private room overlooking the arena, Gilbert and his associates stood frozen in shock, their faces drained of color.

“How the hell did Michael lose?" Gilbert roared, grabbing a chair and hurling it violently at the arena manager, who flinched but didn't dare dodge.

"Are you absolutely certain Michael didn't throw the fight?"

The manager, dripping sweat, trembled as he stammered, "He wouldn't dare, sir.

We have his son and daughter under control."

"Then explain this goddamn disaster!" Gilbert roared, his voice cracking with rage. His eyes burned like wildfire, fists clenched at his sides.

He wanted blood.

He wanted Alex's head on a spike after that ambush at the hotel.

But this? This was beyond revenge.

This was humiliation.

And it was tearing him apart.

No one dared speak. Silence reigned until the door burst open abruptly, and

another manager stumbled in, panic etched across his face.

"Sir Gilbert, we have a serious problem!"

"What now?" Gilbert snapped, clenching his fists.

"A woman named Lyra placed a bet on Alex's fight against Bill. She put a billion dollars."

"How much?" Gilbert's voice cracked in disbelief.

"A billion," the manager said again, his voice barely above a whisper. A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

"She placed a one-billion-dollar bet... and won fifteen times over."

He swallowed hard, eyes darting like a man delivering a death sentence. Gilbert, blind with rage, seized another chair and smack it at the manager. "Where the hell are we supposed to find fifteen billion dollars?" he bellowed. "That.....that's not the issue, sir," the manager stammered, blood trickling down his forehead.

Gilbert paused, realizing he might have misunderstood.

He drew a slow, shaky breath, forcing steel into his voice.

"I'm sorry. I lost control," he said, his voice strained with effort-right as he hurled

the chair across the room.

"Now... explain clearly. What exactly is the problem?"

He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing.

"As long as it's not fifteen billion... we're fine. Right?"

The manager swallowed hard, barely able to speak. "She took her entire fifteen

billion winnings and put it all on the Michael-Alex fight."

"And?" Gilbert asked, his voice dropping dangerously low.

"She...she won again. The odds were twenty to one. We owe her... three hundred billion dollars."

The words echoed like a death sentence.

Gilbert grabbed an ashtray from the table and slammed it into the manager's face.

"You useless piece of garbage!" he screamed, striking the manager repeatedly until the man collapsed, unmoving, onto the floor.

Blood pooled silently around the lifeless figure as Gilbert stood gasping for breath.

***

Back at the arena, a stunned silence fell over the crowd as Alex calmly stepped down from the stage and approached Lyra.

His voice carried a quiet resolve, "It's time to go home."

Lyra's eyes brightened instantly.

"You're absolutely right," she

gripping his arm tightly as they. walked side by side, completely unbothered by the chaos erupting behind them.

As they stepped onto the bustling Parisian streets, Lyra glanced at Alex with a playful smile.

"Hey Alex, I'm starving. Mind grabbing some street food? Anything quick will do." Alex shrugged casually, a faint smile breaking through. "Sure thing."

They found a small food stand, the fragrant smoke drifting through the air around them as they ate.

Lyra's laughter rang out, pure and carefree as she spoke animatedly about their victory. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

Suddenly, she paused, leaning closer. "Alex, those guys owe us three hundred billion. How do you think they'll handle the payment?"

Alex gave a bitter chuckle, eyes darkening slightly. "You're asking me? They'll never pay."

Lyra's smile faded instantly. "Why would you say that?"

"Because," Alex said sharply, eyes locked on hers, "it's cheaper and easier to just kill us."

Lyra frowned deeply, her face shadowed with worry. "You don't think they'd actually-"

Before she could finish, a group of heavily armed thugs emerged from the shadows, brandishing machetes, guns, swords, and blades.

They quickly surrounded Alex and Lyra, their faces twisted in cruel grins. "Everyone!" barked one thug, glaring fiercely at the terrified street vendors and patrons nearby.

"Get lost, unless you're eager to die!"

The crowd scattered in panic, leaving only Alex and Lyra seated calmly at their table.

One thug stepped forward, his eyes cold with fury. "You the one who killed Michael?"

Alex casually bit into his food without looking up. "Yeah. What's it to you?"

"Michael was our idol," the thug growled, venom dripping from every word.

"It's only fair we kill you, seeing as you took him from us." He shifted his gaze to Lyra, smirking cruelly.

"And you—you're the girl who bet on this piece of trash, right?"

"You could say that," Lyra replied coolly, meeting his gaze without flinching.

"Then you die together," snarled the thug, lifting his machete high above his head, aimed straight for Lyra.

But halfway through his deadly swing, the thug froze abruptly.

His eyes rolled back, turning pure white, and he collapsed, spasming violently on

the ground.

Around them, fifty more armed men

fell one by one, convulsing

vel

uncontrollably, foam bubbling.

grotesquely from their

mouths-felled effortlessly by Alex's

overpowering aura.

Lyra stared around in shocked disbelief, heart pounding wildly.

"Alex, what just happened?"

"Lyra, I need you to do something for me," Alex said, voice calm but firm.

"Anything," Lyra breathed, still trying to grasp what she'd witnessed.

"You have to go back to Chicago first."

"Are you crazy? They're coming after you. Let's leave together," Lyra insisted, desperation in her voice.

Alex shook his head firmly.

"No. They're after me. It'll be safer if l

go solo and stay hidden. Meanwhit

you make sure they pay every cent

of that three hundred billion.

Lyra hesitated, eyes wide with concern. "Alex, are you sure you'll be alright?" "Trust me," Alex reassured her as a sleek black car pulled smoothly to the curb. "That's your ride. It'll take you to the private jet back to Chicago."

Lyra rose slowly, determination flickering in her eyes. "I'll get our money, Alex. You stay alive."

As the car pulled away into the darkness, Alex remained seated calmly, finishing his food as though nothing had happened.

Moments later, sirens screamed through the air, red and blue lights flooding the

street.

Hundreds of heavily armed police officers and military personnel surged forward, weapons trained directly on Alex.

A commanding voice barked through a megaphone, slicing through the tense air, "You there! Hands in the air! Or we will kill you!"