Taming the Beast World with a Frying Pan-Chapter 155: Not the Face!

The center of the White Tiger village looked less like a battleground and more like a demolition site run by drunk toddlers.

Dust choked the air. Trees that had survived generations of storms were now reduced to kindling. And in the middle of the chaos, three Beast Kings were engaged in the most violent, high-stakes bar brawl in history.

Crack.

Kael’s fist connected with Carik’s jaw with the force of a falling anvil.

The Black Tiger’s head snapped back, a spray of saliva and blood flying into the night air. But instead of falling, Carik just laughed—a wet, gurgling sound that was deeply unsettling.

"Is that it, little kitten?" Carik taunted, spitting out a tooth. "My grandmother hits harder than that! And she’s dead!"

He swung a massive, scarred fist back at Kael. Kael blocked it with his forearm, gritting his teeth as the impact rattled his bones.

This was a beastman-to-beastman fight. No shifting. Just knuckles, sweat, and testosterone.

It had been Carik’s idea, of course.

"Since the White Tiger King is broken and can’t shift," Carik had sneered earlier, "I will be generous. I will fight you in this weak, two-legged skin. I want to feel your bones break under my bare hands."

It was a blatant mockery.

And Syris? The Snake King should have refused. In his beastman form, he was lean, elegant, and built for speed—not for trading haymakers with two muscular tiger beastmen who had the strength of punching down trees. Tigers had the natural advantage in brute strength.

But Syris’ ego was a fragile, dangerous thing.

"I do not need scales to crush you," Syris had declared haughtily. "This form is more than enough."

Now, moments later, Syris was beginning to regret that statement.

He ducked under a wild haymaker from Carik, his snakeskin robes fluttering around him. He weaved around Kael’s elbow, moving as fluid as water.

Syris was fast. He was precise. He fought with a deadly, viper-like grace, aiming for pressure points and throats. But every time he landed a hit, it felt like punching a brick wall.

"You are so annoying!" Kael roared, swinging a leg at Syris.

Syris leaped backward, narrowly avoiding a kick that would have rearranged his internal organs.

"And you are clumsy!" Syris retorted, flicking dust off his sleeve. "You fight like a blind bear! Do you have no technique? No elegance?"

"I will show you elegance when I rip your tongue out!" Kael shouted.

Despite his wounds, Kael was holding his own. The adrenaline and the rage of knowing this monster wanted to breed his mate—acted as a potent painkiller. He was fighting through the pain, trading blow for blow with Carik.

Carik, for his part, was having the time of his life.

He grabbed Kael’s arm and headbutted him. Thud.

Kael didn’t stumble. He headbutted him back. CRACK.

"Yes!" Carik howled, blood streaming down his nose. "More! This is what a King should be! Violence! Pain! This is how a King should fight!"

He spun around and aimed a vicious clawed swipe at Syris.

Syris leaned back, dodging the blow by a millimeter. He slapped Carik’s hand away with a look of pure disgust.

"Do not touch me," Syris hissed. "You are filthy."

"Come here, pretty King!" Carik jeered. "Let me ruin that face!"

Syris’ eyes narrowed. He stepped in, driving a palm strike into Carik’s solar plexus. It was a perfect hit, one that should have collapsed a lung.

Carik just grunted, absorbing the impact like a sponge.

"Tickles," Carik grinned.

He lunged.

Syris tried to dance away, but he tripped over a piece of rubble from a destroyed hut. It was a momentary lapse in his perfect footwork, but it was enough.

Carik’s hand lashed out.

Swish.

Syris felt a sharp, stinging burn on his cheek.

The chaotic brawl froze for a split second.

Syris stumbled back, his hand flying to his face. He felt the warm, wet stickiness of blood. He pulled his hand away and stared at his fingers. They were stained crimson.

Carik had scratched him.

Carik had scratched the face.

The face that his Ren had called beautiful.

Kael stopped mid-punch, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. He looked at Syris and actually took a step back.

Syris slowly lowered his hand.

His amethyst eyes were no longer cool or calculating. They were dark voids of absolute fury. The temperature in the clearing seemed to drop ten degrees.

"You..." Syris whispered, his voice trembling with rage. "You dared to... scratch my face."

He reached up and untied his tattered snakeskin robe. It slid off his shoulders, pooling in the dust, revealing his lean, pale torso.

"I am done," Syris stated coldly. "I am done with this idle game."

The air began to vibrate. A purple mist began to rise from the ground, smelling of ozone and venom.

"Wait," Kael warned, backing away further. "Snake, don’t—"

BOOM.

There was a blinding flash of violet light.

When the light cleared, the elegant man was gone. In his place rose a nightmare.

A Titanoboa.

He was massive—easily fifty feet long, with scales that shimmered like amethyst jewels in the moonlight. His body was as thick as a tree trunk, coiled in a mountain of deadly muscle. His head was enormous, with fangs the size of daggers dripping with neon-green venom.

Syris let out a hiss that sounded like steam escaping a high-pressure valve. He towered over the two tigers, casting a shadow that swallowed their frames.

Carik looked up. And up. And up.

Most beasts would have cowered. Most beasts would have run screaming for the hills.

But Carik?

Carik wiped the blood from his nose and broke into a wide, manic grin. His dull yellow eyes suddenly sharpened, glowing a terrifying blood-red.

He wasn’t afraid. He was excited.

"Finally!" Carik shouted, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming a hug from death itself. "You caught me off guard last time, Snake King! It’s time for the real fun to start!"