Yang City. The airport.

Nine Falcon fighter jets escorted a silver passenger plane as it slowly descended. The wheels hit the runway, and the grinding hum rolled across the field.

On both sides of the long red carpet, hundreds of men in black stood stiff and silent, barely daring to breathe. Their eyes were locked on the cabin door, burning with almost feverish intensity.

On the boarding stairs stood a young man in a black trench coat.

Tall. Straight-backed. Calm.

His gaze was fixed on the distance, as if the whole city had already fallen into his line of sight.

“Lord Ethan… are you really staying in Yang City?”

The man speaking wore a military-green uniform. He was built like a wall, broad-shouldered and imposing. As the foremost of the Temple’s Ten Warlord Commanders, Isaac Sinclair was someone who could shake countless people with a single word.

Yet right now, he stood before everyone else and bent at a full ninety degrees, his voice respectful to the core.

“Yes.”

Ethan Whitmore remained on the stairs, looking out over the city ahead.

Five years ago, he had been gravely wounded while saving a brother-in-arms. Half-conscious and delirious, he had drifted into Yang City and ended up living like a beggar.

If Gideon Ashford hadn’t taken him in, he would have died on the street long ago.

Not only had the old man saved his life, he had even married his beloved granddaughter, Lynnette Whitmore, to him. He gave Ethan a place to stay, a roof over his head, a corner of the world where he could at least survive.

But fate really knew how to play dirty.

Not long after the wedding, Gideon Ashford passed away.

With that, Ethan’s true identity was buried along with the old man’s secret. No one knew who he really was.

And Lynnette, for marrying a “fool,” had suffered more than her share of cold stares, ridicule, and whispered mockery.

Then, at the worst possible moment, his subordinates found him and took him away in haste.

That departure lasted five full years.

Ethan slowly pulled his thoughts back, his expression flat, almost detached.

“From now on, Temple affairs are yours to manage,” he said lightly. “Don’t come bothering me.”

Isaac Sinclair felt a bitter helplessness rise in his chest.

That was wealth worth hundreds of billions. And Ethan was tossing it aside like it was nothing, like he was dropping some useless file into the trash.

Still, Isaac knew enough about what had happened back then. He didn’t dare say more. He quickly lowered his head and replied, “The Temple just happens to be investing in some industries in Yang City.”

He paused, then added at once, “The richest man in Yang City, Denzil Fairfax, is one of mine. He’ll be at your disposal anytime, Lord Ethan.”

“You still don’t get what I’m saying?” Ethan Whitmore snapped, his voice cold enough to cut.

His expression darkened even more, and the pressure rolling off him instantly crushed the air around them. Everyone present shut their mouths on the spot, not daring to make a sound.

Isaac Sinclair, the foremost of the Temple’s Ten War Kings, could only bite the bullet and speak.

“Lord Ethan, I’m not trying to disturb you and Madam,” he said carefully, head lowered. “I just didn’t want some blind fool, not knowing who you are, to offend you.”

Ethan said nothing more.

He simply walked down the steps and got into the car.

Wherever he passed, the men in black all bent at the waist, bowing in unison.

“Safe journey, Lord Ethan!”

Only then did Isaac finally let out a long breath. Cold sweat had already gathered at his temples.

An hour later, Yayuan Villa District.

Ethan had seen more life-and-death moments than most people could imagine, yet standing before these familiar streets, his heart still stirred in a way he couldn’t quite suppress.

Back then, after he regained consciousness, a rebellion had broken out within the Temple. By the time he crushed it and took back control, endless matters had piled onto his shoulders one after another. From that point on, he never found the chance to return.

“Five years…”

He looked ahead, his gaze dimming slightly.

“I wonder if Lynnette is still angry with me.”

When he reached the courtyard gate, Ethan lifted a hand to knock.

But before his knuckles touched the door, his arm froze in midair.

A shrill, nasty voice suddenly came from the side, so harsh it made his brows knit at once.

“You little bastard, if it weren’t for your mom, you wouldn’t even get dog food from me. Eat. Now!”

Ethan turned toward the sound.

Not far away stood a middle-aged woman with a face full of flesh and a vicious look in her eyes. Her finger kept jabbing at the head of a little girl who looked no older than four or five.

The child was painfully thin. Her face was sallow, the kind of yellowish pallor that screamed long-term malnutrition. Under the woman’s shoving, her tiny body swayed unsteadily from side to side. Her big watery eyes were brimming with fear and grievance, like she wanted to cry but didn’t dare.

“What are you staring at? Hurry up and eat! I’ve got tons of stuff to do!”

The woman held the leash of a black bulldog. The dog, all swagger because of its owner, let out low threatening growls at the little girl, as if it were helping bully her.

Ethan’s eyes dropped to the ground by the woman’s feet.

There was a dog bowl there.

Inside it was a heap of moldy leftovers, rotten scraps so disgusting they could make anyone sick at a glance.

That wasn’t food for a person.

That was trash.

Ethan Whitmore had just opened his mouth, ready to speak, when the scene in front of him hit him like a hammer.

“I-I’ll eat it, Yaoyao will eat it…”

The little girl’s voice was shaking so hard it almost broke apart in the air.

Her tiny body trembled nonstop, like a leaf caught in cold wind, but in front of that woman, she still lowered her head in the end.

Really lowered it.

Then, under Ethan’s gaze, she slowly dropped to her knees on the ground.

Both hands pressed against the floor. Her small fingers were pale from force. She bit her lip, eyes red with fear, and actually copied the way a dog ate, leaning forward little by little as if she really meant to eat from the bowl.

That sight was brutal.

So brutal it made a person’s chest tighten.

The middle-aged woman looked down at her and curled her lips into a smug, nasty smile, the kind that made people instantly sick to their stomach.

But in the very next second, her face turned even harsher.

Bang!

She suddenly lifted her foot and kicked the bowl of dog food over.

The bowl flipped on the spot, food scattering all over the ground in a mess.

“Now you want to eat?” the woman snapped, her voice sharp and mean, full of spite. “Too late.”

She stared at Yaoyao like she was enjoying every second of it.

“If you want to eat,” she said coldly, “then get down there and lick the floor clean for me!”