The Son-In-Law Shot to Fame (Donald and Jennifer)

Chapter 940 Kickboxing Stella Warrior

“What are you doing! Let go of Mr. Larkin!”

Witnessing Donald subduing Jedidiah and subjecting him to rough treatment, a cluster of subordinates erupted into clamor on the sidelines. Despite their fervent shouting, not one among them dared to approach and intervene.

Everyone present possessed their fair share of intelligence. They knew they were no match for Donald. Confronting him would be akin to walking straight into the lion's den, yielding no meaningful outcome whatsoever.

Donald cast a nonchalant glance toward the underlings and remarked, “Isn't a bit of friction rather common in a bar setting? Didn't your Mr. Larkin just affirm that himself?”

The entire group of subordinates was silently letting loose a barrage of curses within their minds.

Is that what Mr. Larkin meant by friction? Look at what you're doing! You're practically grinding Mr. Larkin's face away. If this keeps up, he's going to die!

A divine-stage Penta Stella Warrior—never could Jedidiah have imagined that, once engaged, he would find himself under Donald's control.

At this moment, the Stella Warrior energy coursing through Jedidiah had been disrupted by the fall he had sustained.

It was no longer a question of resistance. Even if Donald were to stand passively and allow himself to be struck, Jedidiah would likely find it impossible to lift his fist.

Thankfully, the members of the United Hearts Society promptly detected the unusual situation.

The music within the bar came to a halt, and people from the society swiftly initiated the evacuation process.

A man adorned in a crimson suit emerged in the distance, drawing nearer, followed closely by a contingent of subordinates whose expressions appeared even more intimidating.

“Sir!”

“Mr. Livingston!”

Upon the arrival of the middle-aged man, those in his vicinity promptly made way, demonstrating their deference, and extended greetings.

Observing Jedidiah, his countenance marred by fragments of glass, Waldo Livingston settled onto the couch, lighting a cigar from his pocket with an air of nonchalance.

His gaze shifted to Donald as he inquired, “You've got quite the nerve to lay a hand on my people in my territory. So, tell me, who sent you, and what brings you to my establishment?”

“I came here simply for a drink, never anticipating someone would attempt to flirt with my girlfriend. I didn't expect the management here to be so unprofessional. I'm clearly the victim here, so why am I being asked to pay three hundred thousand?” Donald retorted. “I've got everything but money. That's why I said I couldn't afford to pay. And isn't that what's landed us in this present situation?”

Waldo was no fool.

Could an individual capable of effortlessly overwhelming his divine-stage Penta Stella Warrior truly lack funds?

“Since you're unwilling to divulge your purpose here, let's cut the chatter,” Waldo declared, gesturing. Subsequently, a young man, appearing to be in his early twenties, approached from the

periphery.

The young man removed his jacket, exposing muscles akin to steel plates beneath.

Observing the bandages adorning the young man's hands and feet, Donald promptly inferred that the youth was likely engaged in kickboxing.

What amused Donald, even more, was the revelation that this young man was, in fact, a divine- stage Octo Stella Warrior.

“Berthold Draper. Kickboxing.”

Even though it was an underground brawl, Berthold upheld all requisite protocols.

Preceding a combat engagement with a formal introduction could be interpreted as an expression of respect toward Donald.

However, Donald fixed Berthold with a frigid smile and retorted, “Within Yorksland, we boast a myriad of boxing styles, yet you've opted to embrace the pugilistic tradition of a diminutive nation. Do you fancy yourself formidable simply because you've acquired expertise in Thymion kickboxing?” Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

Berthold's brows knitted slightly, detecting a hint of discontent as Donald omitted introducing himself.

Nevertheless, as Berthold swiftly grasped that this wasn't a formal setting, he promptly recalibrated his mindset and adopted the offensive posture characteristic of Thymion kickboxing.

He advanced steadily toward Donald, a striking contrast to Jedidiah's previous impulsive charge.

While his movements appeared deliberate, it didn't necessarily indicate that Berthold's attacks lacked speed.

The instant Donald fell within Berthold's striking range, a low shout erupted from Berthold's lips, accompanied by a whip kick launched straight at Donald's head.

The velocity was so rapid that it left an afterimage, confounding those present, who struggled to discern the exact position of Berthold's legs.