When Victor had first crossed paths with Blackfin, the feeling had been simple, professional respect. The kind a soldier reserves for soone competent, dangerous, and reliable.
Now, standing here and hearing the full weight of the man’s deeds, that feeling had quietly transford into sothing else entirely.
Admiration.
Victor had served his country for most of his adult life, bleeding and obeying in equal asure, yet he could not shake the uncomfortable thought that this lone rcenary, operating in the lawless badlands with no flag on his shoulder, might have accomplished more for their holand than he ever had. The return of the Nine-Tripod Cup alone was enough to cent that idea. Its recovery had shaken the nation, dominating headlines for weeks. A national treasure, thought lost beyond hope, had simply reappeared. No one knew who had done it.
If Victor’s old special operations unit had pulled off sothing like that, dals would have rained down on them. The highest honors. Comndations spoken aloud by generals. In his entire career, Victor had never received anything close to that. For a soldier, recognition of that caliber was not about vanity. It was proof that your life, your sacrifices, had ant sothing.
So when Victor’s reaction turned sharp and intense, Ethan understood it imdiately.
"You want his life?" Ethan’s voice sliced through the hall, cold, flat, carrying a dangerous edge. "Did any of you bother to ask ?"
He swept his gaze across the assembled figures, lingering on faces that monts ago had been smug, greedy, or openly hostile. "You all seem very comfortable here. You know what? Maybe I should just take every last one of you hostage."
Learning what Blackfin had done did not stir any patriotic fire in Ethan. He was not wired that way. Nations, symbols, grand causes, none of that moved him. But Blackfin worked for him now, and that fact alone placed the man squarely under his protection. More than that, Ethan saw nothing wrong with what Blackfin had done. If anything, it earned him a deeper, more genuine respect.
Beside him, Voss had gone quiet.
For years, he had mocked Blackfin openly, baffled by the absurd number of death warrants attached to the man’s na. Now, the reason was painfully clear. Voss had done terrible things for money, driven by desperation, by the need to keep his sick mother alive, and by the constant shadow of his own Heart-Devil Tribulation. Blackfin, on the other hand, had chosen sothing far worse and far more dangerous. A solitary crusade, carried out with no expectation of rcy or survival.
The realization left a bitter taste in Voss’s mouth, heavy with regret.
Even so, what shocked him more was Ethan himself.
The kid was prepared to stand against everyone in this room for Blackfin’s sake.
And this room was not filled with small fry.
The elderly man who had spoken earlier, Saint-Germain, was infamous even by underground standards. He trafficked in everything imaginable, from stolen infants to high-level Energy Users. There were whispers that he had once sold a Bishop-tier Mutant, which ant he controlled at least three others of comparable strength just to subdue one alive.
Voss knew that whatever ca next would be fast, ugly, and irreversible.
Saint-Germain’s eyes narrowed as they shifted from Blackfin to Ethan, his expression tightening. "Young man," he said, his tone oily and asured, "be careful. A loose tongue can shorten a life. Still..." His gaze slid sideways, crawling over Amber and Rainie with naked appraisal. "You’ve brought fine rchandise. These two would fetch an exceptional price. Perhaps we can arrange a trade."
"You rotting corpse," Ethan snapped. "Go to hell."
The words had barely left Saint-Germain’s mouth before Ethan erupted.
A visible lance of Soul Power tore free from Ethan’s forehead. Until now, his psychic attacks had been silent and invisible, felt only at the mont of impact. This one distorted the air itself, leaving behind a faint, twisting ripple as it crossed the distance.
The speed was still blinding.
No one had ti to react.
CRACK.
The Buddhist prayer bead hanging around Saint-Germain’s neck shattered.
For a fraction of a second before it broke, a milky-white halo flared around the old man’s head, just enough to be seen by everyone in the hall.
"A Soul-Wielder?" Saint-Germain gasped, staggering as he lurched to his feet.
Disbelief rippled through the room in hushed, panicked murmurs. "Impossible... that’s impossible..."
Cold sweat slicked Saint-Germain’s brow as he stood there, staring at the fragnts of the bead.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Three figures appeared out of thin air, positioning themselves between Saint-Germain and Ethan. A mont ago, they had not been in the hall at all.
"What’s impossible?" soone whispered urgently.
A pale-faced man nearby swallowed hard before answering in a low voice. "Saint-Germain is terrified for a reason. That bead was a sacred relic, a sarīra. He paid a fortune for it. It was designed to block up to ten psychic attacks. When it was auctioned, it still had six charges left. They used one during the demonstration, so Saint-Germain bought it with five remaining. We all laughed, said it was a waste of money. Who ever expects to run into a Soul-Wielder?"
His throat bobbed as he continued. "For that demonstration twenty years ago, the auction house had to invite Director Vaughn from the US Ninth Division to verify it. Even he confird it had five uses left. Saint-Germain’s worn it ever since and never once needed it. Until now. And that kid just shattered it in a single strike. Of course he’s calling it impossible."
The explanation spread through the crowd like wildfire.
Director Vaughn was no ordinary na. He was a globally recognized, stable Soul-Wielder. For a relic he had personally verified to fail so completely ant only one thing. Ethan’s Soul Power was not just stronger. It was on an entirely different level.
Faces that had been bold monts ago now turned pale. Many realized, all at once, that they had no psychic defenses at all. A single glance from this young man could erase them. More than a few silently thanked their luck for keeping their mouths shut.
"Hm?"
Ethan did not press the attack.
For a brief instant, his face had gone pale, though the color returned just as quickly. In his anger, he had not restrained himself. He had compressed his Soul Power at a speed far faster than ever before, forcing nearly half of his available strength into that thin, lethal lance.
And it had been stopped by a single bead.
That fact alone was enough to make him hesitate.
The three figures now standing in front of Saint-Germain gave him even more reason to pause.
They were strong.
Ethan could feel it imdiately. Dense, refined elental energy radiated from them, clean and unmistakable. Pure-elent Mutants. In the US, such beings were rare anomalies. In the West, they were the backbone of power.
Two won and one man, all Caucasian.
The woman in the center wore vivid red, her hair matching her clothes, her presence blazing with the essence of Fire.
To her left stood a tall, gaunt man whose body thrumd softly, the air around him humming with Wind.
On her right was a shorter, stocky man, solid and grounded, his presence alive with the quiet, relentless power of Wood.
As they appeared, raw elental pressure flooded the hall, pressing down on Ethan and his companions. The tension felt like a bow drawn to its limit, trembling on the edge of release.
Then a calm, authoritative voice cut through the charged silence, echoing from the grand staircase behind the crowd.
"Enough," it said evenly. "Do you all believe the Serenity Hotel is your personal battleground?"
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