Meanwhile...
"Aaaah... aaaa...!"
Agonized screams tore through the dimly lit hospital room.
Eldorado writhed on the bed, his body slick with sweat as the doctor stitched up his burned finger. His eyes were bloodshot—so red they looked as if they were bleeding—and thick veins pulsed along his neck and temples, a grotesque testament to the pain coursing through him.
"Almost done, sir," the doctor said gently.
"This would've been far easier if you'd let me administer an anesthetic. You wouldn't be in so much pain—"
"Grrr... Just do your fucking job and finish this!" Eldorado snarled, his voice ragged with fury.
The doctor flinched but nodded, quickly returning to his work. After a tense few minutes, he finished the final stitch and stepped back.
"You'll need to take care of yourself, sir. I'll prescribe some painkillers. With luck, the wound should heal in a couple of weeks. Excuse me."
He bowed slightly and exited the room.
Moments later, the man who had nearly attacked Patricia entered. He approached the bed cautiously.
"Boss," he said, stopping at Eldorado's side.
"How are you feeling?"
Eldorado turned his head slowly, fixing him with a glare.
Those monstrous red eyes—still bleeding at the edges—made the man flinch and drop his gaze to the floor.
Clearly, the wrong question.
"I'll report this to the Derby Council," the man said quickly.
"That bitch will pay for what she did to you. I promise."
Hissss!
Eldorado's hiss was venomous.
"You dumb idiot. Didn't I tell you to keep your mouth shut?"
His voice dropped to a deadly growl.
"If you breathe a word about what happened earlier, I swear—I'll melt your entire body in sulphuric acid."
The man trembled.
"S-sorry, Boss," he stammered.
"But... what are we going to do? With your finger like that, you won't be able to race properly. Are you really going to let that bitch win again tomorrow?"
Eldorado exhaled, his fury simmering beneath the surface.
"It's no use. She's already won the speed race. That's the crown jewel of the event. The rest are just protocol. Even if I win them, it won't matter. The glory's already hers."
He paused, his jaw tightening.
"Did you do what I asked?"
"Yes, Boss. He should be here any—"
The door creaked open.
A man stepped inside.
Medium build. Muscular. Dressed in a black, half-unbuttoned shirt that revealed the snarling face of a bulldog tattooed across his chest. A matching bulldog mask covered his face. Black slacks. Polished shoes. Silent menace.
He glanced once at the trembling man, then fixed his gaze on Eldorado.
Eldorado turned to him, gave a curt nod.
Dismissed.
The man bowed slightly and slipped out of the room without a word.
Eldorado turned back to the masked figure.
The air in the room thickened.
After the man exited, a long, heavy silence settled over the room.
"Chronalis..." the Bulldog muttered, his gaze fixed on Eldorado.
"Milton," Eldorado rasped.
"She has it."
The Bulldog exhaled and pulled a chair closer, lowering himself into it with a grunt.
"Or maybe she was just possessed," he said, voice low.
"Either way, it complicates things. We can't touch her—not with that thing around her. And time's running out. The Ogre will eat us alive if we don't get rid of her soon."
The Bulldog sighed again.
"Come on, Sam. You and I both know he doesn't want her dead. If he did, he would've done it himself a long time ago. He's still obsessed with her. Even now. And that obsession..."
He shook his head.
"That's what'll be his downfall. As always."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"With the Chronalis awakening, it's only a matter of time before the Race begins—the one that could doom us all. And if Milton's already showing signs..."
He trailed off.
"...then she's either the Beholder," Eldorado finished grimly, "or someone close to her is."
"But who could it be..." the Bulldog murmured, eyes narrowing.
Eldorado winced as a sharp pulse of pain shot through his hand.
"We need the Black Tulip. Without it, we're dead. That poison—it's already burned through my finger. That thing used it against me. I don't want to end up like Blake. These wounds... they don't heal. They can't heal. Aaaah!"
He cried out again, clutching his hand as the pain surged.
The Bulldog shook his head.
"This is what you get for being a boiled egghead, Sam."
He leaned back.
"But don't worry. I've got a plan. First, we confirm whether Milton is the Beholder of the Chronalis—or just a piece in the Race. Either way, we have to find the true Beholder. And kill them. Before it's too late."
He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I've got a feeling... this time, it's permanent. And I don't like that. Not one bit."
