Strongest Side-Character System: Please don't steal the spotlight

Meanwhile, in the bullet comments only Vonjo could see, the floodgates had burst open.

The screen of his mind—his own personal live stream—overflowed with brightly colored usernames and chaotic text. Some were littered with emojis, some with sarcastic praise, some too deranged to make sense, but all united in a single, irreverent chorus: ridicule.

Hexe.exe: "VONJO REALLY JUST DISSED THE DEAD 💀💀💀"

ChickenSans69: "Somebody get Vance a mop, he gonna cry over those corpses fr."

BloodMancer420: "I swear Vonjo got a cheat code—just slaps 'em with words now."

69_sorcerer_slurper: "Did Vance think sending those two Dollar Tree assassins would work? 😭"

0_oDeathDealer: "Bro turned trauma into stand-up comedy."

RealVonjoFanClub: "THIS is why Vonjo is HIM. Humiliation is his love language."

xXDark_Crystal_BaeXx: "They died AND got ratio'd in spirit. Rip Colver & Mauricio, never forget 💀💀💀"

TombstoneKisser: "This is a crime scene and Vonjo's the forensic analyst with jokes."

CrimsonTeeth: "Vance boutta explode, y'all watch."

Luv2Die: "Vonjo didn't just step on graves, he built a comedy club on them."

GraveyardSnacc: "Mauricio and Colver caught strays posthumously, how y'all die twice???"

Vonjo didn't react outwardly, but inside? Inside, he was savoring every pixel of this chaotic chorus. 

The bullet comments weren't real—not in this world—but they were real enough to him. Real enough to keep him grounded. 

They reflected what no one else around could see: how laughable this performance of power was.

Vance, meanwhile, stood like a statue carved in fury.

On the outside, he wore that smug little grin—taught from years of highborn etiquette and political masks—but his eyes, those cold gray eyes, were molten with rage. 

Pissed? No. Pissed didn't come close. 

He was simmering in a heat so white and sharp it could sear flesh.

Yet he was a little curious too.

Why?

Because earlier, he had been shocked. His older brother killed his two subordinates? Although his subordinates didn't come close to his power, compared to other descendants of the proud House of Sutterfouse, both were elite.

In fact, both of them had awakened high-level Doom bloodline abilities. While they couldn't match the monster trio of the House of Sutterfouse, they were still elite bloodline abilities of the House.

Not just that, Mauricio and Colver weren't just any underlings. They were cold-blooded executioners—ruthless sorcerers who specialized in extermination. 

So they weren't common descendants with a high-level bloodline ability of the House; they had been trained by him too. And they were loyal. Vance had handpicked them, groomed them, and before sending them after Vonjo, he'd given a very simple command:

Kill him—if he refuses.

And yet... they died. They didn't just die—they were mocked. Made into punchlines. Reduced to footnotes in a joke. By him.

By Vonjo.

His older brother. No—his half-brother. 

The one who had spent ten years in the Sutterfouse family like a pathetic shadow, the boy who never awakened any bloodline ability, who'd skulked behind books and servants and locked doors. Vance used to find him in hallways and turn his own guards against him for sport. 

There were days he made his own slaves humiliate Vonjo in public until their father would laugh and say, "Why is that one still alive?"

The weak link. The embarrassment. The runt.

And now?

Now he stood there—smiling with his mouth closed, radiating a calm so infuriating that Vance wanted to rip it off his face—and mocking him. He dared to mock. No… Not just that, he dared to kill his subordinates? 

Where did it come from?

That was what gnawed at Vance more than the loss of Mauricio and Colver. Where did this confidence come from?

Regardless, he is confident in his abilities. 

He tilted his head slightly and spoke through his teeth, his voice measured yet heavy with restrained fury. "Yes, older Brother," he said, "You are right. Mauricio and Colver were people I trusted. They were loyal."

He let that word hang—loyal—like a knife mid-air.

"And as per the elders' instructions, your mission is simple," Vance continued. "You must hurt me. And if you fail—if you can't hurt me—then punishment will follow."

Vonjo blinked. Not in shock. Not in fear. But in recognition.

So it really is an assassination disguised as a family trial.

He could feel it now. The air was thick with it. Killing intent—pure and sharp, woven into the very curse energy that swirled around Vance's figure. It wasn't a child's threat. Vance came here to kill him.

Still, Vonjo's voice came out soft, edged with dry amusement. "As long as I injure you?" He tilted his head and let a faint chuckle slip. "But, little brother… aren't you far too strong for that?"

His eyes drifted up as if pulling from memory—hazy images of the past, of pain.

"I still remember the time you tanked fifty Hell Beasts during your bloodline trial, all of them ranked high in the death-class danger level. You were barely fourteen then." He smiled wistfully, eyes distant. "And now… seven years later, with all the resources of the House of Sutterfouse, with the finest instructors, forbidden scrolls, soul-reinforcement rituals… you want me to hit you?"

His tone was light but laced with irony.

"I was abandoned. Thrown away like waste." His words were calm, but the air shifted with quiet weight. "No family crest. No bloodline gift. I survived not because I was strong, but because I took on what others couldn't. Assassinations. Corrupt kingdoms. Monster dens where even elite mercenary groups disappeared."

He stepped forward slowly.

"I walked through scorched valleys where the ground still screamed. I broke into the vaults of dream-weavers and slit their throats while they were dreaming of conquest. I faced beasts that didn't know death because no one lived long enough to define it for them."

His eyes narrowed—not with hate, but with resolve.

"If given a choice between injuring my own brother or walking into another hell-drenched zone… I would still choose the latter."

The bullet comments were in frenzy again:

GoreFlavoredBubblegum: "OMGGG that monologue was sexier than a death contract 😭💘"

VanceFan2NowVonjoFan: "Forget Vance. VONJO IS MY GOD NOW."

WhoNeedsPowers: "He got trauma-based swagger, certified."

EdgelordKisser: "This the kinda speech you hear before the villain becomes the new protagonist."

Wanderlust_Witch: "Bro's aura typing in Shakespeare while everyone else speaking Minecraft."

Vance's eyebrow twitched.

But he pushed back. "That may be so," he said, voice silk hiding steel. "But those are not the elders' instructions."

He stepped closer, his boots grinding on the stone with unnerving softness. "My subordinates—Colver and Mauricio—gave their lives without flinching, just to bring you back. They believed in you. They hoped you would return to the family with dignity." He spread his arms mockingly. "And now you tell me you would rather run missions? For what? Glory? Independence?"

Vonjo narrowed his eyes. He could see the trap now. 

A refusal would make him look ungrateful. 

Vance had always been cunning—deadly with words, even deadlier with half-truths. 

A step back would be seen as cowardice. 

A step forward would place him in Vance's game.

But Vonjo had never been one for games—not their kind, at least.

His brow furrowed, just enough to show tension. Then, slowly, he nodded once.

"I see," he murmured. "So that's how it is."

And then, like a weight being lifted, he exhaled.

He looked up—not with challenge, but with clarity. "So be it."