I stood still, my hands behind my back, eyes half-lidded as my perception expanded outward like a web of invisible threads. Hundreds of signatures now filled the area. Masters, nearly two hundred of them, had gathered again, drawn to the ruins and the crater where their comrades had died.
Some were cautious, some burning with rage, others barely holding their fear in check.
But all of them… watched.
Their eyes flicked between the broken statue, the cracked earth, the blood-soaked soil and me.
A small smile played on my face after watching Knight in action.
Then my gaze landed on one figure among them. My eyes narrowed.
King Holt.
He was trying to stay hidden, near the third row, cloaked in a common robe, his presence deliberately suppressed.
But no amount of masking could hide his stench from me. The same stench he carried back in the prison room—the one of arrogance, entitlement, and cruelty.
I slowly raised my right hand.
