The Crippled God of War Rises

The King's Banquet

The Grand Aurora Hotel was the tallest building in the city, a playground for the 1%. Tonight, it hosted the "Blue Blood Gala," an event where the city’s Mayor, the Chief of Police, and the heads of the Four Great Families gathered to discuss the "Drake Situation."

They didn't know that the "situation" was currently walking through the front doors.

Drake wore a tailored black suit that cost more than the Vance family’s entire villa. Beside him, Elena walked in a shimmering midnight-blue gown. She looked like a goddess, but her hands were trembling as she gripped Drake’s arm.

"Drake, we shouldn't be here," she whispered. "The Mayor has issued an arrest warrant for you after what happened to the Silvas."

"An arrest warrant?" Drake let out a cold, dry chuckle. "A lion does not worry about the laws of sheep."

As they entered the ballroom, the music stopped. Hundreds of pairs of eyes landed on them.

"Is that... the Vance family's trash son-in-law?" "I heard he went crazy and attacked Young Master Silva." "Look at his legs! He’s walking! The cripple is healed!"

A middle-aged man with a potbelly and a gold sash stepped forward. This was Mayor Henderson. Behind him stood twenty police officers with their hands on their holsters.

"Drake!" the Mayor roared. "You have committed assault and battery against a pillar of our community. Kneel and surrender, or my men will open fire!"

Drake didn't stop walking. He didn't even look at the Mayor. He headed straight for the "Throne Chair" at the head of the table—the seat reserved for the most powerful person in the room.

"Audacity!" Charles’s father, who had fled to the Mayor for protection, screamed. "That is the Mayor’s seat! A beggar like you isn't fit to touch the fabric!"

Drake sat down. He crossed his legs and leaned back, exhaling a breath of cold air.

"Henderson," Drake said, using the Mayor’s last name like he was talking to a servant. "I gave you ten minutes to clear this room of the High Council’s spies. You have nine minutes left."

The Mayor turned purple with rage. "You arrogant brat! I am the law in this city! Men, arrest him!"

The police officers rushed forward.

Clack.

Suddenly, the sound of twenty safeties being switched off echoed from the balcony above.

The guests looked up and screamed. The balcony was lined with snipers in black tactical gear—Drake’s personal Shadow Guard. Their red laser dots danced across the Mayor’s forehead and the chests of the police officers.

"One more step," Drake said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "and this ballroom becomes a morgue."

The police froze. The Mayor’s knees began to shake.

"Drake... you... you’re committing treason!" Henderson stammered.

"Treason?" Drake pulled a small, black coin from his pocket and flicked it onto the table. It spun with a humming sound before landing flat.

On the coin was the image of a blood-red dragon.

The Mayor’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. His face went from purple to a deathly, chalky white. As the head of the city, he had seen this symbol once in a top-secret briefing.

"The... The Asura Coin?" Henderson’s voice cracked. "The Commander of the Northern Black Legion?"

The Mayor didn't hesitate. He collapsed to his knees, his forehead slamming into the carpet so hard it made a thud.

"Grand Marshal! Please forgive my blindness! I was deceived! The High Council told me you were an impostor!"

The ballroom fell into a terrifying silence. The guests, the socialites, and the rival family heads all felt their hearts stop. The "trash" they had gossiped about for three years was the man who held the life and death of the nation in his hands.

Drake ignored the Mayor’s pleas. He looked at a waiter standing in the corner. The waiter was holding a tray of champagne, but his stance was too perfect, his eyes too focused.

"You," Drake said, pointing a finger. "You’ve been holding that tray for five minutes without the liquid rippling. The Shadow Saints are getting lazier."

The "waiter" dropped the tray. Clang!

Instead of champagne, three poisoned throwing stars flew from his sleeve, aimed at Drake’s eyes.

Drake didn't move. He simply exhaled.

Whoosh!

A blast of internal energy (Qi) erupted from his mouth, hitting the stars mid-air and sending them flying back at twice the speed.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

The assassin was pinned to the wall, the stars buried deep in his chest.

"Henderson," Drake said, standing up. "There is a mole in your office. The High Council knows my every move. Find him by midnight, or I will replace you with someone who can."

Drake turned to Elena, who was staring at the Asura Coin on the table.

"Let's go. The air in here is foul."

As they walked out, every billionaire and politician in the room bowed their heads. Not a single person dared to look Drake in the eye.

Just as they reached the car, Drake’s phone buzzed. It was an image—a satellite photo of a fleet of unmarked ships approaching the city’s harbor.

"Marshal," the Blood General’s voice came through. "The 'Mercenary King' Leo has arrived. He’s brought the 'Twelve Apostles.' They aren't here for the bounty... they’re here for your head."

Drake’s eyes turned a deep, glowing crimson. He looked at the bruised purple veins on his wrist. The poison was reaching his heart, but his killing intent was reaching the sky.

"Good," Drake whispered. "I was worried I’d have to wait until tomorrow to start the massacre."