"Impossible!"
The sound of the dagger stabbing into the wooden table echoed repeatedly through the room. Oberyn Martell's right hand rose and fell mechanically, his lips muttering nonstop: "Impossible… absolutely impossible…"
He looked utterly deranged.
He was the Red Viper of Dorne, the terror of the Second Sons, the warrior whose name had been forged from the countless defeats of his opponents across Essos—Oberyn Martell!
Yet today, in the very blade dance he prided himself on, he had been utterly outsped… by a physician?
He could not accept it!
Pride burned through his mind like venom!
Oberyn's hand rose and fell frantically, desperately trying to push his speed past the limit—even beyond the level Corleone had just displayed—to prove he was still the undefeated Red Viper.
But reality was cruel beyond measure.
Whether it was Ellaria watching him with growing worry, Littlefinger standing silently with an amused glint in his eye, or Oberyn himself, everyone could see it clearly: his speed simply could not keep up!
Just as Corleone had said earlier, when a person faces the threat of injury, the brain takes over, triggering unavoidable instinctive resistance.
Even a battle-hardened veteran like Oberyn was no exception.
As long as he remained human, the survival instinct buried deep in his marrow would forcibly make his body dodge the moment it sensed danger.
But Oberyn had gone mad.
His eyes were bloodshot, fixed unblinkingly on his own fingers. He was trying to shatter that physiological cage with sheer willpower alone, to challenge and break what seemed an insurmountable limit.
He wanted to surpass his own ceiling—and smash it.
But that was easier said than done.
A limit wall is called a "limit" precisely because it cannot be crossed.
Of course, if he suddenly closed his eyes and started twitching and shaking, that would be a different story…
Thud!
With a slightly muffled impact, Oberyn's movements froze instantly.
He slowly lowered his head in disbelief, staring at his left hand.
At the edge between his little finger and ring finger, a thin red line was rapidly appearing and widening.
A bright red bead of blood welled up like a tear from a body that had betrayed itself, gathering before sliding down between his fingers.
The crystal-clear pain forced him to admit the truth.
He… had been cut.
"Oberyn!"
Seeing this, Ellaria—who had already been worried—let out a cry and lunged forward, snatching the dagger from Oberyn's hand and pointing it straight at Corleone.
"Get out of here, Vito Corleone! Leave right now!"
"I will never… allow you to harm Oberyn!"
She was like a mother leopard, eyes blazing with fury and reckless determination, baring her teeth at Corleone.
The sharp tip of the blade trembled in the candlelight, yet it was utterly resolute.
"Put the knife down, Ellaria."
At that moment, Oberyn spoke.
His voice was a little hoarse. He raised his uninjured right hand and gently pressed down on Ellaria's tense arm.
Ellaria turned back in disbelief. What she saw was a pair of pitch-black eyes that had already regained their calm.
The previous madness and obsession had vanished, replaced by an unquestionable command.
"Put it down," he repeated, his tone heavier, once more the proud Prince of Dorne. "I lost. A loss must be acknowledged."
"No!"
Ellaria bit her lower lip. She stubbornly gripped the dagger, tears welling in her eyes. "I won't let him hurt you…"
But unfortunately, her persistence was useless.
Oberyn had already replaced words with action.
He seized her wrist with such force that she could not resist, easily wrenching the dagger from her grasp.
Without the slightest hesitation, he flicked his wrist and hurled the blade toward Corleone's feet with a crisp clang.
"Do it, Corleone." His expression was serene. "According to the wager, my life is now yours."
At this sight, Ellaria's tears finally spilled over. She glared at Corleone with a mixture of boundless rage and utter despair, as if he were the root of every tragedy.
Facing this tragic and heroic scene, Corleone could not help but roll his eyes inwardly.
What the hell is this?
It was as if he had suddenly become the shameless villain who forces people into ruin and abducts maidens—what kind of Yang Bailao drama was this?
These two were completely ridiculous. He almost wondered if he had walked onto the wrong set and turned into the Moon Worship Cult Leader from some play.
Moreover…
With the amplification of [Insight Lv. 3], he could see with crystal clarity that beneath Oberyn's seemingly resigned posture, the prince's right hand was stealthily reaching toward the poisoned dagger at his waist.
You think I don't know how you earned the title "Red Viper," you bastard?
Corleone thought wryly.
If he really tried to take Oberyn's life right now, would this kid just obediently submit?
If he were that honest, he wouldn't have slept with someone else's paramour, poisoned his sword in a duel to kill a man, then fled across the Narrow Sea.
Just then, Littlefinger, watching the explosive tension, hurriedly stepped forward with a face full of feigned anxiety.
"My lord, please don't act rashly!"
He waved his arms dramatically. "Although… although Prince Oberyn did repeatedly insult you earlier—even slandering your character—please consider the bigger picture!"
"If a Dornish prince comes to harm in King's Landing, the consequences will be unimaginable!"
His mouth spoke of restraint, but inside he was already cackling with glee.
Fight! Kill!
Best if you two bash each other's brains out!
Chaos is a ladder!
If Tywin Lannister's subordinate formed a blood feud with the Prince of Dorne—or even triggered open conflict between Dorne and the Iron Throne—the entire game of Westeros would descend into even greater turmoil.
