"You vanished without a single word. And now you come crawling back? Cole?"
The voice echoed from the direction of the estate. Erika squinted against the blinding sunlight, watching the silhouette shift. It didn't step forward; it merely turned slightly sideways, as if waiting to see what kind of garbage Cole was about to spout.
"I brought you a gift—" Cole didn't break his stride, but he raised his voice, shouting toward the glare. "Just listen for a—"
"Keep your bullshit gift!"
The voice slashed through the air, rudely cutting him off. The raw impatience in the tone was almost tangible, smashing through the sunlight.
"I still haven't figured out how to use the piece of trash you left behind last time!"
Erika stood frozen, listening to this shouted exchange across the distance.
The sun was merciless, bleaching his vision white. He could only vaguely make out the two silhouettes—one approaching, one waiting. What kind of history did these two share? Their conversation felt like fragments torn from a much larger, darker story, falling at his feet yet refusing to form a complete picture.
He looked down at the hand still maintaining a death grip on his leg. Nails were embedded deep in his flesh, the blood they'd drawn already trickling down his calf, gleaming dark red in the morning light. Darren's face was buried in his other arm, shoulders shaking violently. It was impossible to tell if the man was crying, laughing, or both.
Ashen-faced. That phrase was too light. Darren, at this moment, was ash itself. The brittle remains after a raging fire—powder that would dissipate at the slightest touch.
But one thing was absolutely certain. Erika looked up again toward that silhouette haloed by the blinding light. That thing is extraordinarily dangerous.
Erika stood in absolute silence. Even the wind seemed to have been choked by the throat. This silence was far more terrifying than the wet, squelching plop sounds from earlier. This was a silence enforced by something. A physical, crushing suppression.
The sun remained glaring, impossible to look at directly. Cole kept walking. The silhouette kept waiting. Darren kept trembling. And Erika stood caught in the middle, anchored by a madman's grip, watching two entities he completely failed to understand move toward a reunion—or a confrontation—that he also completely failed to understand.
He tightened his grip on his empty right sleeve. Whatever possessed the power to make the bizarre horrors of Darenz fall utterly silent... was absolutely no ordinary "old friend."
"I just came to say hello."
Cole stopped. The murderous, gritty aura he carried moments ago evaporated instantly. He stood on the white gravel path, his tone suddenly slick, almost ingratiating.
"But since you've accepted the sentiment, I'll just drop the gift and—"
"Get the fuck out!"
The voice slashed through again, carrying undisguised fury, effortlessly tearing apart Cole's awkwardly woven web of diplomacy.
"Saying hello? Who the fuck screams curses at my gates at the crack of dawn?!"
Cole sighed. His shoulders slumped, and that filthy white robe drooped pathetically with them. Erika watched as Cole turned around, plastering on a deeply "hurt" and aggrieved expression, sighing heavily as he began to trudge back toward Erika.
But with his back to the estate, Cole's hands were doing something else entirely. His arms flailed wildly in front of his chest and waist, flashing a series of frantic, blurring gestures at Erika—pressing down, hooking outward, pointing wildly at the estate, then jabbing a thumb at himself. He looked like a lunatic desperately flashing an emergency survival code.
Erika was completely bewildered. The stinging in his calf grew sharper. Scowling, Erika rudely jerked his leg, forcibly kicking away the madman who had already collapsed into a terrified heap.
He was just about to look up to decipher Cole's damn gestures. But he never got the chance. Because his gaze, tracking past Cole's approaching shoulder, saw it.
That black silhouette standing in the estate's blinding sunlight moved. No run-up. No shifting of weight. That figure launched forward at a terrifying, physics-defying speed!
Erika's heart instantly slammed into his throat. He instinctively staggered back half a pace, every muscle tensing to the absolute limit. His mind braced for the impact of some indescribable, terrifying behemoth, or a mass of writhing tentacles.
The figure burst out from the veil of sunlight. It left the dazzling halo behind.
And then, Erika froze.
No tentacles. No fangs. No rotting flesh. What rushed out was... a person.
A young man who looked, for all intents and purposes, extremely normal. He wore a perfectly tailored, obscenely luxurious dark silk lounging robe. There were no grotesque mutations, no foul-smelling slime. Just a flawlessly handsome face with fine features—an undeniably ordinary, good-looking guy.
This was the terrifying existence that could silence everything around them? Linglong?
