That night, atop the glass tower in Gatehaven's central district, the air was thick with tension. The city lights below glittered like scattered jewels, but inside the hundred-square-meter room with its floor-to-ceiling glass walls, the only illumination was the pure white light radiating from the sword in Zephyr's hand.
The sword wasn't made of metal, but of solidified light, pulsing with a divine energy that made the surrounding air vibrate. Its tip rested calmly, yet lethally, right beside the neck of the man kneeling before him.
That man, Darian—better known as the Black Dragon, an SS-ranked member of the Guardian Council—was a wreck. His usually imposing, rock-muscled body was broken.
His right arm was severed at the elbow, the bloody stump still gushing, forming a crimson pool on the white marble floor. His rugged face, full of battle scars, was twisted in pain, but his coal-black eyes still glimmered with the last remnants of arrogance and hatred.
