To think that the living souls of the Seven Deadly Sins would grant their recognition to Zoran?
That was putting the cart before the horse.
It has always been the strong who acknowledge the weak, and the Seven Deadly Sins, this so-called set of dragon-slaying tools, were nowhere near worthy of such a privilege.
…
The King of Earth and Mountains had awakened.
Upon receiving the news, Cassell College dispatched two teams. One consisted of Lu Mingfei, Finger, and Chu Zihang; the other was led by Caesar Gattuso, supported by Xia Mi and Chen Motong.
Zoran had no intention of intervening personally. All he required was the Authority; he would simply step in at the opportune moment to strip it away. As for the rest, he would leave it to Lu Mingfei, who had already absorbed the Fire Demon Chi.
As an Elder, there was no need to micromanage every affair, especially when dealing with nothing more than a minor dragon. Lu Mingfei would know what to do.
Of course, more importantly, Zoran was eager to see just how far Shendu's sliver of Demon Chi could flourish in this world.
Before that, however, Angers delivered another piece of news.
Following the incident in the Ice Cellar, Zoran's identity had been thrust into the spotlight. Parsi Gattuso had reported his existence in exhaustive detail to the Gattuso family. Angers was anxious to learn more about Zoran, desperate for more leverage when facing the family's scrutiny. After all, it was his own choice to strike a deal with Zoran.
From Chicago straight to China, the dragon-slaying youths were about to raise their blades against the reviving Dragon King.
Zoran was on the same flight path.
The Gulfstream G550, named Sleipnir after the eight-legged steed of Odin in Norse mythology, symbolized its unparalleled speed. It was Angers' private transport, luxuriously modified to reflect the refined taste of the elegant old dragon slayer.
It had to be said that once the deal was struck, Angers was a man who knew how to commit. He offered every resource at his disposal, all for the sake of his revenge against the Dragon Race.
Inside the cabin, Zoran treated the plush seats, leather sofas, and high-end liquor cabinets as if they were dust, choosing instead to hover quietly in the air. No earthly luxury could pique his interest; the gaze of an Elder never lingered on such mundane trifles.
Within his perception, a faint energy was breaking through Earth's gravity, approaching at high speed.
Zoran opened his eyes.
It seemed the Gattuso family's retribution had arrived.
…
As Sleipnir pierced through the clouds, a pillar of flame trailed a wake of turbulence, surging toward the noisy private jet.
The attacker was three kilometers away, piloting an F-16 Fighting Falcon. Thirty seconds prior, he had pressed the launch button for a missile aimed directly at Sleipnir.
Anyone who dared to provoke the majesty of the Gattuso family would face thunderous retaliation.
The pilot reported into his headset, "He's on Angers' plane. That Gulfstream G550 has no interception capabilities. At this range, it's a guaranteed kill."
The person on the other end of the line was a high-ranking figure far away in Rome. Every movement within the College was under their watchful eye; the moment Zoran stepped onto Sleipnir, the plan had been set in motion.
"Angers spent a lot of money modifying that Gulfstream," a voice replied from the other end. "But of course, that is the price he must pay for siding against the family. How is Parsi?"
There was a brief silence on the line.
"He's completely broken. It's as if a steamroller ran over him. Every bone in his body is shattered, and he's hanging on by a thread. The man working with Angers is no ordinary person."
The pilot's gaze pierced the clouds, looking toward the private jet about to fall.
"Even an Elder could not survive a crash from this height. After all, not even the King of Bronze and Fire can withstand the power of a Storm Torpedo, can they?"
The moment the missile locked on, the revenge was already over. Perhaps the explosion wouldn't completely kill the being known as the Elder, but Sleipnir was currently 11,000 meters above the ground.
Unless the target grew wings, the pilot couldn't imagine any way he could survive a crash from such an altitude. This was the cost of defying the family; no one escaped it.
Even Angers wouldn't dare go this far. The College's principal truly did need to be replaced.
The missile tore through the clouds, charging relentlessly toward Sleipnir.
"Damn it!" A panicked cry erupted from Sleipnir's cockpit.
A searing flash of fire erupted instantly, dyeing the clouds below a fiery red.
