The silver-haired woman didn't flinch as the glass shards settled. She looked at the gasping elite in the room with nothing but disgust.
"You're overstepping, Elias," she said, her voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.
"Overstepping?" I let my aura flare, the golden light of the Anchor dancing across my knuckles. "He tried to kill me. He took my life, my name, and my father's ring. Step aside, or you're next."
She let out a short, melodic laugh that chilled the marrow in my bones. "You think having a bit of raw energy makes you a god? Marcus is a fool, yes. He's greedy, and he's pathetic. But he is a 'secular dog' of the Shadow Sect. He provides the capital that keeps our temples hidden. Which means he is protected."
"Protected?" I snarled. I lunged.
I was fast—faster than any human alive—but she was a blur. She didn't just move; she flowed. I swung a heavy hook fueled by the Overlord Presence, but her palm met my forearm with a touch as light as a feather and as cold as a glacier.
"Technique, Elias," she whispered, leaning into my personal space as my momentum carried me past her. "You have the engine of a star, but you don't know how to drive."
She struck. "Frost Palm."
Her hand connected with my chest. It wasn't a punch; it was a vibration. A shockwave of sub-zero energy tore through my lungs, freezing the moisture in my breath. I flew backward, smashing through a mahogany dining table, silver platters clattering around me.
"Marcus!" she barked without looking back. "Get up and get out. You've embarrassed the Sect enough for one night."
"Yes, Lady Seraphina! Thank you!" Marcus scrambled to his feet, ignoring Clara, who was still groveling on the floor. He shot me a look of pure, concentrated malice. "You're dead, Elias! You hear me? You're a freak, and the Sect is going to dissect you!"
"Shut up, Marcus," Seraphina snapped. She turned her attention back to me as I stood up, the frost on my chest melting away under the heat of my Sovereign blood. "Impressive. Most men would have shattered into ice cubes after that hit. Your constitution is… unusual."
"I'm just getting started," I wheezed, my blood beginning to pump with a new, frantic rhythm. My mind was racing, replaying the way she had moved. The way the energy had coiled in her palm before the strike.
"You have raw power, little King," she said, her silver eyes glowing. "But the Shadow Sect has spent three thousand years perfecting the art of killing. You are a toddler with a loaded gun."
She moved again, her hands weaving a complex pattern in the air. The temperature in the ballroom plummeted. Frost began to crawl up the walls. "Let's see how you handle the second movement."
I watched her. Truly watched her. The Sovereign core in my chest began to hum, not just providing power, but analyzing. I saw the way her internal energy—her qi—flowed from her core to her fingertips. I felt the frequency of the cold.
She lunged, her palm aimed directly at my throat.
I didn't dodge. I mirrored.
I twisted my wrist exactly the way she had, channeling the golden energy of the Anchor into the same jagged, spiraling pattern I had just witnessed. I felt the heat of my power suddenly invert, turning into a biting, crystalline chill.
Our palms met in the center of the room.
CRACK.
A dome of frost exploded outward, freezing the champagne in the glasses and shattering the remaining chandeliers. We stood locked, palm to palm.
Seraphina's eyes widened until the silver irises were surrounded by white. Her hand was trembling. Not from strength, but from shock.
"That's... that's the Frost Palm," she whispered, her voice trembling. "That is a hidden technique of the Shadow Sect. It takes decades to master the internal circulation required to survive the cold. How did you...?"
"Like this?" I pushed.
The golden-blue energy surged, mimicking her technique with terrifying precision, but with ten times the raw output. She was thrown back, her boots skidding across the ice-slicked marble. She barely caught herself, her breathing coming in ragged gasps.
"You didn't just block it," she muttered, looking at her own hand, which was now beginning to turn blue. "You replicated it. In seconds."
"Is that supposed to be hard?" I asked, the golden runes on my skin glowing brighter.
She backed away, her previous arrogance replaced by a look of genuine terror. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small, silver signaling flare.
"Natural Origin," she breathed, the words sounding like a curse. "You aren't a descendant of a branch family. You're a Natural Origin cultivator. You're a living source."
She looked at me, her eyes darting to the windows where the General's fleet was still visible in the distance.
"Elias," she said, her voice now deadly serious. "You have no idea what you just did. The Shadow Sect was protecting Marcus for money. But for a Natural Origin... they will burn this entire city to the ground just to put a collar on your neck."
She smashed the flare on the ground. A pillar of silver light shot through the ceiling, punching a hole through the roof of the skyscraper.
"They're coming for you," she said, her form beginning to fade into the silver mist. "And I don't think you're ready for what happens when the Grandmasters feel your pulse."
I stepped forward to grab her, but my hand passed through empty air. She was gone.
I stood alone in the wrecked ballroom, the frost still thick on the floor, as the sound of a hundred distant, rhythmic drums began to echo from the sky.