Chapter 165: Who am I ?
"What are you waiting for?!" the king roared, his voice echoing through the grand hall. His eyes blazed with fury as he directed his command at the elite knights surrounding Thorne and Noelle. These knights were not the ordinary guards stationed throughout the palace; they were the most efficient, the most dangerous, and each one was equipped with formidable abilities.
One knight summoned flames that danced and twisted around his hands, illuminating his hardened features with an eerie glow. Another conjured sharp, whirling blades of wind, their edges slicing through the air with deadly precision. Each knight prepared their abilities, ready to overwhelm Thorne and subdue him. It was a showcase of power, a stark reminder of the difference between the nations of Aspen and Vitra. In Aspen, individuals capable of wielding such abilities were rare and celebrated, but here in Vitra, the extraordinary was less rare.
They moved in unison, a wave of power surging toward Thorne. But before they could even close the distance, Thorne acted. His eyes narrowed with cold determination, and with a mere thought, the swords of the unconscious knights—those who had been thrown back earlier—rose from the marble floor. The weapons hovered in the air for a moment, then shot forward at lightning speed, each blade aimed unerringly at the throats of the advancing elite.
The swords stopped just shy of piercing their targets, their razor-sharp edges pressing so close to the knights’ skin that thin lines of blood began to bead where the steel barely grazed flesh. The elite knights froze in place, paralyzed by the sudden threat. Their flames extinguished, their wind blades dissolved into harmless breezes. None of them dared to move, their breath caught in their throats as they realized how close they had come to death.
The banquet hall fell into a stunned, suffocating silence. The nobles who had gathered to witness the king’s grand celebration now watched in stunned horror, unable to tear their eyes away from the scene unfolding before them. The once-celebratory atmosphere was heavy with tension and fear, and the sight of Thorne standing there, unwavering, made it clear that he was not a man to be trifled with.
Thorne’s gaze was unwavering, his expression carved from stone. His grip on his cane remained firm, and though his body still bore the weight of past injuries, there was no sign of weakness in his bearing.
"Enough," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. The word was simple, yet it carried a power that made even the bravest among them hesitate.
The king’s face twisted with rage, but he was momentarily at a loss for words. His knights, his most elite warriors, were rendered helpless in the face of Thorne’s overwhelming presence.
The tension in the hall thickened, pressing down on everyone present. Nobles who had spent their lives commanding respect and authority were now rendered mere spectators, frozen in their seats by the palpable danger emanating from Thorne. The once-celebratory occasion had transformed into a scene of dread and disbelief. No one dared to so much as breathe too loudly, lest they draw the ire of the man with the terrifying power.
The king’s lips twisted in fury, but his voice came out strangled with the effort to maintain authority. "Who are you?" he demanded through gritted teeth, his composure slipping as fear crept into his eyes.
Thorne’s laugh rang through the hall, low and mocking, carrying an edge sharp enough to cut. It was a sound that sent shivers down the spines of those who heard it, menacing and full of disbelief.