Chapter 26: Fallen Beast in the Trap
Wez was sowhat astonished.
The girl on the stage wore an opulent formal dress, its fine silk delicately woven like a swan’s feathers, soft and pure white. Like a cascade of silver threads, it flowed from her shoulders down to the bend of her knees. Her lady’s formal hat, adorned with a veil, tilted gently to one side. Beneath the drooping silk gauze, a pair of light purple eyes slowly opened, glimring like glass.
She was petite and slender, her skin under the light appearing almost sickly porcelain-white.
Translucent.
So fragile she seed she might shatter into pieces with a re touch.
Though she clearly looked like a child of twelve or thirteen, her tender face was perpetually shrouded in a cool and gloomy aura. The ends of her willow-like brows held an unshakable gloom; it was as if she was mourning sothing.
This kind of stunning beauty at first glance made Wez feel sowhat unreal. Soone like him, who drifted about the dark alleys day in and day out, couldn’t even dream in such lavish colors. This crystal-like girl, snowy and translucent, wasn’t soone Wez could have ever imagined into existence.
Yet she stood there, right before his eyes.
The boundary between dream and reality seed broken. No matter how many tis Wez rubbed his eyes, the girl remained there—standing perfectly upright at the center of the stage, never disappearing.
“Wez Howard, is that right?”
Her voice, lighter than silver bells, was soft and clear. As her curtsy ended, her slender cherry lips parted gently.
Only then did Wez snap out of his daze, almost forgetting what he had co here to do.
“Representative of the Xiza Chamber of Comrce? I ca just as you asked. Are you the ones wanting to lease this plot to the Bloodwine Society?” Without letting his earlier fluster cost him the upper hand, Wez cut straight to the point.
If he guessed correctly, this girl was perhaps the daughter of a certain chamber consul, just like Zachary had said—a rich man’s young lady.
From the perspective of a gang mber, Wez’s outward manner was already quite respectful, but deep down, he looked down on—no, even hated—these silver-spoon brats.
Girls like this, who had barely witnessed the cruelty of human hearts—just show a bit of nace, a trace of killing intent, frighten them with a few sharp words, and they would imdiately falter, their psychological footing crumbling. After that, they would retreat step by step in negotiations, handing over all hidden benefits piece by piece.
But just as Wez was crafting a tone that was slightly nacing yet asured, he heard the girl coldly ask from the stage:
“Are all debt collectors of the Bloodwine Society as stupid as you? Not a shred of doubt toward such a riddled excuse?”
Those light purple glass-like eyes concealed a knife.
Wez felt as if a blade had suddenly, forcefully, and viciously stabbed into his gut. His legs trembled—he, who had seen countless bloody scenes and clawed his way to this position through extortion and murder, couldn’t suppress the instinctive fear in his heart.
Wez recognized that gaze.
It was the gaze honed only after killing—an indifference and contempt for life, a warning to any who dared trespass on her domain.
Only then did he break free from the spell of monetary temptation, finally seeing clearly the irreparable flaw behind the fabricated excuse—if the Xiza Chamber truly held rights to this land, why not start a factory themselves?
The chamber lacked neither technology nor capital. For those rchants, setting up a factory wasn’t difficult. Gaining use rights to urban land was of higher priority than anything else.
Leasing the land to a gang while rely taking commissions was an inefficient approach at best. At that point, the Bloodwine Society would simply collect protection money in proportion—profits for the two sides weren’t even close to the sa level.
Wez had co with a “nothing to lose” mindset.
But standing there was still only a young girl.
After composing himself, Wez still didn’t feel truly threatened. He couldn’t understand what benefit this girl hoped to gain by going through all this trouble to deceive a Bloodwine Society debt collector.
“Foolish little girl. Do you know who you’re provoking? We don’t care what status or wealth your parents have—among the Four Gangs, our authority in Black City outweighs gold and power.”
Wez chuckled lowly, his tal fingers twitching uncontrollably, clanging with sharp tallic sound.
The Blackwater River District belonged to the Bloodwine Society.
In Graycloud Fortress, those who dared offend the Bloodwine Society never ended well. Those who dared insult or challenge the Four Gangs’ authority had never left behind a single intact corpse. Countless souls were buried beneath the filthy waters of the Blackwater River.
But the girl showed no fear or panic at Wez’s threat. Her hands rested gracefully over her abdon; she remained upright and poised.
Wez saw no trace of hesitation in her.
Perhaps she simply didn’t understand the Bloodwine Society’s stature. Perhaps she didn’t yet realize her own circumstances and the looming disaster. The ignorant naturally feel no fear.
Wez never worried about any rational person in Graycloud Fortress failing to fear the Bloodwine Society or its debt collectors.
Smirking, he stepped forward from the gallery toward the stage, intending to personally punish this foolish girl with nothing but a beautiful shell.
That “lender” still needed healthy young girls to be transford into witches. Frail, poor girls had terrifyingly low survival rates. But a pampered rich girl like this one, delivering herself voluntarily, was rare indeed. Before taking the first step, Wez had already made his calculations.
Forcibly feeding her potion, hearing the girls scream and wail in agony and despair within the iron-shackled prison.
It was a form of pleasure.
Wez delighted in the process of the Whispers Trial. The suffering of others was the best dicine.
Even though, in the end, only one in hundreds could beco a witch and survive, that lone lucky one was enough to recover all the costs and bring in profits thousands of tis over.
Wez loved this business. Though he acted under orders from the “lender,” it didn’t an he didn’t personally enjoy it.
“Wez Howard, from Correnzo. You lost your right hand at the Walter Casino in the Georgeson District. That prosthetic was installed by a chanic nad Benson in the Blackwater River District. Your Warden potion was stolen from a lost Generosity Court apprentice. Three years ago, you beca a debt collector in the Blackwater River District thanks to your status as a Transcendent…”
Coldly, emotionlessly, the girl recited Wez’s past down to the last detail, in so parts even more precisely than he rembered himself.
Who was she?
What did she want?
Wez felt the unknown. He felt mystery. He felt fear. His raised step froze in mid-air. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His spine turned cold.
At this mont, he understood clearly—this girl wasn’t ignorant.
She rely held these feeble threats in utter contempt.
“I need sothing from the secret warehouse your group hides in this district.”
The hem of the snow-white dress fluttered faintly. A golden revolver shimred into her right hand soundlessly. Her voice was cold and clear.
“Speak, or die.”
A choice.
That crystal-like girl gave him a choice.
Or rather—it was a threat. But within just a few words, the positions of threatener and threatened had drastically and profoundly reversed.
Just then, massive bricks crashed down behind him. The entire theater trembled and quaked.
Wez turned to see the only exit blocked by shattered rubble. There was no way out—once in, never out again. An arena. A deathmatch.
He looked up again.
In the haze of night, the ceiling of the grand theater was densely filled with dismantled seats, broken bricks, and solid chanical components and tal pipes. They floated and quivered, suspended by so unseen, mysterious force.
He realized—this was a trap.
But it was already too late.
Reviews
All reviews (0)