Chapter 122: Chapter 75: Preparations (8)
The man kept running. His legs could barely carry him. Every few steps he stumbled and fell, but he would immediately get up again and continue running frantically, like an animal fleeing its predator. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling violently with every gasp. Sweat covered his entire face, and with every step his clothes became muddier.
Finally, after constant running, he caught sight of a large building at the end of the road, surrounded by armed guards whose arms bore the Skull tattoo. He sprinted toward it with everything he had, and just before reaching the iron gate, two guards blocked his path. When he stopped in front of the gate, they immediately raised their weapons toward him.
He lifted his hands and began waving them frantically while shouting between gasps:
"Wait! No... no! I’m from the factory! The factory... was attacked!"
The two guards exchanged a quick glance, then one of them grabbed his arm and forced him to stand straight before saying:
"What are you babbling about? What attack?"
The man began explaining what happened. His face was pale, his eyes unfocused. The guards listened to everything he said, unable to hide their shock.
After he finished explaining everything, one of them gestured to the other, and they allowed him inside. They even left the gate wide open and unguarded. None of them noticed the figure moving among the buildings across the street, watching the scene with amusement behind his mask.
Jevan, who was walking near the gate, lazily rubbed the back of his head and muttered sarcastically:
"Really? They just leave the gate wide open like that? They seriously need better guards. I suppose I’ll help them with that."
Then he walked in after them, his hands clasped behind his head.
Inside, the corridor was long and narrow, filled with the smell of cigarettes. The floor was covered in spotless gray tiles, and the walls were decorated with portraits of stern looking men, most of them in formal suits.
The man ran down the corridor, followed by three guards escorting him, until they reached the end of the hall where a large black painted wooden door stood. One of the guards stepped forward and knocked.
Moments passed until a calm, steady voice came from inside:
"Enter."
The guard opened the door, and they all stepped in. The room was spacious but dimly lit. Behind a massive wooden desk sat a young man he looked to be in his early twenties. His hair was jet black, his eyes a dark brown. His skin was unnaturally pale, almost corpse like, and his face was extremely thin. In his right hand, he held a small black pen engraved with tiny runes along its edges.
He lifted his gaze from the papers on his desk toward the group, giving them all a brief glance before his eyes settled on the trembling man standing before him.
"What is it? And who is this?"
One of the guards answered firmly:
"Mr. Frimora, this man says the factory was attacked and all the guards were wiped out. He claims to be the only survivor."
Jackson Frimora raised both eyebrows, surprise flashing across his face for a moment before it was quickly replaced by a mask of calm composure. He set the pen aside and said:
"The factory was attacked? How? Who would dare?"
But before anyone could answer, the air in the room rippled, and suddenly, countless playing cards appeared around them. They began to spin in a tight spiral, then shot forward at the guards and the man. They didn’t even have time to scream before the cards pierced their flesh and dropped them dead on the floor.
From the doorway, Jevan entered quietly, rubbing the back of his head with his hand like a guest arriving late to an unimportant meeting. He sat on the chair opposite Jackson’s large desk, crossed one leg lazily over the other, and rested his elbow on the table as if he were in a café.
Jackson lifted his gaze toward Jevan and looked straight into the mask hiding his face, into those cold crimson eyes behind it. Then he said in a low voice:
"So, you’re the one who attacked my factory?"
Jevan waved his hand, then pointed to himself with an exaggerated, theatrical gesture and said in an overly dramatic tone:
"Yes, it’s me. And now, do you know why I’ve come here, Mr. Jackson Frimora?"
Jackson’s eyes narrowed as he clenched his teeth and said:
"To get rid of me."
Jevan clapped his hands together, a mocking smile curling behind his mask.
"Excellent guess. Well done."
He pulled a card from his pocket, flicked it into the air toward Jackson. The card shot forward with incredible speed toward Jackson’s face, but Jackson raised his hand and blocked it before it hit him. The card embedded itself into his palm. Yet no blood came out, and he showed no sign of pain.
Jackson stared at the card stuck in his hand for a moment, then pulled it out and looked at it before tossing it to the floor. He spoke in a calm tone heavy with menace:
"So, the rumors of your return were true."
Jevan had no idea what the man was talking about. He didn’t even know him. He cursed the original Jevan in his head, then said:
"Oh, so the news got around, huh? Looks like I’m famous again. How shocking."
Jackson said sharply as he placed his wounded hand on the desk:
"What’s your purpose for coming back?"
Jevan drew another set of cards from his coat and began shuffling them smoothly between his right and left hands before saying:
"The reason? It’s very simple."
He threw a handful of cards toward Jackson; they turned into sharp daggers midair. Jackson leapt from his chair, ducking just in time to avoid them. The daggers slammed into the wall behind him, then reverted back into cards.
Jevan brushed his hands on his clothes and said:
"To get rid of a few bastards I couldn’t finish off in the past."
The line was strong, but completely devoid of sincerity. Jevan didn’t even remember this man at all. He had only come to eliminate him to fulfill that spirit’s wish nothing more, nothing less. In truth, he couldn’t care less about killing Jackson.