Eldorado nodded slowly.
"Yeah... me neither."
He looked up.
"By the way—how did you know Blake had that thing's body? Is that why you were so desperate to get your hands on his loot? Is that it?"
The Bulldog blinked, caught off guard.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean... you did ask Tap to get the box, didn't you?" Eldorado said, narrowing his eyes.
"You made the call yourself. I was there when you ordered him to go to Blake's mansion. You even told him the box was in the study—and gave him the secret code to open the safe."
He paused.
"But it's strange. We haven't heard a word from him since he reported it missing. Then he burned the house and fled when the WFAB showed up. You think they caught him?"
The Bulldog's face twisted.
"What the fuck are you talking about? I didn't order Tap to get the box from Blake's mansion. I didn't even know the bloody thing was with Blake."
He leaned forward, voice rising.
"All I wanted was the loot—the stash he hid like diamonds among gravel. I only found out about the box when the Supreme Boss told us and ordered the search. I knew nothing before that."
Eldorado stared at him.
"What the hell... but I saw you make the call. Unless you were high and did it subconsciously, you asshole!"
The Bulldog's eyes flared.
"Don't you dare fuck with me, Sam. We may be brothers, but don't push it."
He jabbed a finger in Eldorado's direction.
"I didn't make that call. Unless you were the one high and hallucinating. I told Tap to find the loot—not that cursed box. And even if I had made the call, no matter how high I was, I'd remember something that critical. Unless..."
He trailed off, eyes widening.
Eldorado leaned forward.
"Unless what?"
The Bulldog opened his mouth to answer—
Buzz! Buzz!
His phone vibrated. He sighed and answered with a snap.
"What?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"Yes... this is Mr. Donnel McCoy. Who is this?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Oh, is that so?"
"Well, thank you very much."
"I'll take care of it right away."
He ended the call.
Eldorado raised an eyebrow.
"What was that?"
The Bulldog turned to him.
"One of our sweet old neighbors. She says she just saw some uninvited guests snooping around our old mansion in Peruz."
Eldorado frowned.
"Mmm... who do you think they are?"
The Bulldog pocketed his phone.
"Only one way to find out."
He turned to the bed.
"Rest up, brother. You're gonna need it when Milton beats your ass again tomorrow."
Eldorado gave a dry, sarcastic laugh.
"Ha. Ha. Ha. Tell that whore of yours to do his job right this time. Otherwise, it won't just be the Ogre coming for your ass."
The Bulldog snickered and walked out without another word.
Left alone, Eldorado turned to the window, staring at the star-streaked sky. His thoughts churned.
"If Don didn't know about the box... and swears he didn't make the call... then what the hell happened?"
....
The moon hung half-lidded in the sky, as if only half-awake. Its soft, low glow spilled a faint silver sheen across the darkness above.
Four figures clad in black ninja gear moved swiftly through the shadows, their steps silent as they approached the crumbling durawall of an old mansion. The place looked like a haunted relic—its silhouette jagged and broken, like a memory left to rot.
They scaled the wall in fluid, practiced motions and dropped into the overgrown yard. With a few quick hand signals, two of them peeled off to scout the perimeter.
Moments later, they returned and gave the all-clear.
The group advanced toward the front door. One of them knelt to pick the lock—but the knob turned easily in their hand. The lock was already broken.
The door creaked open, revealing a long, narrow corridor swallowed in darkness.
They exchanged wary glances, then clicked on their flashlights, weapons drawn, and stepped inside.
The passage stretched ahead, flanked by two doors—one on each side. The air was thick with dust and decay. One of the figures tilted their flashlight upward, revealing shattered chandeliers dangling like broken bones from the ceiling. Gaping holes in the roof let in slivers of moonlight, casting eerie patterns across the floor.
They approached the first door and pushed it open.
A parlor.
The furniture was torn and rotting, cushions gutted, wood splintered. The walls were lined with old portraits—faces smeared, slashed, or faded into ghostly blurs.
They backed out and turned to the second door.
A smaller living room. Same story—ripped upholstery, broken tables, the scent of mildew and time.
Nothing useful.
They pressed on, moving deeper into the corridor until they reached a pair of grand double doors at the end.
They pushed them open.
A vast, empty room stretched before them—what must have once been a grand banquet hall. Now it was a hollow shell of its former glory.
