Aamon, a towering figure standing at 11 feet tall, exuded an aura of sheer dominance. His body seemed chiseled from stone, muscles bulging beneath a fitted black and cyan shirt left open to reveal his sculpted chest. The Kitsune logo emblazoned on his dramatic cape swayed lightly as he leaned back in his luxurious chair, spinning lazily. His platinum blond hair, jagged and wild, framed his sharp face, the high cheekbones and confident smirk completing the untamed, rebellious look. Even behind the swirling colors of his galaxy-tinted glasses, his gaze felt piercing, like he could see through anything and anyone. His black pants and boots, though practical, carried a sleek style, adding to his imposing, otherworldly presence.

He chuckled to himself as he spun, the high ceilings of the ornate room echoing the sound of his laughter. With a sudden stop, he stood, brushing a hand through his hair before stepping out onto the balcony. The sprawling training grounds lay before him, where lines of Novice Sentinels and Wardens moved in formation, drilling in sync. They were mere specks below him, ants running drills in the hopes of someday becoming something greater.

"Look at them," Aamon muttered, the disgust dripping from his voice. "A bunch of ants, training just to be slaughtered by the higher ups like me. Gehahaha... pathetic."

His sneer grew as he watched them, each soldier beneath him following orders without question. The Novice Sentinels were fresh recruits, new blood barely seasoned with basic combat and indoctrinated into the Supreme Council’s strict ideology. They were there to serve, to uphold the Council’s laws. Wardens, on the other hand, were more seasoned enforcers, patrolling cities and quelling uprisings. But to Aamon, they were all expendable.

Spitting onto the marble floor, he turned and whistled sharply, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. Within moments, two Novice Sentinels hurried into the room, their faces flushed with nervous energy. One of them, barely able to keep his composure, stood stiffly at attention.

"Yes, Mr. Aamon?" the first Sentinel asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

Aamon’s smirk widened as he casually sat on the edge of his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His galaxy-colored glasses caught the light as he looked them over, amused by their fear. “I want you two to fight,” he said casually, his voice filled with dangerous amusement.

The second Sentinel blinked in disbelief. “Fight? Why the hell would we do that?” There was a defiance in his tone, but it was laced with uncertainty.

Aamon’s smile turned sharp, like a predator toying with its prey. His eyes glinted beneath the glasses, locking onto the second Sentinel’s. "Because," he said softly, stepping closer, "it’s not like you have a choice."

Suddenly, both Sentinels' eyes glazed over, glowing a faint blue as Aamon’s power overtook their wills. The defiant one’s face twisted in confusion, but his body moved against his control. With no more words exchanged, the two Sentinels lunged at each other, fists flying and blood beginning to spill as they fought brutally.

Aamon laughed heartily, jumping onto his chair with childlike glee. He watched the fight unfold with a twisted sense of pleasure, leaning forward, eyes gleaming with sick fascination. “Ah, yes, this is more like it,” he said to himself, clapping his hands like a spectator at an arena. "Keep going! This is what real power looks like—forcing others to break for your entertainment!"

The fight grew more violent as the Sentinels tore into each other, their fists cracking against bone, blood spilling onto the pristine floor. Aamon reveled in it, his heart racing with excitement at the spectacle. It wasn’t about their skill, their ability, or even their lives. It was about the control, the absolute dominance he had over them.

As one of the Sentinels, barely standing, tried to speak, blood pouring from his mouth, Aamon leaned back, still grinning. "No need to speak, little ant. You’re not here to think—you’re here to obey."

The silence of the room, broken only by the sound of labored breathing and the occasional thud of a body hitting the floor, hung heavy in the air. Aamon’s laughter echoed once more, a cruel, sinister sound as he stood victorious over the chaos he had created.

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"Remember," he said to himself, watching the broken Sentinels on the ground, "this is just the beginning. The weak will always serve the strong, and I am the strongest of all."

With that, he walked away from the balcony, leaving the broken soldiers behind him as mere afterthoughts, ants crushed underfoot in the pursuit of absolute power. He then snaps his finger and they both jumped off the balcony as soon as they jump A man entered the room, his presence immediately commanding attention. He was well-groomed, his full beard adding to his dignified look, and his luxurious clothes reflected his high status. His eyes scanned the chaos in front of him, and his face twisted in a mixture of disgust and disbelief.

"What the hell are you doing, you fool?" he barked at Aamon, who was lounging in his chair with a smirk on his face.

Aamon barely glanced at him, his expression still relaxed. "What does it look like, genius? I'm just playing with food," Aamon replied, his tone mocking. "Don't you ever do that, Mr. Terry?"

Terry, still shaking his head in disapproval, stepped closer. "No, I don’t, you fool. I don’t treat my men like garbage," he shot back, his voice sharp with irritation.

