The Loser Is the War Commander

Chapter 8: The Gift

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. For several heartbeats, the entire ballroom remained frozen in stunned silence. Then the whispers began—low at first, then rising like a tide.

"Did he just call the Ward and Reksar families trash?"

"He's completely insane!"

"Someone needs to teach that beggar some manners!"

"He's going to die here. Actually die."

The murmurs grew louder, transforming into open mockery. Guests who moments before had been merely curious now looked at Darius with a mixture of pity and schadenfreude—the unique pleasure people take in watching someone destroy themselves.

Rita stepped forward, her face flushed with vindictive glee. "Oh, Darius, you really ARE stupid, aren't you? Do you have ANY idea what you just said? The Ward family alone is B-ranked! The Reksar family is ALSO B-ranked! Together, they could challenge an A-rank noble house!"

"A-rank!" Lily repeated, as if Darius might not understand. "That's just below the royal families themselves! These people command armies, control industries, and own entire CITIES! And you—YOU—a nobody from a destroyed house, just called them TRASH?"

Lenoard Ward's purple face had gone almost black with rage. "You insolent worm! You pathetic, delusional INSECT!"

"Actually," a new voice cut through the chaos, smooth and cultured and dripping with aristocratic disdain, "I think the appropriate term is 'rat.' Rats infest places they don't belong."

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and a man strode forward. He was perhaps fifty-five, impeccably dressed in a suit that probably cost more than a luxury car. His hair was silver at the temples, his bearing military-straight, his eyes sharp and calculating. A Reksar family crest glinted gold on his lapel.

This was Vincent Reksar—brother to the family patriarch, uncle to the groom Peter Reksar.

Vincent's gaze swept over Darius with the kind of dismissive appraisal one might give to something unpleasant tracked in on the bottom of a shoe. "So THIS is the famous Darius Kane. The last remnant of a family too weak to defend itself. A ghost haunting a party where he was never wanted."

More laughter rippled through the crowd. Rita and her friends practically glowed with satisfaction.

Vincent continued, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "You call us trash, boy? US? We are titans of industry, pillars of society, the foundation upon which this entire region's prosperity rests. And you?" He took a step closer. "You're a clown. A jester who's forgotten his place. You strut and posture and make your little declarations, but at the end of the day, you're just a scared child playing dress-up."

"He's trying to sound tough!" Lenoard Ward jeered. "Look at him! Probably shaking in his cheap boots!"

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," Vincent said, his smile cold and cruel. "I'm going to make an example of you. Not just for this wedding, but for everyone in Duskfort to see. You will learn—painfully, slowly—what happens when street dogs bark at lions."

The security guards had formed a complete circle now, at least twenty of them, all armed, all waiting for the signal to pounce.

Vincent raised his hand, ready to give the order.

That's when Darius's phone rang.

The sound—a simple, mundane ringtone—cut through the tension like a knife. Every eye in the ballroom turned to watch as Darius, completely unhurried, pulled the device from his pocket and answered.

"Yes?" His voice was calm, almost bored.

"Master," Aria's voice came through clearly in the sudden silence. "The squad has arrived. We're at the perimeter. Your orders?"

A faint smile touched Darius's lips—the first genuine expression he'd shown since entering the hotel. "Let them in."

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Then he looked up at Vincent Reksar, at Lenoard Ward, at all the sneering faces surrounding him.

"Before we continue," Darius said quietly, "I should give you your wedding gift."

The mockery erupted instantly.

"A GIFT?" Rita shrieked with laughter. "Oh my GOD, he thinks he can BUY his way out of this!"

"What could you possibly give?" Lenoard Ward demanded. "Your last few coins? Some trinket you stole? You have NOTHING, boy!"

Jack Maxon, still nursing his bruises from earlier, called out from the edge of the crowd. "He's terrified! Look at him! He's trying to bribe them to spare his worthless life!"

"Pathetic!" Lily added. "Absolutely pathetic!"

Vincent's smile widened, showing too many teeth. "A gift? How... quaint. Very well, Kane. Present your offering. If it amuses us sufficiently, perhaps I'll kill you quickly instead of slowly. Perhaps I'll even spare you the torture chambers."

"How generous," another Reksar family member called out, triggering fresh laughter.

