The commanding voice froze every person in the parking lot like a physical force. Car alarms continued wailing in the background, but the twenty elite disciples stopped mid-step, their attack formations dissolving into uncertainty.
I turned toward the source of that authoritative shout and felt my eyebrows rise slightly. A figure was approaching from the shadows beyond the parking lot's edge, moving with the kind of confident stride that suggested absolute certainty in his own power.
Julian Cross stepped into the light, and I could feel the immediate shift in atmosphere. Every martial artist present, including the injured Grant patriarchs, straightened with visible shock and something approaching reverence.
