"As the one who issued the mission from behind the scenes, it's ridiculous that you don't recognize me."
A sarcastic laugh echoed, giving Harold a sense of direction. He turned toward the window.
Sure enough, in front of the lattice window stood a man in black. His eyes, hidden in the shadows, were fixed intently on Harold.
A chill ran through Harold's body. He staggered backward several steps until he bumped into the cabinet and barely managed to stay upright.
He swallowed hard.
Harold was no fool. The moment he saw the man, he already knew who had come.
The Bounty Hunter.
But… how did the Bounty Hunter know I was the one who issued the mission?
Shouldn't he have gone after Ward?
Did Ward betray me?
How did he even get in here?
Harold's thoughts raced as panic threatened to take over. But he forced himself to calm down.
It had to be that damn Ward! That brat betrayed me!
It was impossible for the Bounty Hunter to be working with the Hand. If they were after him, the Hand would've made their move directly.
Besides the Hand, the only person who knew he was alive and living here... was Ward.
A cold glint flashed in Harold's eyes.
If Ward really betrayed me—even if he's my son—I won't let him go.
But first, I need to get out of this mess.
Harold's expression changed instantly. He forced a confused look and said, "What are you talking about?"
"Playing dumb?"
Blaine sneered, pulling the elemental bow from behind his back. Elemental arrows formed in an instant. "As the first person bold enough to skip the commission, I'll make sure you die a miserable death."
There's only one outcome for refusing to pay the commission: death.
Blaine knew that clearly.
If he didn't handle this cleanly, it would cause problems down the road. Once word got out, the reputation he had just built—the aura of power and fear—would crumble.
If one person gets away with it, there will be a second. Then a third. Eventually, chaos.
Even if Blaine hunted them all down one by one, people driven by greed would still rush into this forbidden zone.
After all, those so-called big shots always thought they were clever and untouchable.
They lived lives licking blood from the blade, and as long as there was a chance, they wouldn't hesitate to snatch a strand of hair from a god's head.
"If that guy dodged, why can't I?"
"Better to gamble than lose that much money..."
This is the consequence.
And Blaine couldn't let it start. This door must never be opened.
Though truth be told, beyond the logic and necessity—Blaine just found Harold irritating.
He was just… annoying.
That smug face made Blaine want to step on it.
That's why he hadn't killed Harold right away.
Poor Harold had no idea what Blaine was really thinking.
As Blaine drew the bowstring and the elemental arrow condensed, Harold felt an overwhelming pressure envelop him. His heart pounded wildly under the weight of Blaine's killing intent.
"I remember now!"
Harold suddenly acted as though he'd been enlightened, his expression urgent: "It was my son! He told me about the mission—he gave it to you!"
He was indeed a remarkable liar—able to lie so smoothly even now.
If Blaine didn't have a system, or hadn't watched enough TV shows, he might've been fooled.
Blaine slowly lowered the bow.
Seeing this, Harold sighed in relief. While trying to stay calm, he quietly reached into the cabinet behind him, groping for the pistol hidden inside.
This guy… really thought I'd fall for that?
But Blaine didn't waste more time.
He raised the bow again—this time, without mercy or a single word. He strummed the string lightly, like playing a guitar. The elemental arrow instantly formed and shot out.
Whoosh—
The air split with a sharp whistle.
The arrow's speed wasn't absurdly fast—but it didn't need to be.
If it were a trained Hand ninja, they might have dodged it. But that didn't mean they could withstand it. Even without elemental enhancements, the arrows fired from the elemental bow weren't something low-tier fighters could take.
And Harold wasn't even a ninja.
The only combat training he had was over ten years of boxing—alone, in this very apartment.
He tried to dodge.
He failed.
The arrow tore through his left palm and pinned it to the wall behind him. Blood sprayed like an exploding pouch, painting the wall crimson.
"…AHHH!!"
Harold's eyes bulged. He let out a suppressed beast-like scream. His face flushed as cold sweat poured down like rain.
Opening his right hand, he pressed against the wound on his pinned palm, trembling but not daring to move.
But he was Harold, after all.
In the TV series, to hide from the Hand, he had once cut off his own fingers with a knife. Slowly. Not in one go.
He had endured worse.
This pain—he could still handle it.
"Do you think I'm an idiot, Harold?"
Blaine, still holding the elemental bow, shrugged nonchalantly. He poured himself a glass of vodka, downed it like he was in his own home, then frowned.
The pale yellow vodka swirled in his glass.
He shook his head. "Doesn't taste very good."
He put the glass down, raised the bow again, and looked coldly at Harold.
"You're just like this vodka. Looks good. Smells good. But drinking it?"
He sneered.
"Disgusting."
"No! Please!"
Harold's face turned ghostly pale. Despite the pain in his left hand, he raised his right and shouted, trying to stop him: "It was me! I gave the mission! But if you let me go, I'll give you 300 million! Cash!"
Blaine nodded slowly.
"Well… knowing how to adapt to the situation. You're not completely useless."
Harold felt a flicker of hope.
But Blaine's next words killed it.
His expression darkened. He lifted the bow again, eyes narrowing as he sneered:
"But this time… I didn't come for money."
"I came because I just don't like you."
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