Meanwhile—
"Gold only loves to shine when it's in the dark. That way you won't notice the stone and dirt that mar it, making it look impure and degrading its value. It will only love the light when it carries no deformities that question its worth. So if you know you don't have such… ugly necessities, then come into the light and face me. Let's see who truly deserves to be crowned the most beautiful jewel of the derby. Don't worry—I'm not afraid of a little fight if you bring it, because it won't stop my resolve. After all, 'It started with a race, and it will end with a race.'"
Smoke curled in a room where a large flat‑screen TV replayed Patricia's comment at the derby.
A figure with long brown hair sat on a luxurious leather sofa. He wore a black half‑buttoned shirt that revealed his toned torso, paired with black slacks and polished shoes. A black‑and‑gold mask covered his upper face, while his brown eyes glowed under the dim light. A golden Rolex adorned his wrist, and a cigar coiled between his fingers.
His gaze was fixed intently on the screen before him. He had been watching the replay for hours—most specifically Patricia's words at the end, before Jethro took over.
He felt it was a direct challenge. And he wanted to understand: did she now know about him, or was it simply the spirit of competition? Was she daring to challenge the Golden Horse and take a shot at the throne?
The man drew a long drag from his cigar before exhaling smoke slowly, deliberately, as he replayed the scene again and again.
Just then, the door opened slightly. A man in a black suit entered and saluted.
"My Liege."
Silence stretched as the masked figure kept staring at the screen.
The newcomer thought he hadn't been heard, so he opened his mouth to speak—
"Speak."
The command came in a low, husky voice that echoed through the room.
The man flinched at the sound, then cleared his throat to regain composure.
"Someone is here to see you. And its a.. very… unexpected guest."
The masked figure hummed softly. The servant bowed and exited, returning moments later to gesture for another man to enter.
"Is this how you welcome your dear guests, Ricardo? Or is it just me?"
Ricardo shifted his gaze from the screen to face the newcomer.
The man had black hair, dark eyes, a flat nose, pink lips, and a medium‑toned physique sculpted beneath his navy suit. A navy‑colored mask covered his upper face.
"Well, this is truly an unexpected surprise," Ricardo said, his eyes trailing over the man who entered and stood beside the sofa. "I thought we agreed to keep out of each other's hair. Going back on your word so soon, Cousin?"
The man smirked. "Believe me, this visit wasn't planned at all." He sat down. "But with the way things are escalating, I had to come here—against my will, of course."
Just then, the servant returned, placing a bottle of whisky and glasses on the table. He handed the guest a cigar, lit it, and bowed before leaving.
"If the situation is serious enough to bring the great Alberto Montenegra into my house, then it must be disturbingly important," Ricardo remarked.
Alberto dragged on his cigar and exhaled smoke. "You bet your luck it is."
He paused, then turned his gaze to the screen where Patricia's comment replayed.
Alberto sighed and shook his head. "I guess old flings die hard, don't they?" He smoked again, his tone cutting. "Are you willing to be betrayed again, Ricardo? Tsk… I thought this time she was an enemy, not a fling. I thought you were going to make her suffer for all the times she hurt you. What—changing your mind?"
Ricardo smirked. "Rosella…" he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen. "She has always been my weakness. I hate the fact that the Heavens see it fit to entangle me with her, yet never allow me to claim her." His gaze darkened.
"They never make her mine—only mine. They always rewrite our story with nothing but heartache and betrayal. But don't worry… this time, this time I'll make sure it never happens again. So rest easy, Cousin. This time, love has no place in this cold heart of mine."
He sighed, shifting his gaze away from the screen. "It has been bleeding for too long to be hurt again," he whispered, before turning off the TV.
Alberto studied him, catching the pain in his eyes as those words left his lips.
Despite all the heartbreak and betrayal Ricardo had endured because of that woman, Alberto knew he still loved her—even now. Ricardo might seem cold toward her, but Alberto understood better. He was simply searching for a way to capture her again, to hold her in his arms and bed, despite everything she had done to him before.
Alberto sighed, dragging from his cigar. "The Black Tulip has vanished."
