"It was me!" The three words echoed through the hall like crackling thunder, silencing all conversation and leaving the attendees stunned.

Even Trent, still on stage, was frozen. A battle-hardened deputy commander of the Western border, a veteran of hundreds of battles alongside the Blithe King himself, he was rendered speechless by James's roar.

When he finally regained his composure, he saw a man entering the hall, his face concealed by a black ghost mask. An icy chill emanated from the figure, seemingly lowering the temperature of the entire hall.

"That's him?"

"That's the man in the ghost mask who killed Warren Xavier!"

The celebrities reacted, their faces paling with shock and terror as James walked past. The gruesome memory of William Xavier's severed arm and Warren Xavier's decapitated body, lying in a pool of blood just two weeks prior, flooded their minds.

"You?"

Trent's expression darkened. He recognized the ghost mask; he'd seen it in surveillance footage of his father's murder. "The remnant of the Cadens?"

Trent stared at the approaching James. Despite his hundred battles and battle-hardened demeanor, the bloodlust radiating from the masked man was unlike anything he'd ever encountered. James's face was hidden, only his blood-red eyes visible. Henry, following James, spotted the barely alive Thea on stage, her shallow breaths her only sign of life. His heart pounded; he knew a massacre was about to begin. He'd worked long enough under James to understand his volatile temper.

James cared deeply about only two things: his comrades, and Thea Callahan, the girl who had saved him from a fiery inferno and haunted his thoughts ever since. He had sacrificed potential glory and a future as head of the Five Commanders for her. And Trent had dared to torment her.

Thea was James's everything. Trent was a dead man. No one could save him, not even the Blithe King. The hall fell silent.

Their eyes met. Trent's battle-hardened body trembled; sweat beaded on his forehead under James's gaze. James produced a length of incredibly thin, silver-needle wire. His grip tightened as he slowly approached the stage, the rhythmic thud of his wide leather shoes echoing ominously through the hall, growing heavier with each step, shaking the tables and chairs.

"The… Black…" Trent's face contorted in horror as he saw the wire. Only one person could wield such a weapon. With a flick of James's wrist, the wire exploded into silver needles, embedding themselves precisely between Trent's brows before retracting, stained red with blood.

Trent died without a word, his final regret the fact that he hadn't recognized the wire in the surveillance footage. Had he known, nothing would have made him touch Thea Callahan. This was the Black Dragon, the legendary warrior of the Southern Plains, one of the Five Commanders—and superior even to Trent. Even ten Blithe Kings couldn't defeat him. Trent slumped to the ground as the horrified crowd watched silently.

Thea, dazed on the stage, saw the masked figure approach. She struggled to focus, to memorize the mask, but her blood loss was too great. As she passed out, she felt strong arms lift her.

"Leave not a single member of the western army alive. The Xaviers remain untouched. I will show them true despair; that's how they will die." James's voice resonated through the hall as he carried Thea away.

The soldiers stared, stunned and terrified, at their dead commander. Henry, his windbreaker flapping open, swiftly dispatched them with throwing knives. The fight was over almost instantly. The large venue fell silent again.

The celebrities cowered, heads buried in their arms. Ten minutes passed before some dared to look up, witnessing the carnage. The Xaviers were too terrified to speak, remembering James's chilling words.

Someone finally called the police. They found the kidnapped Callahans, secured the scene, and began questioning witnesses.