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The other seven finalists, blissfully unaware of the sinister undercurrents swirling around them, were practically vibrating with excitement. A special meeting with the president of the company sponsoring the tournament? More rewards beyond their wildest dreams? It was like winning the lottery twice in one day. They all readily agreed, their young faces glowing with anticipation.
Russell knew there was something deeply, fundamentally wrong with this invitation, but he didn't dare hesitate. Any sign of reluctance would be noticed by Mr. Sterling's hawk-like eyes. He agreed without a second thought, his mind racing through possibilities and contingencies. President Jennings said Director Blake would have a card following me in secret, he reassured himself. It should be fine. Although, he had to admit with growing unease, he hadn't seen a single trace of this supposed guardian.
After getting into a luxury vehicle arranged by Golden Talent Credit, the group drove toward the company's headquarters. The car was a monument to excess—leather seats that probably cost more than most people's annual salary, climate control that made the air taste like expensive perfume, and windows tinted so dark they seemed to absorb light itself.
As the champion, Russell was seated in the same car as Mr. Sterling, a honor that felt more like a curse with each passing mile.
"We at Golden Talent Credit love to invest in promising young talents like yourself, Russell," Mr. Sterling said, his voice carrying the practiced warmth of a professional manipulator. He wasn't entirely lying—the company did love to invest in talent. The kind of "return" he expected on his investment, however, was another matter entirely.
"Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Sterling," Russell replied with careful politeness, then probed tentatively. "I was just wondering, why exactly does your president, Director Valerius, want to see all of us?"
Mr. Sterling's expression remained perfectly neutral, as if carved from expensive marble. "Director Valerius simply wishes to get to know you all."
Russell didn't believe a word of it. In his previous life, would the CEO of OmniCorp or a tech titan like that personally meet with the winners of a local tournament? The scales were just too different. It would be like expecting the President to personally congratulate the winner of a regional spelling bee.
The car soon arrived at the Golden Talent Credit headquarters. It was a skyscraper of mirrored glass that pierced the sky like a needle, reflecting the sunlight in a blinding, ostentatious display of wealth. Each pane seemed to gleam with corporate arrogance, throwing light in every direction with complete disregard for anyone unfortunate enough to be looking in its direction.
Doesn't anyone care about light pollution? Russell complained silently, squinting against the glare.
Following Mr. Sterling, the group of students was led through a lobby that screamed expensive taste—marble floors so polished they were like mirrors, artwork that probably cost more than most people's houses, and security guards who looked like they could bench press a small car.
The elevator ride to the top floor was conducted in reverent silence, as if they were ascending to meet a deity rather than a businessman. When the doors finally opened, they were greeted by a hallway lined with what appeared to be genuine oil paintings, each one probably worth a small fortune.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Mr. Sterling knocked respectfully on the large, ornate doors at the end of the hallway and waited. The doors were carved from some exotic wood that seemed to absorb sound, making the entire hallway feel muffled and oppressive.
"Enter." A slightly old, raspy voice came from within, carrying the weight of authority and something else—something that made Russell's skin crawl.
Mr. Sterling gently pushed the door open and led everyone inside. What appeared before them was an office so vast it could have housed a small apartment, dominated by a massive desk that looked like it had been hewn from a single piece of obsidian.
Behind the desk sat an old man with graying hair, but his age hadn't softened him—if anything, it had sharpened him into something predatory. He had a severe hooked nose that gave him the appearance of a bird of prey, and narrow, triangular eyes that seemed to catalog every weakness in the room. This was the kind of face you would never forget after seeing it just once, the kind that would haunt your dreams.
"Director Valerius, these are the top eight contestants from the Prodigy Cup," Mr. Sterling introduced them with the reverence of a priest presenting offerings to a vengeful god.
Director Valerius smiled, but the expression looked wrong on his face—too wide, too practiced, like a mask that didn't quite fit. "I am Valerius," he said, his voice carrying the smooth oil of false warmth. "You can all just call me Uncle Valerius."
One of the other contestants immediately took the opportunity to curry favor, eagerly shouting, "Uncle Valerius!" with the enthusiasm of a puppy desperate for attention.
Russell just watched it all with cold detachment. If he didn't know the inside story, he might have done the same. But knowing the man's malicious intent, he offered no such false affection. A few of the other students were similarly quiet, either out of natural shyness or some instinctive suspicion that something wasn't right.
Valerius didn't seem to care about their varied reactions. He simply pushed a stack of contracts across the polished surface of his desk with the casual gesture of someone dealing cards. The papers slid across the obsidian surface with a whisper that seemed unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence.
"This is a strategic cooperation agreement that we at Golden Talent Credit would like to offer each of you," he said, his tone becoming smooth and hypnotic, like a snake charmer's flute. "Sign this contract, and in the future, you will only need to occasionally cooperate with us for promotional activities. In return, you will gain access to a wealth of our company's resources."
The promise hung in the air like honey-coated poison. Faced with such a naked temptation of money and power, most adults would have found it impossible to resist, let alone these young, ambitious students who had probably never seen this kind of wealth before.
Just as some of them were ready to lunge for the contracts like starving wolves, Cole Kong hesitated. His hand, which had been reaching forward, froze in midair.
"I... I have to go back and discuss this with my parents," he said, his voice firm despite the nervous tremor that ran through it. "I'm sorry, Director Valerius."
Cole's sensible words hit the room like a bucket of cold water, instantly bringing the others back to their senses. Yes, this is a huge decision. We have to talk to our parents. How could they have almost forgotten something so basic?
