Chapter 4

Inside the Susanna Manor ballroom, the air was heady with the scent of expensive French champagne and cedarwood. It was brilliantly lit, as if it were a different world, isolated from the cold, rainy night outside. Nearly half of North America's political and business elite were gathered here, holding champagne flutes with exquisite, hypocritical smiles, discussing the grand vision of the Susanna family annexing the North’s logistics and monopolizing the shipping lifeline.

Indeed, this was a feast worthy of "celebration." In the eyes of the outside world, the Susanna family had not only purged its internal "ailments" but had also used a lightning-fast capital reorganization to kick away the obstacles hindering the company's modernization.

Elena, wearing an invaluable silver-white custom gown, stood on the platform in the center of the ballroom. She looked like a crowned queen; wherever her gaze fell, there was nothing but fawning sycophancy. When she took the microphone from the waiter, her smile reached its peak—a kind of manic ecstasy born of complete release that made her look dazzlingly radiant.

"Thank you all for witnessing the transformation of the Susanna family tonight," Elena’s voice carried through the speakers to every corner, confident and sharp. "For the past three years, we have been shackled by archaic contracts. Those so-called 'Shadow Guardians' not only failed to bring us progress but became a heavy burden on our path to global hegemony. Today, we will completely sever the past and reshape the era that belongs to Susanna."

A tidal wave of applause erupted from the floor below. Marcus stood beside her, his arrogant face filled with the haughtiness of someone who holds victory in his grasp. He reached into his coat and produced a pure gold disk—the "Key of Authorization" for Susanna’s global secret offshore accounts.

"This key will open the core financial treasury of our family," Marcus announced to the greedy guests below. "From this moment on, we not only hold the shipping rights, but we also hold the final distribution rights for all the gray-market industries in this city. If that discarded wretch of a son-in-law were alive to see this glorious status, he would likely be so ashamed he’d take his own life."

A roar of laughter erupted from the guests; no one felt uncomfortable with this. In this ruthless capital jungle, the endgame for the loser is always a joke.

However, the moment Marcus prepared to insert the authorization key into the master console, disaster struck.

The symphony, which had been as smooth as silk, suddenly skipped, and then the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the ballroom began to vibrate violently. Outside the window, the pitch-black clouds were torn apart by a strange, eerie power.

"Wooo—"

It wasn't thunder; it was the low-frequency roar of heavy engines piercing the atmosphere. This was a sound that even the most seasoned security experts in the room had never heard before.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked out in confusion. Deep in the sea of clouds, hundreds of dazzling red lights plummeted down like meteors. They were "Wings of the North" tactical flight vessels; they cut across the clouds in perfect unison like a dense net of fire, locking the entire manor in a blockade. The pressure was not merely physical deterrence; it was the governing will of absolute violence.

The ballroom chandeliers began to blink frantically.

"What is happening?" Marcus’s key slipped from his hand; he looked at Elena in terror. "What about the anti-aircraft alert? Why didn't we receive any warning from the Ministry of Defense?"

No one answered. The manor’s entire electronic system was forcibly taken over by something, and the main console’s screen blazed with sickening red alert symbols.

"Thump."

A dull, heavy noise came from the manor’s main entrance. The multi-million-dollar bronze gate was violently smashed open in an instant. It wasn't a standard break-in, but some massive metal object forcibly crushing the door frame.

Hundreds of elite warriors wearing black tactical light armor poured in like a torrent of steel. On their backs was the emblem—a long sword piercing the clouds, the highest totem of honor for the Northern Military.

The entire ballroom of elites screamed. They scrambled to flee; the well-dressed politicians, just moments ago, were now scattering like a flock of terrified birds.

Elena’s hands trembled uncontrollably. She stared fixedly at the path that opened in the crowd. It was a path paved with slaughter. Those elite warriors, who made the world tremble, were now bowing to the sides, kneeling in unison.

And at the center of the storm, a man walked slowly toward them.

He wore the dark, high-ranking uniform of the Northern Commander. His combat boots struck the polished marble floor with a crisp, cold sound. He didn't look at the cowering guests, nor at the trembling guards; his gaze was fixed from start to finish on Elena on the banquet platform.

In that moment, the manic joy in Elena’s eyes froze, replaced by an unbelievable terror.

That face—those eyes she had dismissed as the "incompetent son-in-law"—now brimmed with a chill cold enough to erase this city in an instant. It was a look she had never seen before; the look of the supreme ruler of the North—the look of a god looking down upon ants.

Marcus collapsed to the ground, clutching the disk tightly. But in the face of such overwhelming presence, he didn't even have the courage to stand.

Adrian stopped directly in front of the platform. He casually took off his white gloves and tossed them onto the champagne-stained carpet.

"A celebration feast," he said, his voice low, but sharp enough to cause everyone pain in their eardrums. "Now, it is time for the liquidation ceremony."