Aamon waved him off with a lazy gesture. "Boo, you’re no fun," he muttered, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He lit it, the soft glow of the flame casting shadows over his sharp features. Taking a drag, he offered it to Terry, "You want some?"

Terry frowned, shaking his head. "I don’t smoke."

"Whatever, goody-goody two shoes," Aamon replied with a teasing grin, blowing out a puff of smoke. He leaned back, looking as if the world were his playground.

Terry’s patience was wearing thin. "Whatever you say... furry."

Aamon laughed, the sound dark and mocking. "There you go, finally growing some balls. Good for you, buddy. I was starting to think you'd never stop being a pussy."

Terry’s face hardened. "Why I outta—"

Before Terry could finish, another figure entered the room, his presence silencing the tense exchange between the two men. A tall, imposing figure with a sword strapped to his back, his expression cold and unreadable. The moment he walked in, the atmosphere shifted.

Aamon's grin widened. "Well, if it isn't the strongest swordsman, Jason," he said, his tone oozing mockery. "Still not talking, huh?"

Jason, unfazed by Aamon's taunts, sat down silently, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His eyes scanned the room, but he offered no words in response to Aamon’s baiting. The silence from the swordsman seemed to agitate the room even more, but Aamon remained relaxed, as if the tension only fueled his amusement.

"Whatever," Aamon said with a smirk, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Strongest swordsman or not, you’re still boring as hell."

Jason remained still, his cold eyes briefly meeting Aamon’s. But in the quiet exchange, no words were needed. There was a silent understanding, a calm before the storm that loomed between them.

Terry, still bristling from his earlier clash with Aamon, crossed his arms. "You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days, Aamon," he muttered.

Aamon blew out a lazy stream of smoke, his grin never tof ading. "Maybe, but not today."

A man with dark glasses and dark skin stepped into the room, his presence carrying an air of quiet authority. Aamon glanced his way, about to speak, a smile curling his lips. “Well, if it isn’t the ni—” He paused just in time, his grin widening as he caught himself.

The man in the dark glasses, Hale, raised an eyebrow. “What was that, Aamon? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Oh, nothing,” Aamon replied, still smiling but his tone losing some of its arrogance.

“Yeah, sure, racist,” Hale shot back, his voice cool but with an edge of challenge.

Aamon leaned back, unfazed. “How could I be racist when I got one of your kind pregnant?” he said, smugly grinning as though the remark was a defense.

Hale narrowed his eyes. “Of course, you’d use that excuse,” he said, moving to sit down, his tone dry.

Before the tension could escalate, a tall, striking woman entered the room. She was 6 feet tall, with green hair cascading down her back, and her slender figure drew immediate attention. Her narrow waist and large breasts, combined with her long green locks that framed her face, gave her an air of undeniable beauty and power. As she walked in, Aamon’s eyes lit up.

“Well, speak of the devil,” he said, his smirk returning. She took a seat next to Terry, her expression neutral.

Aamon leaned forward, clearly enjoying himself. “Aren’t you going to tell Hale I’m not racist?” he asked, mock innocence dripping from his words.

She glanced at him, her gaze cold. “I don’t really care if you’re racist or not,” she said, her voice calm but dismissive.

Aamon’s grin faltered, and he leaned back, trying to mask his irritation. “Does our time together really mean nothing to you?”

Her eyes flicked over to him, and her voice sharpened. “If you keep talking, or even look at me, I’ll expose you to everyone here,” she warned, her tone chillingly soft.

Veins bulged on Aamon’s forehead, his smug demeanor quickly replaced with barely restrained anger as he looked away, fuming silently. Hale and Terry exchanged glances and started laughing, clearly enjoying the moment at Aamon's expense.

As the laughter died down, another figure entered the room. This man, dressed in extravagant gold from head to toe, grinned widely, flashing a mouth full of gold teeth.

Terry frowned, rubbing his temples in frustration. “Mr. Jo, do you really have to show off those teeth every time?”

Jo nodded enthusiastically. “Of course I do! Gotta flex on everyone, man. That’s what power looks like!” he boasted, proudly displaying his gilded grin.

Aamon, still simmering from the earlier exchange, cut in. “Where the hell is Agharna?”

Jo’s expression dimmed slightly as he leaned forward. “Didn’t you hear? He got beaten, man. The new rulers of animal kingdom are Shakry and Sarugami.”

Aamon’s smile vanished as his mind processed the news. The fool got beaten? he thought. What a joke.

Before the room could delve further into conversation, a figure cloaked in shadow entered, instantly commanding silence. His presence was imposing, as if the air itself shifted to accommodate him. The man, a member of the Supreme Court, took his place at the head of the room.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice deep and measured. “Let the meeting begin.