The moment they stepped inside, a shrill screech shattered the silence.
Bats.
Dozens of them.
They burst from the rafters in a flurry of wings and panic, diving toward the intruders. The figures dropped to the floor, covering their heads as the bats swarmed past and escaped through the open doors behind them.
Silence returned.
But the air felt heavier now.
As if the house had just exhaled.
"Sheesh, talk about a haunted house. This place is straight out of a horror film," one of the figures muttered as they stood up from the dusty floor.
"At least they weren't vampire bats," another chimed in.
"A-2's right," said a third.
"This place is seriously creepy. No wonder it was abandoned. Who'd want to live in a dump like this? I mean, I like horror movies, but I never signed up to live in one."
A-2 snorted.
"Seriously, A-3? I'm surprised you're not into horror settings, considering we work with the Grim Reaper every damn day. His sickle's practically dangling over our heads 24/7. One wrong move and—poof—you're six feet under."
He nodded toward the figure standing ahead of them, already surveying the room.
A-3 scoffed.
"At least our Grim Reaper is better looking than the one from hell. I mean, come on—those muscles? That glowing golden-brown hair?"
"Not to mention those blue whirlpools of death," A-4 added with a grin.
"One look and you're already drowning."
A-2 chuckled.
"Good point, A-4. Maybe we'll get to see them again—right after we realize this whole mission was a goose chase."
The three of them laughed quietly.
"Shut it, you numbskulls!" barked the fourth figure—their captain—without turning around.
"Less yapping, more working. We need to be out of here fast. Or have you forgotten we're deep in enemy territory? For all we know, word's already reached him that we're snooping around his precious kingdom."
He swept his flashlight across the room.
"Stay sharp. I want everything about this place documented. We need to understand what we're dealing with—and who."
"Yes, Captain," A-2 replied, snapping to attention. He turned to the others.
"You heard him. Let's move. Spread out and search."
They fanned out through the mansion, tearing through every room—busting down doors, flipping furniture, rifling through drawers and shelves.
Two long hours passed.
Dust clung to their suits. The air grew heavier. But they found nothing useful.
Eventually, they regrouped in the banquet hall, frustration simmering beneath their silence.
"Urrgh... this place really is abandoned," A-2 muttered, brushing dust from his gloves.
"We've searched everywhere and still found nothing. This is getting frustrating."
The captain sighed, glancing at his exhausted team.
"Yeah. Maybe what we were hoping to find... just isn't here."
He looked around the vast, empty hall.
"Still—thank you. I appreciate the effort."
He turned toward the exit.
"Let's head back. We'll regroup and rethink our approach. Come on—let's get out of here."
The others nodded and began moving toward the door.
Until—
"Phillips..."
A small voice echoed from behind the captain.
He froze.
Slowly, he turned.
Nothing.
Just shadows and silence.
He blinked, frowning. 'Did I imagine that?'
A-2 noticed him standing still.
"Captain? Everything okay?"
"Yeah... I just thought I heard something."
He shook his head.
"Probably nothing. Let's go."
He turned to leave.
"Phillips..."
The voice came again—soft, distant, unmistakable.
He froze.
But this time, he didn't turn.
"Vareth'kai shol'mir..."
(Come find me...)
His breath caught.
He turned, scanning the room.
"Vareth'kai shol'mir..."
"Zha'reth nual'kai..."
(I am over here...)
"Vareth'kai..."
A-2 watched as his captain stood rooted in place, eyes darting, searching the shadows.
Concerned, he broke from the group and approached.
"Isaac, what's wrong? We need to leave. We didn't find what we came for, and if we stay any longer, we're asking for trouble."
Isaac didn't respond.
"Isaac?"
"Shhh... Davis," he whispered.
"Listen."
Davis tilted his head, straining.
Nothing.
"Listen to what? I don't hear anything—"
"Shh..." Isaac silenced him again.
"Something's calling me."
He turned slowly, eyes wide.
"It knows my name... and it's calling me. I think... I think it wants me to find it."
Davis stared at him, heart sinking. His captain looked pale, unsteady—haunted. The sleepless nights, the pressure, the pain... it was all catching up to him. His captain was losing it.
Davis felt a pang of sorrow. He reached out, ready to gently pull him back to reality.
But then—
BOOM!!