"As if I'd dare bring such a cheap gift—"
Cole's voice drifted from the tangled heap of robes, dripping with that familiar, insufferable lilt.
"—to our most precious darling in Darenz..."
He didn't finish. A hand clamped over his mouth. Linglong's hand.
It had slipped from Cole's shoulder—fast as a striking snake, yet light as a feather—smothering the lower half of Cole's face.
Cole's words died in his throat.
"Say that again."
Linglong's voice drifted over Cole's shoulder. It was still airy, but laced with something else now. Like sparks flying off a whetstone. Like the split second before a red-hot iron meets flesh.
"And I'll rip your tongue out."
The face that had been blissfully buried in Cole's shoulder just moments ago now lifted. Linglong stared dead at the back of Cole's head, eyes locked on like a predator watching cornered prey.
Cole didn't move. The hand remained sealed over his mouth. A gag. A shackle.
One second. Two. Then—
Cole wrenched himself free!
The movement was violent, like he'd been stung. He stumbled a step, caught his balance, and backed away rapidly—not toward the estate, but toward Erika.
The hem of his robe flared and fell. He positioned himself squarely in front of Erika, using his own filthy body as a shield against Linglong.
"Go slap him a few times."
Cole's voice was a low whisper, but Erika caught every word.
He froze. Slap who?
Then he followed Cole's gaze to the ground. Darren was still rolling in the dirt, still shrieking, "I am your master!"
—
Erika didn't ask why. He just did as Cole said. He walked right up to Darren.
Darren was thrashing, spitting absolute nonsense. "Rebellion! Mutiny! You're all my slaves! Hahahaha—"
Erika raised his foot. A single kick sent Darren sprawling.
The heavy boot caught Darren in the ribs, flipping his rolling body flat onto his back.
"Rebellion! Rebellion!" Darren's wails turned shrill. He clawed blindly at the sky, grasping at nothing.
Erika didn't care. He waited for an opening—just a split-second gap in those flailing arms—and lunged.
His knees slammed into the dirt on either side of Darren, pinning down that thrashing waist with brutal force. The impact sent a jolt of pain up his own legs, but he didn't ease up. He threw his entire body weight into keeping the twitching man anchored to the grass.
Darren's face was right beneath him. Ghastly pale. Contorted. Strings of saliva and sour vomit clung to the corners of his mouth. His eyes were blown wide, seeing absolutely nothing, swimming in pure madness.
Erika raised his left hand. The morning sun caught his knuckles, casting them in sharp relief.
He didn't hesitate. Without an ounce of mercy, he brought his hand down across Darren's face.
SMACK!
A sharp crack shattered the morning stillness.
Darren's screaming cut off. The blow whipped his contorted face to the side, sending a spray of spit flying into the grass.
Erika didn't stop. He raised his hand again.
SMACK!
Another ringing blow. After those two hits, the fight drained out of Darren instantly.
The face that had been twisting and shrieking just seconds ago now lay limp against the turf. Blood and unidentifiable fluid leaked from the corner of his lips. His eyes fluttered half-closed, his mouth letting out only faint, unconscious whimpers.
It was as if something—the violence? Or something else entirely?—had forcibly reconnected the snapped wires in his brain.
Erika knelt over him, chest heaving, gasping for air.
Ever since he set foot in Darenz—from that cursed food stall, to the warehouse, to the street of 'respectable' people, all the way to this bizarre estate—a heavy, suffocating weight had been pressing down on his chest.
Now, it was gone.
It felt like kicking away a boulder blocking a road. Like a hangman's noose suddenly snapping. His lungs expanded, pulling in deep, desperate drags of air. Even his racing heart began to steady.
Whoosh—
Erika exhaled. It was a long, slow breath, wringing out all the pent-up frustration, rage, terror, and confusion of the past few days, dumping it all into the crisp morning air of Darenz.
He pushed himself up. Standing over Darren, he looked down at the lopsided face and the half-dead sprawl of limbs. He no longer looked like a monster or a madman. Just a wilted, broken... person.
Erika swiped at his clothes. There wasn't much point. The white robe was already stained beyond recognition, caked with mud, blood, sweat, and god-knows-what else. But he patted the fabric anyway. A quiet, grounding ritual.
Then, he turned around. He looked at Cole and Linglong.
—
Cole stood right where he'd left him, the filthy robe swaying in the breeze. His expression? Erika couldn't tell. The sun was glaring, casting Cole's face in deep shadow. Only a blurred silhouette remained.
Linglong stood beside him. But Linglong's hand... was covering his own eyes.
The same hand that had gagged Cole was now pressed against Linglong's face, fingers slightly parted. It was impossible to tell if he was shielding his eyes from the sun, or from the violence. His lips still held a curve, but it was strange now. Like a smile fighting a grimace.
