"Fuck you, Ross! I don't know what you did or how you did it—but I killed you once, and I'll kill you again!" Wilson roared, spit flying from his lips as fury twisted every line of his face.
He pointed his blade at Ross with a trembling hand, not from fear, but from the overwhelming rage burning inside him.
Behind him, his men surged forward, forming a semi-circle around their leader.
A sea of bodies—one hundred twenty-one armed fighters, each wearing a smug, confident expression.
Their boots thudded loudly against the marble floor as they approached, the sound echoing like a war drum.
They weren't just confident.
They were certain.
One man—even Ross—couldn't stop them.
Ross, seated lazily on his throne, simply watched them approach.
His fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest, his expression more amused than concerned.
"Is that so?" he murmured, tilting his head as if seeing something humorous in Wilson's bluster.
Then his grin sharpened.
