The thunderous resonance of the royal wedding bells continued to reverberate from the central plateau, their golden sound waves rippling across the golden spiritual clouds of the Seventh Heaven.
Tony Clark stood entirely unbothered amidst the fresh debris of the courtyard, looking down at the twelve permanently crippled ghost assassins of the Imperial Sect. He casually adjusted his robes, the brilliant white-gold energy of his Ethereal Sun Ascension stage retreating smoothly back into his core. With a casual sweep of his hand, he materialized a heavy layer of concealment mist across the stone platform, burying the broken weapons and the paralyzed bodies deep within an invisible spatial fold before the palace's public tracking grids could register the combat friction.
"The vanguard insects are cleared, Lyra," Tony murmured smoothly, his deep baritone voice carrying a chilling, razor-sharp edge of absolute confidence as he turned toward the entrance of the pavilion.