"But understand this," Vincent continued, his voice hardening. "No matter what trinket you produce, no matter what desperate gesture you make, you WILL die here today. That is already decided. The only question is how much you'll suffer first."

The crowd murmured agreement. Phone cameras were raised higher, everyone wanting to capture this moment—the final humiliation of Darius Kane.

Then it happened.

BOOM.

The grand ballroom doors—massive things of carved oak and brass fittings, each one weighing hundreds of pounds—exploded inward. The sound was like a thunderclap in an enclosed space. Splinters flew through the air. The doors themselves tore from their hinges and crashed to the marble floor with a sound like the collapse of mountains.

Screams erupted. Guests scrambled backward. Several women fainted. The security guards spun toward the entrance, weapons raised, faces shocked.

Through the destroyed doorway strode Aria Stormveil.

She moved with the fluid grace of a predator, each step measured and purposeful. Her black combat attire seemed to absorb light, making her appear almost like a living shadow. Her hand rested casually on the hilt of her blade, and her eyes—those cold, merciless eyes—swept across the ballroom like a promise of death.

Behind her came the soldiers.

They flowed through the entrance in perfect formation—thirty men and women, all dressed in black tactical gear, all moving with the synchronized precision of elite military units. They weren't wearing any identifying insignia, but everything about them screamed professional killers. Their weapons were cutting-edge, their movements economical and deadly, their presence transforming the elegant ballroom into a battlefield.

And they carried something between them—a large rectangular object draped in black cloth, carried by four soldiers like pallbearers at a funeral.

Vincent Reksar's face went white, then red, then purple. "WHO DARES?! WHO DARES CAUSE TROUBLE HERE?!"

"Security!" Lenoard Ward screamed, his voice cracking with panic. "STOP THEM! SHOOT THEM!"

The hotel's security guards raised their weapons, but something in Aria's eyes made them hesitate. These weren't protesters or drunk wedding guests. These were soldiers—real soldiers, the kind who'd seen actual combat, the kind who killed without hesitation or remorse.

One guard's hand trembled on his pistol. Another took an involuntary step backward.

Aria and her squad advanced through the ballroom without slowing. Guests scattered before them like leaves before a storm wind. Rita and her friends practically trampled each other trying to get away. Even some of the Ward and Reksar family members backed up, their earlier bravado evaporating in the face of actual danger.

The soldiers carried their burden to the center of the ballroom, right in front of the altar where the wedding ceremony was supposed to take place. They set it down with a heavy THUD that echoed through the space. The sound was ominous, final, like the closing of a tomb.

Then they stepped back into formation, their hands on their weapons, their eyes scanning the crowd for threats.

Darius walked forward slowly, his footsteps clicking against the marble in the sudden silence. He approached the cloth-covered object, and for the first time since entering the hotel, his expression shifted into something darker—something that made even Vincent Reksar take an unconscious step backward.

"What is that?" someone whispered.

"What's under the cloth?"

"Is that... is that a..."

Darius reached down and grasped the edge of the black cloth. He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the assembled guests—the nobility, the society elite, his former classmates, the Ward family, the Reksar family. All of them watching, waiting, some part of them already knowing what was coming but unable to look away.

"You asked," Darius said quietly, his voice somehow carrying to every corner of the vast ballroom, "what gift I could possibly bring."

He pulled.

The cloth fell away in one smooth motion, revealing what lay beneath.

A coffin.

Not just any coffin, but an ornate one of polished black wood with brass fittings. The kind reserved for important funerals. The kind that cost a fortune. The kind that made a statement.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Rita's face went gray. Lenoard Ward's hands trembled. Vincent Reksar stood frozen, his earlier confidence shattered like glass.

Darius rested his hand on the coffin's lid, his expression cold and terrible.

"This," he said, his voice soft as falling snow and infinitely more deadly, "is my gift."

The wedding guests stared at the coffin. At Darius. At the soldiers surrounding him. And finally, finally, some of them began to understand.

This wasn't a fallen heir begging for mercy.

This was something far, far worse.

"You're insane!" Vincent found his voice, though it came out higher than before. "You bring a COFFIN to a wedding?! What kind of sick joke—"

"It's not a joke," Darius interrupted.