Only then could Petyr Baelish fish the biggest prize from the muddy waters!
As for the fact that it happened in his establishment?
Irrelevant!
He was about to become Lord of the Eyrie anyway. With a little clever maneuvering, he could wash his hands of the entire affair.
After all, this mess had nothing to do with him from start to finish—it was entirely the work of these two stubborn lunatics who insisted on staking their lives.
While everyone harbored their own schemes and the atmosphere grew unbearably tense, Corleone finally moved.
He bent slightly, casually picked up the dagger, and weighed it in his hand.
Then, under everyone's gaze, he flicked his wrist and tossed the blade away like garbage.
The dagger traced a bright silver arc through the air, heading straight toward the spot where Petyr Baelish stood—aimed directly at his head!
"Ah!"
Littlefinger flinched violently and stumbled backward in a panic, nearly falling on his backside.
Thud!
The dagger whistled past the tip of his nose and buried itself deep into the floorboards where he had been standing. The hilt quivered violently.
Littlefinger's back was instantly soaked in cold sweat. His heart hammered, his face deathly pale.
"So sorry," Corleone said without a trace of sincerity. "I was just trying to throw the thing away."
Hearing the insincere apology, Littlefinger stared at the dagger in shock and fury, then glared at Corleone—yet he could not utter a single word.
This bastard did it on purpose…
He definitely did it on purpose!
Absolutely!
But he had no proof, so he could only swallow the silent loss.
By then Corleone had already risen calmly, straightening his slightly rumpled robes.
He looked at Oberyn with tranquil eyes—neither the smugness of a victor nor contempt for the defeated.
"To me, Your Grace," Corleone said, his voice still flat and assured, "your head is far more useful attached to your neck than as a useless ornament on my study shelf."
"So please take good care of it."
He gave a small, courteous bow, his tone even carrying a touch of polite concern. "But do not forget the agreement we made earlier."
"I still look forward to you personally stepping into the arena—for the people of King's Landing and for our cooperation—to deliver a truly spectacular performance."
With that, he said no more. He turned and walked out of the room with crisp, decisive steps.
Just as Corleone's figure was about to disappear through the doorway, his low voice drifted back into the chamber:
"Still, a bet is a bet. Although I do not want your head, remember this—"
"You owe me a favor, Your Grace."
Bang.
The door closed completely.
Only after confirming that Corleone had truly left did Ellaria finally breathe a sigh of relief. She turned and threw herself into Oberyn's arms, kissing him wildly.
Oberyn responded just as fiercely, yet his pitch-black eyes remained fixed on the door. His hand, which had been gripping the poisoned dagger at his waist, silently loosened.
Vito Corleone…
Quite interesting.
Walking up the winding stone steps leading to the Red Keep, Corleone's pace was steady and unhurried.
Idly taking in the scenery around him, his thoughts replayed the "blade dance" that had just ended.
His original purpose in coming to the Street of Silk had been to find Oberyn Martell.
The fighting pit project needed a star attraction—someone who could ignite the crowd's frenzy on opening night. The Red Viper was the perfect choice.
If he could find an opponent of equal fame and strength to face him, even better.
What he had not expected was that the Viper's temper was even fiercer than he had imagined. A deal that could have been settled peacefully had turned into a life-or-death gamble, wasting quite a bit of his time.
Before the contest truly began, he had not been entirely confident he could win against Oberyn.
But so what?
Even if he lost, he still had a Gold Dragon in his pocket. Worst case, he could simply add a real duel to the stakes.
Still, the massive advantage created by the synergy of several skills was truly formidable.
For a game that relied so heavily on control, focus, and mental resilience, this combination fit him like a glove.
Lost in thought, he soon arrived outside the majestic and solemn throne room of the Iron Throne.
The Gold Cloak captain who had led him here stopped and turned. "Wait here a moment. I must announce you first."
His tone sounded slightly unhappy.
"Thank you for your trouble," Corleone replied, giving a slight nod. He casually slipped two shining silver moons into the man's hand.
The motion was smooth and natural.
Feeling the cool touch of the silver, the Gold Cloak captain's face immediately warmed. He grinned and whispered, "I'll go in right away, Lord Corleone. I won't keep you waiting long!"
He then turned and entered the hall that symbolized the pinnacle of power in the Seven Kingdoms.
Money could make ghosts push mills—and it could also make mills push ghosts.
Watching the man's figure vanish behind the towering doors, Corleone quickly ran through the possible reasons for Tywin's urgent summons.
Less than an hour ago, he had barely left the Street of Silk when Rorge came running up, panting, to inform him that the Hand of the King had an urgent matter and required his immediate presence.
Tywin's messenger had not specified the reason, and of course Rorge had not dared to ask.
Corleone had therefore set aside his other plans and hurried over.
Had the cleanup of Flea Bottom stepped on someone's toes, and they had complained to Tywin?
Or had that dwarf, after being blackmailed, run crying to his father?
Unlikely—the Imp was not that stupid.
Every possibility flashed through his mind and was weighed one by one.
However…
He had the strange feeling that he had left something behind on the Street of Silk.
What could it be?