"Mission accomplished." Watching the dot disappear from the radar, the Fighting Falcon banked its wings and headed toward its designated landing site.
"Well done," the voice on the radio replied.
The F-16 moved like a nimble fish, diving into the cloud layer. This was but a fraction of the resources the Gattuso family controlled. In this world, as long as one was willing to pay, nothing was impossible. And the Gattuso family had no shortage of money.
The pilot sighed, preparing to depart.
The next second, his eyes widened behind his flight helmet.
A figure cast a shadow over him through the cockpit's windshield. He instinctively glanced at the radar; there had been no signal from start to finish.
"Damn it! Am I dreaming?!" he shrieked in terror.
"What is it? Report!" the voice on the radio demanded.
"Target not destroyed! He's appeared again!"
"Where?"
The pilot swallowed hard, looking hesitantly at the human figure outside the jet, moving in perfect synchronization through the clouds.
"Outside the plane... no, he's standing on the fuselage... Devil take it, I must be dreaming!"
The pilot instinctively checked his airspeed indicator. 1,400 kilometers per hour. This was his current speed, a supersonic aircraft, the absolute pinnacle of modern technology.
A sonic boom cloud clung to the jet like a battle skirt. Even a Dragon King in the flesh shouldn't be able to keep up with this speed.
But the target did.
Like a ghost from a nightmare, he was pressed against the hull of the Falcon, his calm, watery eyes quietly observing the pilot through the glass. This was absolutely not something a human could do. No, not even a Dragon could do this.
And yet, it was happening.
Zoran's shadow loomed over the jet. The supersonic turbulence seemed completely unable to affect him. Dressed in a suit, even his hair remained perfectly in place.
He stood outside the windshield, as leisurely as if he were taking a stroll down a cobblestone path at the College.
Zoran reached out his hand. This Fighting Falcon, which had undergone countless tests to handle modern aerial combat, suddenly began to tremble.
To the pilot's horror, the Falcon began to disintegrate.
The way it was manufactured, assembled, and joined, it was now returning to its basic elements, being stripped apart piece by piece by an invisible force. It was like a puzzle toy on a table, easily dismantled into countless fragments.
But the aircraft did not crash. The disassembled parts were flying through the clouds alongside him at speeds exceeding 1,000 kilometers per hour.
This bizarre sight left the pilot speechless with shock.
In truth, he couldn't make a sound. Without the protection of the cockpit, he remained in his original position, pinned ruthlessly to the ejection seat. Hundreds, thousands of parts hovered eerily around him.
The jet was dismantled, yet he was still "flying."
The immense pressure bore down on his flesh and blood. His brain surged with blood, and his vision went black. The flesh beneath his skin churned, and tiny components sliced fine cuts all over his body.
Bright red blood was squeezed out, spraying backward in the wind, trailing long, seductive arcs. The scene was hauntingly beautiful.
"Report status immediately! Report—!" An urgent roar came from the other side of the call.
The voice came from Rome, inside the luxurious office of the Gattuso family.
"Be quiet. He is sleeping."
A strange, elegant voice drifted through the line.
The office fell into an instant, deathly silence.
What the hell? There wasn't even the sound of wind on the other end; it was as quiet as a basement. If they didn't know the F-16 hadn't landed yet...
"The Elder?"
"Greetings, Frost Gattuso," Zoran's voice rang out through the call, phantom-like.
"How... how did you do this?" Frost's voice was low, laced with a tremor.
Zoran did not answer, saying only peacefully: "Look forward, young man. I know where your home is."
Frost stared blankly ahead. Aside from the wall engraved with intricate patterns, there was nothing.
The next second.
A violent tremor struck. A massive sense of crisis descended in an instant. Frost felt as if he were sitting in a falling elevator.
The elevator plunged from the tenth floor to the basement in a heartbeat.
Had the sky fallen?
No, the ground had sunk.
Piercing alarms mingled with dust, rising toward the heavens.
The vibration came suddenly and vanished in a flash. In the midst of the chaotic world, a whisper echoed in Frost's office. The voice was incredibly piercing, as clear as if it were pressed against his ear.
It said:
"For an elder, you seem to lack a certain necessary respect..."
"Now, have you learned your lesson?"
————
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