"Hehe." Simon laughed softly, but there was nothing light-hearted about it—his eyes gleamed with cunning, and a flash of calculated cruelty passed through them. He turned his head slightly, just enough to conceal the smirk that tugged at his lips.
"As you say, Lord Harthorne," he agreed, voice smooth like oil over fire. Internally, however, he was already celebrating. 'Finally... a chance to publicly humiliate Virelia.'
He had been waiting for this moment from the start. He and Virelia had always been at odds within the Black Dragon Palace, their philosophies clashing, their ambitions colliding.
Now, with the looming selection for the thirty-six Compound Masters—positions of tremendous power and influence—every move, every appearance, every result carried weight.
Simon had no intention of losing. And thanks to a stroke of fortune, he had found the perfect tool for his victory.