Erika stared at that hand, the phantom sting of the slaps still humming in his own palm. The wet sound. The jarring impact. The way Darren's body had convulsed.
Was Linglong watching? Or was he... too afraid to look?
—
"Grab him, Erika."
Cole's voice broke the silence. He was back to his usual, casual drawl, acting as if he'd just asked Erika to pick up a dropped bag instead of an unconscious man.
"We'll talk inside."
Inside. Inside where?
Erika followed Cole's gaze toward the looming white estate. The manicured lawn, the dark green window trims, the pristine columns framing the porch.
Inside. This place? The house that made those wet, fleshy plop sounds? The house that had shattered Darren's mind?
—
"This is my territory."
Linglong spoke up. His voice was muffled behind his hand, carrying a strange edge. Erika couldn't quite place it. Was it grievance? Or raw arrogance?
Linglong didn't move his hand, but the smirk on his lips deepened.
My territory. Two words. Spoken lightly, but they hammered into the heavy air like iron spikes.
Erika suddenly understood. This wasn't a casual remark. It was a declaration. A warning to Cole: You left and came back. You brought two strays. You let them draw blood on my front lawn. But do not forget—whose domain you are standing in.
—
Cole scratched his head.
It was such an ordinary, mundane gesture that Erika almost didn't believe his eyes. The ever-confident, infuriatingly unreadable Cole was scratching the back of his neck like a kid caught breaking a window.
"Come on, don't be mad."
Cole's tone shifted entirely. The playful lilt was gone. It was softer, lower. He was coaxing him.
"It won't happen again."
—
Erika stood frozen, watching them. One hiding his eyes. One scratching his head. One claiming his territory. One promising no next time.
The morning sun washed over them, turning their ruined robes a dull grey. Dew sparkled on the grass, Darren groaned in the dirt, and that suffocating, eerie silence still shrouded the estate.
Erika suddenly felt like he had crashed headfirst into the middle of someone else's ghost story.
—
He looked back down at Darren. The guy was at least a head taller than him. He looked like a heap of crushed garbage, completely lifeless save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
How the hell am I supposed to carry him?
Erika mentally ran through his options. Fireman's carry? Not with one arm. Piggyback? He'd slide right off without a hand to secure him. Drag him by the wrists? He'd have to hunch over the whole way. Exhausting.
He stood there, staring at the body, totally stumped.
"If he's that uncomfortable, he'll get up himself, Erika."
Cole's voice floated over, light and airy, treating the whole situation as a joke.
Erika blinked. He looked up. The two of them were already walking toward the house, their mismatched silhouettes shrinking in the light. Cole hadn't even looked back. He'd just tossed the statement over his shoulder like a universal truth.
Makes sense.
Erika looked down at Darren. Uncomfortable? After taking those hits, the guy was definitely miserable. If he was really hurting, survival instinct should kick in. He'd get up and follow them rather than be left out here to rot.
Erika stopped overthinking it. He slid his boot under Darren's ankle and kicked upward. The leg flopped into the air like a dead snake. Erika ducked, catching the ankle under his armpit and clamping his left arm down tight.
Then— He just started walking.
He dragged Darren across the grass, leaving a long, flattened trail in the dew. Darren's head bounced against the turf, his arms trailing uselessly behind him like discarded cargo. He let out another muffled groan, but didn't wake up.
Erika didn't bother looking back. He just dragged the dead weight, step by heavy step, chasing the two fading figures toward the house.
—
"Oh, right."
Linglong stopped dead in his tracks. The voice drifted back, completely stripped of the soft, aggrieved tone from a moment ago.
Erika halted, looking up. Linglong hadn't turned around. He just stood with his back to them, casually raising one hand to point at the house.
"If I hear a single syllable—"
His voice spiked in volume.
"—next month's consumption tax is a hundred percent for everyone."
He shouted the last part. But it wasn't a roar of rage. It was ice-cold. Absolute. Like a king etching a new law into stone.
Consumption tax? Everyone?
Erika instinctively looked up at the estate. The black, tightly shut windows. Did one of the curtains just twitch? Or was it just a trick of the glaring light?
He couldn't be sure. But he felt it. The silence on the lawn shifted. It pulled taut, suffocatingly tight. It felt as though an invisible, colossal hand had just reached down and squeezed the entire estate, the lawn, and the very air they breathed.
Probably wasn't meant for me, Erika thought.
He glanced down at Darren, who was still groaning, completely oblivious to the world. He looked ahead at Cole. Cole was standing slightly behind Linglong, totally unfazed. No reaction at all. Like he knew the threat was coming.
Erika tightened his grip on Darren's ankle and resumed dragging.
Consumption tax? What does that have to do with me? Like I said. Wasn't meant for me anyway.