Gold King and Tactician had lurked in Foolish Hill for two days, painstakingly tracking every trace of human activity. But the clues kept shifting, driving them to the brink of madness.
That day, they split up to hunt for Herbert. As Gold King searched, he heard distant sounds—moans and cries that echoed like slaughter. He followed the noise, creeping closer until his foot sank into a rut. A gunshot rang out, and he collapsed, unable to rise. The bullet's speed outpaced the sound—now he understood.
Fyren and Zaring raced toward the commotion. Gold King heard them approaching but feared they'd come to finish him off. He struggled to his feet and fled. By the time Fyren arrived, only bloodstains marked the leaves, the figure vanished.
Fyren's good mood shattered. "This can't be!" he said, guilt gnawing at him. "How did the gun go off, Zaring?"
"My fault, Fyren," Zaring said. "The rental owner swore it was stable—must've lied."
Fyren was distraught. "We need to find him. If he dies out here, I'm no better than a murderer."
"The mountain's too vast."
"Follow the blood. I'll go ahead—get the first aid kit from the car."
Chloe hesitated. "Fyren, do we have to go deeper?"
"Wait in the car. Lock the doors—drive off if anything happens. Your safety comes first."
"I'm staying with you."
"You're exhausted—you can't keep up."
"I exercise. I'll be fine."
Fyren relented, and they pressed on.
Meanwhile, Hakan seethed. The 30-billion subsidiary—photos, videos, financial records made him sick. The company was a money pit, a Qingfeng Group asset they'd tried to offload for years. Even the local government had offered incentives, letting buyers pay a fraction upfront and deduct profits. Still, no takers.
That's business—tycoons avoid bargains. The cheaper it is, the harder to sell. Profitable ventures, though—those spark bidding wars. Price is irrelevant when both sides smell profit.
So Hakan had bought this decrepit company—already abandoned by Eliza in a backwater region—for $3 billion. The day he drove there, the county magistrate led villagers in a welcoming party.
The magistrate clasped Hakan's hand, tears in his eyes. "Thank you, Hakan! You're our county's savior! We finally have a hundred-million-dollar investment!" Villagers wept with joy, but Hakan skipped the ribbon-cutting, storming off with a dark scowl. On the drive out, grateful villagers pelted his car with eggs...
Thirty billion was no trivial sum, even for Hakan. He wasn't ruined, but the embarrassment festered. What kind of deal was this? He'd come to Northlandia to flaunt his prowess, to score a victory for his family to brag about. Instead, the inner circle was mocking him relentlessly. His father called to berate him for an hour about the "investment."
Hakan needed air. His judgment felt fogged—even his decisions seemed absurd. He'd followed Sabrina's advice religiously, yet every time he saw her, affection swelled. Why did her words sound so persuasive?
Hearing that Foolish Hill was an undeveloped geomantic site with prime hunting grounds, he took his entourage and Sabrina there. The wilderness excited him, and looking at Sabrina, he decided to make a move. Sabrina, exhausted from recent exertions—Fyren's constant evasion of her Pupil Arts had caused painful backlashes, and Hakan's daily demands required nonstop illusions—reluctantly dismissed the guards and activated her gaze.
Hakan, lost in Pupil Arts-induced delusion, hugged a tree and grunted like a boar, while Sabrina meditated wearily, restoring her essence. Meanwhile, Gold King—staggering after being shot—fled up the mountain. Hearing the commotion, he thought he was being hunted...
Gold King was on high alert. What was happening? Why was Foolish Hill so chaotic today? Everywhere he turned, trouble seemed to sprout like weeds. He hunched his shoulders, crouching low in the waist-high grass to hide his form.
By then, Hakan had finished "his business." A subordinate shouted, "Hakan! Over there—something big!"
Hakan raised his binoculars. Sure enough, a dark, hulking shape moved through the brush, only its broad back visible as it fled. He smirked. "What do we have here?"
Unlike Fyren's brute-force style with a double-barrel, Hakan preferred a sniper rifle. Precision, range—he was a diamond-level shooting club member, a marksman. Lifting the rifle, he aimed.
Thinking he'd put distance between himself and danger, Gold King rose slightly to pick up speed—making him an easier target. A sudden jolt slammed into his back, followed by a searing pain. He collapsed in the grass, blood spurting from his mouth. His abdomen was sticky with blood—a bullet had pierced through him.
Gasping, he fumbled for his walkie-talkie. "Tactician! Ambush! They set a trap—using women as bait while shooting! Help me! Help!" But the range was too great; no response came.
His face paled. He could only crawl forward.
Hakan's perfect shot sparked a chorus of flattery. "A godly shot, Hakan! First the women, then the beasts!"
