Several minutes later—elsewhere.
Above the forested region north of Santos City, beyond the jagged line of the Grissar mountain range, a helicopter drifted through starry skies.
Not just any helicopter. Its frame was painted a deep navy that caught the moonlight in slow, sliding streaks.
The body curved neat, angles softened by expensive design choices that were military-grade but also civilian-luxury. Engines thrummed low and confident, no rattles, no strain—just the smooth push of high-end rotors keeping it aloft.
The forest stretched endless beneath it, a rolling sea of black and silver-green swayed by night winds. Past that, the mansion came into view.
From above, Richmond's estate looked more fortress than home. Stone walls traced wide boundaries.
Searchlights swept over trimmed courtyards and high hedges with geometric precision. Two landing pads broke the symmetry—one tucked farther out by a service wing, the other pressed close to the mansion's main span of windows.
