"Hmph. I can't afford that kind of consumption anyway."
Erika heard Cole mutter under his breath. The words barely escaped his clenched teeth—a low, venomous hiss laced with disdain and a bitter edge of self-mockery.
Erika, still hauling Darren's dead weight, paused mid-step.
What did that mean? The consumption tax? Or something else entirely? He started to look up to ask, only to see Cole already jogging back toward Linglong. The ruined white robe swayed in the morning light as Cole quickly caught up to the equally filthy prince. The two huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, whispering something Erika couldn't hear.
Erika's fingers dug into Darren's ankle, his knuckles whitening from the sudden pressure. But just as quickly, his grip relaxed. He swallowed the question down his dry throat.
In a place like this, his fists and his paranoia were useless; they had no target to strike.
Who am I even going to ask? Forget it. He turned away and resumed dragging Darren toward the looming estate.
Step by heavy step.
A long, ugly trench was being carved into the manicured lawn. Dew-soaked blades of grass were crushed flat, exposing the dark, damp soil beneath. Darren's body slid across the ruin, his head lolling with every jerk of Erika's stride like a boneless sack of meat.
Darren still hadn't reacted. He didn't try to stand. He barely even groaned. His eyes were bruised shut, his mouth hanging half-open as strings of bloody saliva trailed onto the grass.
Erika glanced down at him, the phantom sting in his own palm throbbing with a dull ache.
He forced his eyes forward and kept dragging.
"Leave that dripping lump of rotting meat on the grass."
The voice cracked through the quiet morning like a whip.
Erika looked up. Without realizing it, he had already reached Linglong's estate. No, not just the estate. He was standing directly at the foot of the front steps.
The massive double doors were thrown wide open. They were carved from dark, heavy wood, fitted with thick brass handles that gleamed with a dull, jaundiced yellow in the morning sun. Pristine white pillars framed the entrance, wrapped in climbing vines speckled with tiny, delicate white flowers.
But Erika's eyes weren't on the architecture. They were locked on the figure standing squarely in the doorway.
A maid.
She wore a sharp grey dress covered by an immaculate white apron. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, meticulously pinned bun. She could have been twenty, or maybe thirty. Her skin was porcelain pale, but her face was an absolute void. Not a single trace of emotion.
Her gaze swept down the high stone steps, treating Erika—and the ruined lump of flesh behind him—with the same regard one might give a dead rat.
"Do not dirty the master's carpet."
She didn't blink. She didn't sneer. Her voice was flat, carrying the chilling, absolute authority of someone who didn't view him as human.
Faced with that clinical, dead-eyed scrutiny, Erika felt his throat close up.
He stood frozen at the bottom of the steps, one boot still planted in the mud, Darren's limp ankle clamped under his arm. Behind him stretched a pathetic trail of crushed grass and bodily fluids.
The maid's eyes traced that ugly trail from the far end of the lawn all the way to Erika's boots, then flicked to the polished floor just inside the open door.
There was no disgusted frown. No gasp of horror. Looking at the blood-stained grass and the battered survivor, her expression was exactly the same as if she were looking at two leaky trash bags. The air thickened with a suffocating, aristocratic absolute zero.
It wasn't fear.
Erika parted his cracked lips, every muscle in his body twisting taut on sheer instinct. He had enough raw strength coiled in his limbs to tear a man apart. But standing here, facing this immaculate doorway and its invisible, suffocating rules, he felt nothing but a bizarre, paralyzing numbness.
He looked down at himself. His white robe was completely obliterated, caked in mud, sweat, his own blood, and Darren's sour vomit. He glanced back at Darren, who was sprawled in the dirt like a discarded, soggy rag.
Then he looked back up at the pristine estate. The gleaming marble floors. The manicured lawn. The glaring, hideous contrast between their world and the bloody trench he had just carved into it.
He was a complete outsider. Behind those doors operated a twisted, alien logic. His violence was utterly meaningless here.
Erika swallowed whatever he was going to say.
He let go. Darren's limp foot hit the dirt with a dull thud.
Then, Erika simply sat down on the grass. Right at the foot of the marble steps. Right under the maid's dead eyes. Right in front of the open gates of hell.
The damp earth immediately soaked through his ruined pants, biting into his skin with a bitter chill. But he didn't care.
He just sat there, staring blankly ahead.