Immediately, Ricardo whipped his head toward him. "What the fuck did you just say?"
Alberto drew from his cigar and exhaled smoke. "Exactly as you heard."
He leaned forward, tapping ash into the tray.
"The Black Tulip has vanished. Alongside the Moon Rose. Both disappeared from the house three days ago. I'm surprised you didn't know, Cousin. Didn't Silver Snake inform you? I thought he was your most trusted, loyal dog. Tsk… I guess I was wrong."
Ricardo eyed him intently before letting out a heavy breath. "He is my most trusted man. But the disappearance of the Black Tulip and the Moon Rose is something I will not tolerate. I'd rather deal with it myself."
"Mmm… of course. Then I suppose you should also know that one of your underdogs—Viper, isn't it?—has vanished as well. And your dear Bulldog has lost his screws. According to intel, he's been rampaging in his house like a madman, whimpering like a scared little pup. His own henchmen can't control him. And let's not forget that woman winning those races—it's only a matter of time before she meets you and challenges you for the throne. So I'd say you've got a very tight, out‑of‑control situation on your hands, Cousin. Are you sure you can handle it all by yourself?" Alberto asked.
Silence stretched long and heavy.
"Chronalis…" Ricardo whispered. "It must be the one causing all this. Its very unusual for too complicated situations like these to happen in such a short time. It has to be it."
Alberto's face turned grave. He leaned in closer, whisper‑shouting, "Ricardo. What are you saying! The Chronalis is dead. The Black Tulips made sure of that. It's never coming back. So don't you dare mention that dreadful thing again—otherwise… bad things will follow you."
"What did Uncle say about it? Before he died that day. Is that the reason he hasn't returned like the rest of us, but was completely erased from existence? Come on, Alberto—you've got to tell me something about it at least," Ricardo pressed.
Alberto exhaled sharply. "I don't know!" he whisper‑shouted, then sighed. "I don't know."
He leaned back, brushing a hand through his hair in frustration before leaning forward again.
"I don't know everything, Ricardo. All I know is that thing was dangerous. It was the apocalypse for all of us. And the Black Tulips destroyed it. But I don't know what it is—or what it does—because apparently anyone directly involved with it forgets once they return." He paused, his voice heavy.
"But I do know this… the only people who might have the answer are the Miltons. I heard from McCoy that they were directly involved with that thing. And they're the ones who have the power to destroy us all—just like last time. So, if it does awaken, we'll need the blood of the Moon Rose—not destroyed, but preserved—to live for eternity, like we intended from the start. Right now, we need to focus on finding the Black Tulip and the Moon Rose before someone outside our circle gets to them first. Understood?"
Ricardo nodded. "Don't worry. The Ogre will take care of that. Right now… I need a new Bulldog. She's racing tomorrow, and there's no way in hell I want her to cross that finish line. At least not yet. I'm not ready to face her. And I also need your help, Cousin."
Alberto snorted. "You asking me for help? That's… unexpected."
Ricardo eyed him intently. "Believe me, if I weren't so desperate, I wouldn't even dare. But unfortunately, I need your help. The WFAB are snooping around my businesses, and they've been operating so efficiently that it's only a matter of time before they dig deep into the turf. The last thing we want is Macksmith getting his hands on us. We still haven't conquered his Aphilis, so he still has leverage over us. And that is not good."
"Mmm… indeed. So… what do you want me to do?" Alberto asked.
"I think you're smart enough to know what to do, don't you, Cousin?" Ricardo replied, a sinister smirk curling his lips.
Alberto smirked back. "You're trusting me? Tsk… this is truly an unexpected surprise. But I like the way you think. So don't worry, Cousin. It will be a thrill ride I'm very much looking forward to. And I'll make sure I enjoy it."
Their smirks widened, sinister mischief glowing in their eyes under the faint light.
A plan was being formed.
And one thing was certain—
It was dreadful.
....
Meanwhile
"Oh darling, I can't believe you traveled back home throughout the night. You must be exhausted. I thought you were staying a few more days to watch the marathon race. So why are you back home?" asked a woman in her late fifties, with long golden‑blonde hair, round brown eyes, a delicate sharp nose, pink lips, and a statuesque model's figure.
