Arkael’s hand tightened, his fingers digging into the Sect Master’s throat until the man’s face turned a deep, pulsating purple. Around them, the silence was absolute, a heavy shroud draped over the grand hall of the Heavenly Sword Sect. Thousands of eyes were fixed on the tableau: the former "trash" of the sect, now an apex predator, holding the life of their leader as if he were nothing more than a stray insect.
"Look at them," Arkael whispered, his voice smooth, cold, and echoing against the high stone ceiling. "They were the ones who taught you that power is a privilege, something to be guarded and hoarded. They were the ones who whispered that I was broken beyond repair. And now, they watch as I harvest the very thing they built their arrogance upon."
The Sect Master gurgled, his ey