Valerius waved his hand with studied indifference, his smile never wavering despite the obvious frustration that flickered behind his eyes. "Of course, I understand. If, after your discussion, you are still interested in signing, you can simply give us a call."
At this, Mr. Sterling stepped forward with the precision of a well-oiled machine and handed each of them a business card. The cards were made of heavy stock that felt expensive between the fingers, embossed with gold lettering that seemed to gleam with its own light.
Then, Valerius's gaze fell directly on Russell with the weight of a spotlight. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as those triangular eyes fixed on their primary target.
"Russell, as I understand it, you are an orphan, are you not?" The question was delivered with false sympathy, but Russell could hear the predatory satisfaction underneath. "How about it? Will you sign the contract?"
Russell could feel the trap closing around him like the jaws of some massive beast. It was obvious that his display of power had made him the primary target—the prize that all of this elaborate theater had been designed to capture.
After a moment of silence that stretched like a taut wire, he refused. "I'm sorry, Director Valerius. I cannot sign this."
The words fell into the room like stones into still water, sending ripples of shock through the assembled students. The old man's calm facade finally began to show stress fractures.
"But why?" he asked, a sharp edge entering his voice like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "You can't receive such generous rewards without offering something in return. A few promotional activities are all we ask."
The other students looked at Russell with expressions ranging from confusion to alarm. Russell just shook his head. He had scanned the contract during the presentation; it was incredibly lenient, almost suspiciously so. And that was the problem. Its very looseness was full of loopholes and room for exploitation—the kind of legal quicksand that could swallow a person whole.
Forgetting his carefully maintained facade, Valerius shot to his feet with sudden, violent motion. His slightly hunched back straightened with an unnerving intensity, transforming him from a harmless old man into something far more threatening.
"If you are not satisfied with the terms, Russell, we can discuss them further!" The words came out in a rush, edged with desperation that no amount of corporate polish could hide.
Just as Russell was about to refuse again, a faint sigh echoed through the office—the sound of infinite weariness and disappointment.
"That's enough, Valerius. Your desperation is ugly."
Everyone was startled. An old man with a long white beard now stood beside Russell, as if he had been there all along—or perhaps as if reality had simply rearranged itself to accommodate his presence. Next to him stood a solemn, imposing figure in the crimson robes of a judge, radiating an aura of absolute authority that made the very air seem heavier.
Seeing the newcomer, everyone present who knew him felt their blood turn to ice. "Director Blake..." they murmured, the name carrying the weight of legend.
It was, of course, Blake Whitmore. As for why he was here...
"Regent Jin gave you this contract, didn't he?" Blake said, his voice light but carrying immense weight, like a feather that could crush mountains. He could feel the sickening, corrupt aura clinging to the papers on the desk like spiritual filth. "And then some."
The [Red-Robed Judge] beside Blake suddenly straightened, its voice booming with supernatural authority that seemed to come from the very foundations of justice itself. "He is wealthy but unkind. He secretly colludes with bandit leaders and brings harm to the people. He shall be executed according to the law!"
As the Judge spoke, an inexplicable, irresistible force descended upon Valerius's neck with the inevitability of gravity itself.
SHHLICK.
In an instant, Valerius's head was separated from his body, the sound wet and final. But in the next moment, it reattached itself, the wound healing instantly as if it had never happened—death denied by some dark power that refused to let him escape his fate so easily.
Valerius touched his neck with trembling fingers, his eyes wide with lingering terror and incandescent rage. The experience of death, even temporarily, had broken something fundamental inside him.
"BLAKE WHITMORE!!" he shrieked, his voice rising to a pitch that made the windows rattle. "Yes! I joined the Spirit Begging Society! So what if I did!?"
The admission hung in the air like a confession at a funeral.
"Regent Jin promised me! He said after this was done, he could advance me from Emerald to Diamond!" His voice rose with each word, desperation and fury warring for control. "I'm old! I don't have the talent of this boy, and I certainly don't have yours, Blake!"
He seemed to be in a state of utter despair, the mask of corporate respectability torn away to reveal the rotting desperation underneath. With Blake Whitmore present, he knew the Spirit Begging Society's plan had completely failed. Fight back? Against a monster like Blake? He would have a better chance simply ending his own life.
"You geniuses! You can never understand what it's like for the rest of us!" The words came out like a scream of existential anguish, the cry of someone who had spent their entire life looking up at heights they could never reach.
Blake sighed, the sound carrying the weight of someone who had seen this same tragedy play out countless times before. "I was wondering where the Spirit Begging Society was getting its massive funding. I assume it must have come from you."
This explained the source of the funds for the demons they had previously found controlled by the Society—a network of corruption that reached into the highest levels of corporate power.
But Valerius just sneered, his expression twisting into something ugly and bitter. "You really think too highly of me."
The words carried implications that made Blake's eyes narrow with concern. If Valerius wasn't the primary source of funding, then who was? And how deep did this corruption go?
Just as Blake was about to press him for more information, a powerful, oppressive aura spread from the sky above New Metro, washing over the entire city like a tide of malevolent energy. The very air seemed to thicken, and everyone in the room felt the weight of something vast and terrible focusing its attention on them.
Blake's pupils contracted to pinpricks. He whipped his head toward the window, an angry, astonished roar tearing from his throat like the cry of a wounded lion.
"Regent Jin!"
The name echoed through the office like a death knell, carrying with it the promise of battles to come and the weight of an enemy who had finally revealed himself.
(End of this chapter)
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