The air in the courtyard of Kingsley Village seemed to scream as the three dozen steel needles tore through it. To the eyes of the surviving assassins and the poisoned Jasper Sterling, it was a death sentence. Suspended in mid-air, with no ground to push off from and no weapon to parry with, the masked figure appeared to be a stationary target.
But Matthew Powell was not a stationary target. He was a War God.
At the exact moment the first needle would have pierced his chest, Matthew’s body performed a localized, violent contortion. His inner force surged, not as a shield, but as a propellant. He didn't just fall; he exerted a downward pressure so immense it looked like he was stepping on the air itself—the Iron Anchor technique executed with the precision of a master.
He didn't dodge th
