Wings Of Deception
Chapter 57 Trapping Skill

Chapter 57: Chapter 57 Trapping Skill

"You dare!" one of them bellowed, veins bulging with fury. "You dare attack one of ours in this sacred hall?!"

Feathers shimmered into partial visibility across their arms as their beast forms began to awaken. The heat in the room spiked.

Another shouted, "Release Denial this instant—or face the wrath of the West!"

But John didn’t stand. He didn’t flinch.

He simply adjusted his sleeve and said with a calmness that somehow cut deeper than rage, "He dared me first."

He leaned forward, resting one arm over his knee.

"If this summit is truly about strength and unity, then let the weak minds and foul mouths be humbled. I didn’t attack first." He paused, eyes gleaming cold. "But I always finish it."

Bubble chirped once, and the bubble holding Denial rotated slowly in mid-air, displaying the helpless crow like a symbol—an example.

A warning.

Across the hall, some representatives narrowed their eyes, while others leaned back, visibly reevaluating everything they thought about John.

Frassure Mufasa said nothing.

Neither did Damien.

And that silence spoke louder than any protest.

John’s eyes briefly flicked to Fanny Mufasa, half-expecting the hot-blooded lion to jump in and roar about order.

But Fanny just lifted a goblet, took a long drink, and chomped into a crispy chicken drumstick with loud satisfaction.

So... they want me to discipline these arrogant fools? John mused, his smile sharpening. Gladly.

Three representatives from the Blazing Crow Clan stood up in unison, their brows furrowed, hands forming swift and complex seals. Fierce energy pulsed around them.

John sighed and tilted his head lazily.

"I don’t think that’s a good idea," he warned, swirling the drink in his cup. "But my bird here... well, she’s been dying to let off some steam." He grinned, teeth flashing. "Alright then—your call."

The crows finished their spells.

"Black Flame!"

"Blue Lotus Flame!"

"Red Wheel Flame!"

Three vibrant flames materialized, their hues burning vividly in mid-air. The temperature in the hall spiked. A wave of heat rippled out—but the guests, all formidable beings in their own right, remained unfazed.

John gave the flames a cursory glance, unimpressed. He lazily compared them to the flames wielded by his Parrot Hall.

"Mediocre," he muttered. "My parrots produce better fire when they sneeze."

That line struck deep.

The prideful crows, enraged at the insult, hurled their flames toward John without hesitation.

He didn’t even look up.

Still reclining in his chair, he took another drink, completely unconcerned.

Above him, Bubble, the little swallow perched on his head, chirped once.

With a flick of her feathers, a translucent watery orb dropped from the ceiling.

It intercepted the three incoming flames mid-flight. The moment they touched the bubble, they fizzled, twisted, and began to shrink, starved of oxygen within the enclosed water.

In seconds, the spells were extinguished.

Silence.

Bubble narrowed her tiny eyes, then spoke in a sharp, mocking tone:

"You call those flames? Poor quality. Wouldn’t even be enough to barbecue one of my clan’s chicken legs. My parrot brothers have flames hotter than your entire clan’s ego.

Seriously... Blazing Crow Clan?

More like Buzzing Crow Clan."

A beat of stunned silence followed.

Some guests snorted. A few covered their mouths, trying not to laugh.

Others exchanged glances with a new understanding, their eyes sharpening with curiosity—and caution.

The three crows, faces flushed with rage, snarled. Their pride was in shambles.

"Damn you! You dare mock the flames of the Blazing Crow Clan?!"

"Let’s roast that damned bird!"

"You’ll regret being born with wings, you filthy feathered pest!"

With a chorus of curses, the three erupted, hurling spell after spell in a furious barrage. This time, they held back nothing. Flames erupted from all directions—dense, furious, and deadly.

But Bubble reacted even faster.

Her chirp rang sharply.

A second orb, glowing and watery, detached from the ceiling and shot forward with astounding speed—far swifter than the flames racing toward John. From three angles, one after the other, the flames were sucked in and extinguished inside the glimmering orb, smothered without a sound.

Bubble didn’t stop there.

Her feathers fluttered once.

Three more orbs dropped from the ceiling, moving with surgical precision. In the blink of an eye, they engulfed each of the three furious crows. The flaming trio was now floating helplessly in the air, suspended like insects trapped in amber.

The little swallow’s gaze swept across the hall, icy and focused.

She spotted others—those who had insulted her master, even from the shadows of sarcasm or silent mockery.

More orbs dropped like judgment from above.

Five of the ten Bull Clan representatives were swallowed and lifted into the air, struggling but utterly contained.

The captured crows and bulls flailed inside, casting spells, activating artifacts, and shouting incantations—but nothing worked. Their most powerful techniques fizzled. Their strength and cultivation meant nothing inside the orbs.

The orbs didn’t waver. Didn’t crack.

They just floated—silent, unyielding prisons of water.

Even the three lion brothers of the Mufasa Clan leaned forward, frowns on their faces, minds racing.

Frassure Mufasa eventually broke the silence with a telepathic message.

"Brother, what is this water skill? Any idea at all?"

Damien’s eyes gleamed as he answered.

"Nope. But that’s the Sky Dominating Clan I remember. Do you understand now?"

"With him and his pets, we’ve got a far better shot at beating those damn cultivators."

Frassure blinked.

"Pets?"

"You think the swallow’s the only one?" Damien chuckled. "There are fourteen others. Each a monster in their own right."

"Fourteen? Are they all as dangerous as this swallow?"

"Hard to say," Damien admitted. "Each has their specialty. I don’t know their limits—but I do know this: we need to stay on John’s good side."

The hall fell into absolute silence.

No one dared treat John lightly anymore.

If just one bird of his was this terrifying... what about the rest?

What about John himself—the one who hadn’t moved a finger so far?

That thought echoed in everyone’s mind like a warning bell.

Finally, one of the crow representatives, his pride now buried under survival instinct, stood up and addressed the host:

"King Frassure... maybe it’s time we end this little display. We came here for an alliance, didn’t we?"

A bull representative rose next.

"Sir John Singer, please don’t take this to heart. We hadn’t heard of you or your esteemed clan before. We misjudged—and deeply regret it.

Let’s not waste strength on each other. The real enemies... are the cultivators."