Wings Of Deception
Chapter 54 Joining The Summit

Chapter 54: Chapter 54 Joining The Summit

The heavy doors creaked open as the guard stationed outside declared in a deep, resonant voice:

"Announcing the arrival of the Sky Dominating Clan!"

Every head turned.

Even among the mighty delegates gathered—ancient beings who had lived in the shadows for centuries, moving mountains and toppling kingdoms in silence—none had received such a formal and resounding welcome. The elite guards flanking the hall stood to full attention, fists over their hearts, forming a corridor of reverence.

It did not go unnoticed.

Murmurs rippled through the room. Most had never even heard of this so-called Sky Dominating Clan. In a place like Sanctuary—where secrets and power were traded in whispers—an unknown name was a red flag. Or a bluff.

To those who had been alive for hundreds of years, the notion of a mysterious, suddenly-influential clan stank of exaggeration.

"What is this fanfare?" whispered one.

"Sky Dominating? What a joke," muttered another.

From the Blazing Crow Clan of the West, the tension was especially thick. They were prideful by nature, their lineage woven with fire and prestige. At the head of their representatives, a tall, lean man with hair like burning embers scoffed openly.

Denial Aurora, the third son of the clan head, clicked his tongue with disdain.

"Hmph! Sky Dominating? What a loudmouth name. How pompous can you get?"

A few of his kin nodded in agreement, their golden-red eyes narrowing toward the door.

"Must be some upstart with delusions of grandeur."

"I bet the ’sky domination’ ends the moment they step through that door."

Despite their scorn, however, curiosity lingered in their gazes. After all, Damien Mufasa himself had spoken in the man’s defense—and had even gone so far as to injure a representative over an insult.

Even the silent shadowy figure from the Illuminati Clan tilted her head ever so slightly, as though to acknowledge a faint disturbance in the winds of fate.

The golden light slowly receded behind him as John Mockingbird strolled into the grand hall.

A youth, yes—but not one to be underestimated.

He wore clothing that defied regional norms, tailored not for royalty or combat but for aesthetic defiance. There was artistry in his appearance, a certain modern flair that clashed—and yet strangely harmonized—with the ancient aura of the room. His sharp jawline, gleaming eyes, and sun-kissed skin formed a visage that invited admiration and resentment in equal measure.

Even the battle-hardened beast-men, those who prided themselves on their dominance and strength, found their pride pricked. A few shifted uncomfortably. The female delegates, however, were more direct in their reaction—gazing at John with thinly veiled curiosity and admiration, some even blushing as if a sunlit sculpture had stepped into the room.

And resting atop his head, without a care in the world, was a tiny swallow. Its feathers gleamed like brushed silver, and though it looked harmless, there was something unsettlingly intelligent in its eyes.

John walked with the perfect balance of grace and confidence—not arrogant, not passive. Each step was calculated to make an impression. The kind of gait that said, I’ve been on stages far grander than this one.

A sudden burst of cheerful laughter escaped him—lighthearted, jarring, but strangely infectious.

"Damien, my good friend, forgive my tardiness for being a tad bit late!"

Damien Mufasa—who had barely smiled all day—stood immediately, a flicker of relief flashing in his eyes.

"No, no, Brother John. You’re right on time."

He didn’t just motion him over—he personally escorted him to his seat. A gesture that sent another wave of whispers through the room.

John’s designated seat was not just any seat. It was directly to the right of the cloaked lady from the Illuminati Clan—a position of high symbolic importance. Eyes narrowed. Tension stirred.

John gave the mysterious woman a polite nod.

She, cloaked in a black draped purdah that concealed her from head to toe, responded with the faintest nod—barely perceptible, yet unmistakable to the keen-eyed.

John settled in with ease and let his gaze drift lazily across the chamber, observing the gathered beasts, birds, and shadows. He noted the stares—some guarded, some openly hostile.

I’ve seen those eyes before, he thought, his playful expression hardening for a brief moment. I don’t like them.

On cue, the swallow on his head—Bubble—ruffled its feathers and chirped, its tone sharp and urgent. Only John could understand.

"Master, shall I gouge out each one of those wandering eyes? I don’t like them either."

John sighed and responded in a soft whistle, a sound that no one else could decipher.

"No. We’re here to spread our Clan’s influence, not provoke a war. The Sky Dominating Clan is civil and righteous. Remember that."

Bubble wasn’t satisfied.

"But Master, I sense killing intent. They’re already plotting. Shall I teach them a lesson—just one?"

John chuckled under his breath, his eyes half-lidded with mischief and cunning.

"Wait for my command. I’ll decide the perfect timing. Damien invited us with sincerity—I won’t betray that. Still..."

"...Stay sharp. Some of these beasts won’t respect our peaceful mandate. When the time comes, we act. Not a moment before."

Though the language between man and bird was lost on others, the tone, the gestures, and the unnerving synchronicity between them spoke volumes. Body language transcended language barriers. The Blazing Crow Clan, in particular, bristled.

Even in their humanoid forms, they were birds too. But they couldn’t understand that chirping.

And that irritated them more than they cared to admit.

Denial Aurora’s sneer widened, and the feathers along his forearms shimmered faintly as if reacting to a sudden shift in his mood. The other members of the Blazing Crow Clan leaned back slightly, signaling their approval—or perhaps their anticipation—of what might unfold.

"Friend?" Denial repeated with a smirk. "Don’t throw empty words. You barge in here flaunting golden lights and alien tongues like we owe you something. Are you even qualified to sit among us?"

The tension in the room thickened. Even the gluttonous Iron Bull Clan paused in their feasting, snouts slick with wine and meat, ears pricking toward the exchange.

John chuckled lightly.

"Ah, so it was me. Good. I was worried your voice might’ve just been another angry squeak from a burning pigeon."

There was a beat of silence. Sharp, frozen silence.

A few lower-ranked guards outside the chamber flinched. Even some of the Beastmen covered their mouths to stifle laughter. One of the Blazing Crows jolted up, nearly drawing his weapon, but Denial raised a hand, stopping him with a look.

"Mockingbird, is it?" Denial said, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You think you can insult me and get away with it?"

John leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table, his fingers brushing the edge of a wine goblet he hadn’t yet touched. His voice lowered, smooth as silk but sharp as a knife’s edge.

"No, no. I know I can. The question is whether you’re going to do anything about it—or just sit there chirping while the world forgets your name."

Bubble, atop John’s head, ruffled its feathers once more and chirped in a low, threatening tone. Though unintelligible to others, the intent behind the sound sent a subtle chill through the air.

Damien Mufasa’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t intervene. Not yet. This was a test—and he wanted to see how both sides played their hands.

From the far side of the table, the cloaked woman of the Illuminati Clan finally moved. Her gloved hand reached out and casually plucked a grape from the fruit platter, her voice ghostly and cold as mist.

"Perhaps we should begin the summit," she said, breaking her silence. "Unless, of course, birds of the same sky wish to peck each other to death before the true hunt begins."

John raised his goblet in her direction with a charming smile.

"Agreed. No point in plucking feathers when we’ve empires to shape."