She wore a long navy dress with white heels as she followed a man with short golden‑blonde hair, brown eyes, a sharp nose, and plush lips. He carried a small courier bag, dressed in a white shirt, black leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers, moving through a grand living room filled with lavish furniture.
A floor‑to‑ceiling golden chandelier hung near the sweeping staircase where they were headed.
The man didn't reply, continuing toward the stairs. His aura spoke volumes—and it wasn't pleasant.
"Darling, why do you look so gloomy? Why won't you answer me? What is going on? Answer me!" the woman demanded.
Still, the man remained silent—until he stopped at the bottom of the stairs, staring upward.
There, midway up the staircase, stood a man in his mid‑sixties. His short black‑blonde hair framed small sunken eyes, a flat nose, chubby cheeks, and plush lips. He wore a black suit, his gaze locked firmly on the younger man below.
The woman moved to stand beside him, her eyes flicking between the two men. She could feel the tension brewing—it was palpable, and it wasn't good.
"Bernard, darling… what's going on? Is everything okay?" she asked again.
The man on the stairs sighed. "I was the one who told him to come back home."
Bernard stiffened, his eyes narrowing at his father.
Gerald looked back at his son, unfazed by the anger radiating from him.
"You? But why? Is everything okay?" The woman pressed.
"Everything is fine, Beverly. I just need to speak to my son." Gerald's gaze lingered on Bernard before he turned away. "Follow me." He began walking up the stairs.
Beverly touched Bernard's shoulder gently, her eyes filled with worry.
"Bernard…" she whispered.
Bernard met her gaze, softly touching her cheek.
"It's alright, Mother. I'll be fine," he said quietly, before ascending the stairs to follow his father.
He stood just outside his father's study, took a deep breath, and entered.
Inside, Gerald stood at the window with his back to him.
Bernard exhaled and remained still.
A long stretch of suffocating silence filled the room—thick enough to be sliced by a blade.
Bernard hated this.
Whenever silence lingered like this—especially when his father summoned him urgently—it only meant the old man was up to something. And whatever it was, Bernard knew he wasn't going to like it.
The silence dragged on until—
"Mr. Apricot called me yesterday," Gerald said at last. "He needs help with the company over in Antecort, in Aphilis. Things haven't been looking good lately—the market stock is falling, and now they're threatening to shut us down."
Gerald turned, his gaze locking on Bernard.
"And you are going to stop that from happening."
Bernard scoffed. "Is that it?"
Gerald raised an eyebrow. "Yes. And everything has already been arranged. You'll be leaving tonight. I expect you to be there by tomorrow afternoon and give me a full analysis of the situation. This is very important, and I absolutely do not expect no for an answer. Otherwise, things will get more complicated than they should. So I hope you understand—and do this without question."
Bernard chuckled bitterly. "Do this without question? Do this without question! Father, are you seriously asking me to do that? After how this issue has been handled between us for years, you're actually asking me to do that?"
"I'm not asking you, Bernard—I'm telling you! This issue is not up for discussion. You are going to Aphilis. You are going to Antecort. And you are going to take over the company there. That is final!"
"So that's the reason you had me kicked out of the derby?" Bernard demanded.
"Yes! Because it's time you faced the future—your real future!" Gerald shot back.
"Father!" Bernard exclaimed.
"No, Bernard! I am not taking no for an answer! It's about time you let go of that childish sport and step into the real world—the real game of life! Instead of running around and leaping everywhere with a bloody horse, it's time to grip something that will last forever. Something more satisfying than the 'woos' and 'boos' of a stadium filled with idiots who have nothing better to do!" Gerald thundered.
He stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "You're my one and only son. And it is your duty to take over this family's legacy. The Crisby Business Corporation is not some small feat like those races. This is the real deal—the foundation your ancestors built from the ground up. And I will not let it fall apart because of some stupid, childish passion. You are a man, Bernard. You are the future of this family. So it's time to step up and do your duty."
A long, suffocating silence followed as father and son locked gazes.
Bernard averted his gaze from his father, chuckling bitterly.