In that split second, while Erika's brain suffered a severe short-circuit—an even more absurd scene unfolded.
Linglong, bringing with him a sharp gust of wind, rushed right up behind Cole. He didn't unleash any earth-shattering spell. He didn't draw a lethal blade. He simply threw his arms open and clamped them tightly, desperately around Cole's waist in an inescapable hug from behind.
He even buried that noble, pristine face deep into Cole's back—right into that filthy white robe stinking of slum dirt and dried mud.
Erika stood there. The morning wind blew through his empty right sleeve. He looked down at Darren, who was rolling on the ground, foaming at the mouth from sheer terror. Then he looked up at the "most adorable baby" of Darenz, clinging to Cole from behind like a lifeline, refusing to let go.
Erika suddenly felt that he was the real madman here.
"Eeeee-yaaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
Darren's shriek ruptured the air inappropriately, like a rusted blade stabbing into the eerie silence.
"I am your master! Hahahahahaha!"
Erika looked down. Darren, previously paralyzed by fear, was now thrashing on the gravel, his laughter shrill and piercing. It rose and fell like a dying animal desperately struggling under a heavy boot. Whatever clarity had left him 'ashen-faced' moments ago was pulverized, leaving only the jagged shards of absolute lunacy.
But Erika— Erika actually let out a breath.
It wasn't a sigh of relief. It wasn't a burden lifting. It was the sound of a bowstring, stretched to the absolute breaking point, suddenly snapping. It was jarring, yes, but at least it proved the string was still real. At least Darren was still mad. At least this brand of madness was familiar, understandable, and required no guessing.
It was infinitely better than— He looked back up at those two.
From the moment Linglong hugged Cole. From that exact second.
Erika saw the elegant dark silk and the filthy white cloth pressed tightly together. He saw Cole's back encircled by those arms. He saw the man who, just minutes ago, was roaring "I'm coming over right now to kill you," now held fast, utterly motionless.
He didn't push away. He didn't struggle. He offered zero resistance. He just stood there. Like a man nailed to the earth.
Erika couldn't see Cole's face. But he could see the hand hanging at Cole's side. That hand slightly opened, then slightly curled back in. It was a microscopic, agonizing hesitation over whether to lift up and return the embrace. The movement was so subtle, so fragmented, that it would be invisible to anyone not staring directly at it.
It was an unconcealable wavering.
A wave of visceral revulsion washed over Erika. It wasn't disgust. It wasn't hatred. It was something deeper—an indescribable, profound wrongness. Like seeing a beggar suddenly don a king's crown, like hearing a feral dog suddenly purr. It felt like seeing Cole no longer being Cole.
And Linglong—the silhouette once haloed by sunlight, now fully in focus—had his eyes blissfully closed. He was nuzzling into Cole's filthy shoulder, the corner of his mouth hooked into an utterly satisfied smile. A smile that looked exactly like someone who had waited an eternity for this precise moment.
Erika stood a few steps away. He didn't know what to do. He just waited. He waited for anyone—anything—to break this suffocatingly bizarre tableau.
"What's wrong with that one?"
Linglong's voice came muffled from within the tangle of robes, carrying a languid laziness, as if he were just waking from a pleasant dream. He opened his eyes, his chin still resting on Cole's shoulder. His gaze drifted past the dirty white robe, landing on Darren, who was still rolling on the gravel, still screaming, "I am your master."
"Is he the pet you brought for me, Cole?" he asked. The tone was airy, matter-of-fact, like asking what was for breakfast.
Cole still hadn't moved. The dirty robe held by Linglong remained perfectly still, like a statue hollowed of its soul.
Erika stood rooted to the spot. The morning light grew harsher. Darren kept laughing.
Pet.
That single word dropped into Erika's ears. It made him think of the crawling monstrosities in the food stall. The shadows darting across the dark streets. The twisted figure curled in the corner of that ruined mansion.
Was Darren—in his current state—more like a "pet" than they were?
Erika didn't know. He only knew that the moment the word left Linglong's lips, Darren—who had briefly inspired a shred of pity in Erika—was instantly reduced to an object utterly devoid of human dignity. Something that could be gifted, received, and naturally referred to as a "pet."
Erika tightened his grip on his empty right sleeve. He suddenly, desperately wanted to know: in those lazy, pristine eyes of Linglong... what exactly did he count as?
Just another "gift" Cole had conveniently dragged along for the ride?