Hakan pulled Sabrina close. "Tell me—am I better at shooting women or wild game?"
Laughter erupted. Sabrina thought bitterly: Idiot. In my eyes, you're just a wind-up doll. A toothpick thinking it's a spear. If you weren't useful, I'd make you my puppet. Aloud, she cooed, "Hakan, you're awful! Oh, the prey is getting away!" She changed the subject quickly—she knew Hakan and his men saw her as nothing but a plaything.
Hakan snorted. "Prey I want doesn't escape."
He led the group on foot, firing repeatedly. One shot drilled through Gold King's thigh. Seven bullets had found their mark. The Gold King lay dying, blood pooling around him. "This seduction trap is vicious... Never thought I'd die like this. Dammit... I refuse to go like this!"
Men, he thought, were no better than wild animals.
Gold King's senses were on high alert. What was this? Why was Foolish Hill so chaotic today? Everywhere he turned, it was as if traps had been laid to snare him. Hunching his shoulders, he tried to vanish into the waist-high grass, hiding his form.
By then, Hakan had finished "his business." A subordinate yelled, "Hakan! Over there—something big!"
Hakan raised his binoculars. A dark, hulking figure moved through the brush, its broad back visible as it fled. "What have we here?" he smirked.
Unlike Fyren's brute-force style with a double-barrel, Hakan preferred a sniper rifle. Precision, range—he was a diamond-level shooting club member, a master marksman. Lifting the rifle, he aimed.
Thinking he'd put safe distance between himself and danger, Gold King rose slightly to pick up speed—making him an easy target. A jolt slammed into his back, followed by searing pain. He collapsed in the grass, blood spurting from his mouth. His hand came away sticky with blood—a bullet had pierced clean through him.
Gasping, he fumbled for his walkie-talkie. "Tactician! Ambush! They set a trap—using women as bait to lure me, then shooting! Help me! Help!" But the range was too great; no response came.
His face paled. He could only crawl forward.
Hakan's perfect shot sparked a chorus of flattery. "A godly shot, Hakan! First the women, then the beasts!"
Hakan pulled Sabrina close. "Tell me—am I better at shooting women or wild game?"
Laughter erupted. Sabrina thought bitterly: Idiot. In my eyes, you're just a wind-up doll. A toothpick thinking it's a spear. If you weren't useful, I'd make you my puppet. Aloud, she cooed, "Hakan, you're awful! Oh, the prey is getting away!" She changed the subject quickly—she knew Hakan and his men saw her as nothing but a plaything.
Hakan snorted. "Prey I want doesn't escape."
He led the group on foot, firing repeatedly. One shot drilled through Gold King's thigh. Seven bullets had found their mark. The Gold King lay dying, blood pooling around him. "This seduction trap is vicious... Never thought I'd die like this. Dammit... I refuse to go like this!"
Men, he thought, were no better than wild animals—especially when hunting, which stoked their lust for conquest. Conquering women, beasts, nature, markets, the world...
Hakan swaggered now, leaving the beautiful woman behind as he led his lackeys in pursuit. When they closed in, they saw it was a man—still alive.
Gold King had lost so much blood he was disoriented, but he heard voices.
"Shit! Hakan—it's a person!"
Hakan scowled. "Dammit! What's a sane person doing in these mountains? Fucking bad luck!"
"Hakan, what do we do? Killing someone... we'll go to prison!"
"Shut up!" Hakan barked. "Do you dare question me? I'm Hakan! I make the rules here—there's no prison that can hold me!"
A man stepped forward. "Hakan, this will cause a scandal if it gets out. Trouble. No one's around here—why don't we just..."
Hakan nodded, a cruel plan taking shape. He eyed his subordinates. "You're all my brothers. Brothers handle problems together. Each of you put a bullet in him!"
They stared at each other, stunned.
"Look alive—do it now!"
They understood: they needed blood on their hands. If this blew up, Hakan would throw them under the bus. He had money—he'd pay them off, then silence them. No one dared refuse.
One lackey piped up: "Right! We're Hakan's brothers! What's to fear? Just a mountain vagabond—killing him is no different from stepping on a dog! I'll go first!"
Hakan smiled. "There we go. You first—others, get ready. Two shots each."
Gold King closed his eyes weakly. To think I, Gold King, so clever, would die at the hands of such trash.
No one could have guessed Hakan's inner evil would surface so brutally. After two more shots to his thigh, Hakan laughed wildly. "You—aim for his crotch! Blow his balls to hell! And you—get ready to shoot his fingers, one by one. Let's torture him a while..."
Hakan, I'll remember you! Even in death, I won't rest!
Just then, a voice yelled: "Stop! Hakan, you crazy bastard!"