Far across the lawn, Cole and Linglong were still huddled together. The morning sun washed over them, turning their filthy robes an ashen grey. They were walking slowly. Strolling. Chatting. Completely oblivious—or completely apathetic—to the fact that he was locked out.
Erika looked away. He sat in the mud and waited.
From the top of the steps came the faint, exasperated sigh of the maid. Beside him, Darren let out two weak whimpers, then fell silent.
The morning sun glared down, bright and unforgiving.
"Fetch a few buckets of water, Liz!"
Linglong's voice suddenly cracked across the lawn.
Sitting in the wet grass, Erika blinked. Liz?
A sharp, utterly undisguised scoff echoed from the top of the steps.
"Hmph." It was the maid. Hard heels immediately began to hammer against the marble floor.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
She was marching, driving her heels down as if trying to shatter the stone—or perhaps stomp the life out of the bastard who just barked an order at her. The heavy, resentful footsteps echoed through the grand foyer, growing fainter until they vanished into the dark belly of the estate.
Erika looked back out at the lawn.
Linglong was taking off his clothes as he walked.
What the hell? Erika's gaze darkened.
In the distance, Linglong yanked the ruined, blood-stained robe over his head, the motion as casual as a man changing for bed. His true physique was exposed—sturdier than the oversized robe had suggested, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and skin that looked sickly pale in the harsh daylight.
He tossed the soiled garment onto the manicured grass like trash.
As Linglong turned, his eyes met Erika's. The prince smiled.
It wasn't the mock-aggrieved pout from earlier, nor the glacial cruelty of a dictator levying a death tax. It was the bright, wicked, childish grin of a boy about to pull off a nasty prank.
Then, Linglong turned his back.
Minutes passed.
Heavy footsteps returned from within the house.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Three wooden buckets, brimming with ice-cold well water, were slammed down onto the marble at the top of the steps. The water violently sloshed over the rims, a few stray drops hitting the dirt right next to Erika's boot.
It was freezing. Just the ambient chill off the stray drops made the muscles in his leg twitch.
Linglong bounded up the steps. Shirtless, he grabbed a bucket by the handle and marched right back down onto the grass, heading straight for Cole.
Cole just stood there, still wrapped in his filthy robe.
SPLASH!
Without a second of hesitation, Linglong hurled the freezing water dead at Cole's chest!
The water exploded in midair, catching the sunlight in a brilliant, glittering arc—before slamming into Cole like a physical blow.
The heavy robe was instantly soaked, plastering itself against Cole's torso and outlining his gaunt, wiry frame. A disgusting slurry of black mud, sweat, and dried blood washed down Cole's face. It streamed over his eyes, down his nose, and past his lips, dripping steadily into the grass.
Erika sat motionless in the mud, his face a total blank, not even blinking.
Cole didn't curse. He didn't flinch. He just stood there, completely drenched, freezing water pouring off his chin.
And then—
Cole laughed.
It wasn't a dark, cynical chuckle. It wasn't a bitter scoff. It was a massive, exaggerated, chest-heaving roar of genuine amusement.
"Hahahahahaha!"
The sound was so loud, so jarringly out of place, that Liz actually took a half-step back from the doorway.
A piercing, venomous chill crawled up Erika's spine. He sat rigid as a tombstone in the wet dirt, silently watching this game of mad dogs.
Cole laughed so hard he doubled over, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Still cackling, he lunged forward—and grabbed the second bucket.
He moved with the blinding speed of a man who had planned it all along. He spun, hoisted the bucket, and viciously hurled the water back!
SPLASH!
A wall of water hit Linglong square in the chest! It crashed over his bare skin and plastered his hair to his still-smirking face.
Linglong staggered back from the impact, water streaming from his forehead and chin, making his pale skin glisten brightly in the morning sun.
He wasn't furious. He didn't call for the guards. He just threw his head back and laughed right along with him.
"Hahahaha!"
Erika sat perfectly still at the bottom of the steps. He watched the two men, soaked to the bone, howling like absolute lunatics in the front yard.
Beside him in the dirt, Darren let out a miserable, bubbling groan.
Up in the doorway, Liz rolled her eyes in profound disgust, turned on her heel, and walked away.
The morning light spilled over the manicured lawn, illuminating the overturned wooden buckets, and the two laughing bastards who simply couldn't stand up straight.