"You know…" he began. "I always wondered why—why, no matter how hard I tried to do something to make you proud—you never, ever were..proud of me. Not once. Were you? Anything I love, anything I do… you've never been proud of it. Other fathers would be proud of their sons for doing what they love, supporting them until the end. But you…" His voice cracked as tears began to fall.
"To you, your own son's dreams and passions are just what? Stupid. Childish. Dreams. Passions. Stupid and childish." He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled loudly.
"You want to know why this will never work, Mr. Crisby?" He leaned in closer. "Because you never treated me as your son. The only man who has ever been like a true father to me is Philip Bedevere Saccoth—the only man who stood by me, supporting those so‑called stupid, childish dreams and passions. A man who believed in the things I love. Things you see as insignificant, because they're not part of the Crisby legacy." He paused, breathing heavily. "I honestly thought you were letting me do this because you finally supported me. Because you finally wanted to be the father you never were all these years. But now I see… huh… I was so stupid to ever think that."
Bernard locked eyes with Gerald, his voice sharp and trembling. "You really want to know what's stupid and childish? Pretending to be the perfect father, when you're not even half as good as an ordinary one! Thinking about my future? My ass! You're only thinking about yourself—and the perfect image you want to keep as the patriarch of the Crisby family!"
Gerald's eyes burned with anger. "Bernard!!"
"What! Are you going to say it's not true? Are you going to say it's not true? Tell me!" Bernard shouted.
"You ungrateful brat! How dare you!" Gerald's face flushed red, puffed with rage, as he raised his hand to strike him.
"Oh, so you're going to hit me now? Go ahead! Show yourself—show me what a true father you are!" Bernard roared, his words making Gerald flinch.
Bernard leaned closer, voice trembling with fury and anguish. "Just tell me something. Do you ever love me? Do you ever think of me as your own son? Or am I just a tool you use to hold your position in the family? Do you ever see me as a person—someone with dreams and passions of his own? Tell me!" he shouted, tears streaming down his face.
Gerald saw the anguish in his son's eyes—something he had never truly seen until now. His raised hand faltered, lowering back to his side.
He had always believed a son's duty was to carry the family legacy, not chase desires that might leave the Crisby empire in ruin. That was how he had been raised. Yet, despite it all, he was proud of Bernard—proud of his achievements. But he could never show it. He feared that encouragement would only push Bernard further down a path that could destroy everything their ancestors had built.
As Gerald looked at his son's tear‑streaked face, something inside him broke. He didn't want this. It hurt him to see Bernard hurt.
But then—an image flashed in his mind. A horrible memory: his precious son kneeling at a high dais, hands and feet bound, head locked inside a wooden stock. Their eyes met briefly—before an unmerciful axe descended toward Bernard's neck.
Gerald gasped, shaking off the dreadful scene. His hand clutched his chest as unbearable pain shot through it. He staggered, heaving for breath.
"Father!" Bernard cried.
Bernard was alarmed and moved to help, but Gerald stopped him.
"Just get out," he wheezed.
"But, Father…" Bernard pleaded.
"Just go!" Gerald shouted, clutching his chest.
Bernard flinched. Even though he hated his father, he never hated him enough to leave him in such a state. But seeing the cold look in Gerald's eyes, he didn't press further.
"I'll call the doctor…" he murmured, wiping his tears as he slowly exited the room.
As soon as Bernard left, Gerald wobbled to his desk, collapsed into his chair, and took several deep breaths to steady himself.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Tell the Protector my son is coming to Aphilis soon. I need him protected at all costs. No one must know where he is or try to reach him—especially Montenegra or that Milton. Keep them as far away from him as possible. You got that?"
He ended the call abruptly.
"Never again will I let you ruin my son's life. You will never take him from me. Especially you, Milton. You will never have my son again. I'll make sure he stays away from you—even if it means getting rid of you forever. I will make sure of it."
His gaze drifted to the wall, where a picture frame hung—himself with an eight‑year‑old Bernard.
Gerald's eyes filled with sorrow, but beneath it burned a fierce determination. He would not lose his son again.
No matter the cost.