Help! I Became A Guy In A BL Novel!-Chapter 172: Infighting

He dismounted with the ease of someone used to commanding attention, his boots hitting the ground with purpose. The dust swirled around his feet as he walked further into the town. People peeked from behind curtains, from alleyways, keeping their distance.

They had already offended one bigshot, they were not going to provoke another. All of their operations had ceased. As for the one who sold Riven and put a target on their back...

They killed him way before Ronan reached the town. How dare he? Because of him, their business had been exposed. They made good money selling people, it was a grey area, and they took advantage of the lack of clear jurisdiction, but he... He incurred the wrath of the Alpha.

When Ronan arrived, he first aimed for that bartender, but when he realised that he was missing, he decided to uproot all the illegal operations in that town.

Leon scoffed at the sight of the charred remains of what used to be the town’s most active tavern. "So this is what justice looks like under Ronan’s rule? No wonder the people look half-dead."

His tone was mocking, but there was something calculating in his eyes. Though the town was technically a grey zone, a border town—not ruled by Soren, Ronan, or even Leon himself—Leon had always claimed it as part of his influence. Seeing it now in ruins, claimed by Ronan’s sense of "justice," rubbed him the wrong way.

"Start asking questions," Leon commanded his men. "I want to know how exactly it went down."

---

Ronan stood in the chamber that once served as the gathering place for the elders. Now it felt more like a tomb of old ambitions. Elder Thorne sat across from him, back straight but hands clenched tightly in his lap.

"You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here," Thorne spat, his eyes sharp despite the heavy bags under them.

"I thought you’d appreciate the courtesy," Ronan replied casually. "I could’ve sent someone else to deliver the message. But I figured, since you were always so outspoken, I’d give you a chance to speak one last time."

Thorne sneered. "You think I’ll grovel?"

"No," Ronan said, leaning back against the carved stone table. "But I think you’ll start talking once I tell you... Martin sold you out. Said you masterminded the whole rebellion to save his neck."

"WHAT?" He screamed in horror. He could not believe it.

"Yes, he also revealed your plan to sell out the clan. That you were trying to cut a deal with the outer clans. That you’d give them access to our borders in exchange for their protection when the coup failed."

"That bastard! He’s the one who wanted to bring outsiders in! I told him it was foolish!"

"Well," Ronan smiled faintly, "he told me otherwise. Now everyone’s pointing fingers."

Thorne’s jaw tightened. "If he wants war, I’ll give it to him."

Ronan straightened. "Good luck with that. You are being taken away, stripped of everything. Unless... You do the right thing."

He left the room without another word. The seed was planted. Now all he had to do was watch it grow.

And it did. Beautifully.

Martin, suspecting Thorne might retaliate, began pulling in warriors from his old command under the guise of organising a private security force. Thorne responded by gathering his own men, older ones—more loyal, but less agile.

Paranoia festered like rot. Every elder began to second-guess the others. They met less frequently, spoke in hushed tones, and when they did gather, it was all venom and false pleasantries.

Elder Liora tried to mediate. She stood at the head of the chamber one day, slamming her hand on the table, demanding peace.

"This infighting is destroying everything we built!"

Neither side cared. Liora’s calls for unity were ignored. They wanted power, not peace.

Thorne accused Martin of planning to seize the seat of power. Martin claimed Thorne was the one courting betrayal. Both were right, in their own way. Old alliances crumbled. Factions formed within factions. The younger wolves, hungry for change, aligned with Martin. The traditionalists stuck with Thorne. Liora was alone.

Ronan watched. Waited. He only needed to nudge them, here and there. Quiet meetings. Whispered rumours. He let them turn on each other.

It worked.

He wanted to declare a full-blown war, but that would affect the citizens.

By the third day the talks soured, an elder’s estate was burned down during the night. No one took responsibility, but everyone had theories. Guards turned on their masters. A few of the elders fled, hoping to save themselves. One even begged Ronan for protection.

"Please," the man whispered, eyes wide, desperate, "I didn’t mean for it to go this far."

Ronan just tilted his head. "Didn’t you?"

The elder’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came.

Too late.

By the time the dust began to settle, there were barely any elders left standing. Some disappeared. Others were stripped of their power by their own men. A few were dead.

One by one, Ronan hunted them down—not with brute force, but with precision. He knew their hideouts, their escape routes, their most loyal men. It didn’t take long. Elder Maren was dragged out of a cellar beneath an abandoned shrine.

Thorne was caught trying to flee through the northern border disguised as a merchant. Liora didn’t resist—she simply opened the door to her manor and surrendered without a word.

Each of them was brought to the old dungeons beneath the main hall, shackled and stripped of the robes they once wore so proudly. Ronan didn’t react. He merely stood before them, his voice cold and final.

"I am taking back my power as the Alpha."

They stared at him, some in disbelief, others in quiet fury. But none dared speak.

He turned and began to walk away, the heavy iron door groaning shut behind him.

"I’m not killing you," he said, almost as an afterthought. "You’ll live long enough to see what real leadership looks like."

And with that, he left them in silence, buried beneath stone, where their ambitions would rot just like their legacy.