All Plotlines Stem from Imagination

Fyren glanced at the card and almost blurted out, "What's going on here?" He bit back the words, his mind racing, expression twitching. He opened his mouth, then clenched his jaw...

"Strategist," Fyren said, "don't you think fifty billion isn't enough?"

Strategist blinked. Gold King went rigid.

Not enough?! What does that mean? Gold King's thoughts spiraled.

Strategist swallowed hard. So fifty billion is just a deposit. The Three Kings before us each gave fifty billion as a guarantee.

"Fyren," he stammered, "see, we're different from those three. They had access to public funds. We only brought our unit's travel expenses—about twenty thousand yuan. You wouldn't want that, right?"

This was beyond Fyren's comprehension. He wasn't about to hound them for twenty grand. Scratching his head, he wondered: What's this about? Return the money to kill me?

Fyren pressed the bank card, tapping its edge. "You've been with Mighty Syndicate for years. Must have saved a fortune."

Their faces fell.

Bastard! Killing us would be easier than making us cough up our savings!

Strategist paled. "We have no savings. You must be joking, Fyren."

"Forget it." Fyren leaned back. "People call me a scoundrel, but I know what matters. There are things more important than money—don't you agree?"

Strategist was floored. He knows!

Before leaving the branch, he'd pocketed a premium recovery pill, the helmsman's prized possession. Only one existed in the entire syndicate, meant as an apology to Otto. With Otto in seclusion and Sherry unreliable, he'd kept it for emergencies.

How does he know about the pill? Has our organization been infiltrated? Were the Three Kings traitors from the start?

Fyren smiled. "Why the long face? Am I wrong?"

"Uh... N-no, you're right."

Fyren sighed, eyeing Gold King. "Hand it over."

Gold King knew what he wanted, but he couldn't let go. The premium recovery pill was a legend—he'd never even seen one. The primary recovery medicine was already the pinnacle of their arsenal.

This medicinal pill—even the Helmsman hadn't dared take it, keeping it sealed in a vacuum vial like a treasure. Handing it over to Fyren felt like tearing out his own heart. On the black market, it was priceless. Sure, you might spend a billion or two, but that seemed like pocket change. At a critical moment, a hundred billion couldn't match the power of this tiny pill.

Gold King hesitated, shooting a sideways glance. "What's the play, Tactician?"

"No games in front of Fyren," Tactician said. "He knows everything."

Fyren nodded quickly. "See, Gold King? Not as straightforward as Tactician here."

Watching Fyren's confident smirk, Gold King knew he was cornered. Reluctantly, he pulled the primary recovery pill from his pocket and passed it to Tactician, who placed it on the table. "Fyren, please accept this."

Fyren had no idea what it was! But he couldn't let on. Should he praise it or brush it off? He had no clue.

He picked up the small vial. A green pill floated inside, crystal-clear with intricate patterns. "Is this the only one?"

Tactician nearly lost his mind. "Fyren, I don't know where you heard this, but our branch has only one primary recovery pill! Swear to God—only one! If I'm lying, you can have us killed right now. I won't say a word!"

Fyren's eyes narrowed. Ah! These fools thought they'd stumbled onto a rival gang in the hotel. He'd snuck here with his secretary for a quick fling, and they'd mistaken him for part of some big operation.

Fyren smiled and pocketed the pill. "Of course I trust you, Tactician. Since we've sorted this out, you can stay here. Chloe, go check us out."

As he dressed, Fyren added, "I have a meeting, so I can't stay. I'll cover your expenses—food, lodging. If you need… company, find your own. This is a respectable hotel."

"Thank you, Fyren. Can we leave now?"

"Sure, it's all sorted."

In the elevator, Fyren felt a chill. Fear was the worst. Even though he'd stayed calm, he could still feel adrenaline in his veins. He took out his bank card, stared at it for a long time, then put it away.

"Crafty bastards!" he muttered. "And Tactician? I tried to play it cool today… but ended up dealing with two maniacs."

Chloe laughed. "Fyren, were you really scared?"

"Not at all," Fyren lied. "I was going for cool, but these lunatics threw me off."

And with that, Fyren was gone.

Tactician stalked down the corridor, every shadow feeling like a trap. "Pack fast—we're changing hotels," he hissed to Gold King.

They flung belongings into bags, bolted from the room, and jumped into a taxi. The journey was a game of shadows: switching cabs, splitting up, then reuniting in secret—like spies in a bad movie. At last, they slipped into a dingy guesthouse.

Tactician collapsed onto a hard bed with a groan. "Their reach is everywhere..."

Gold King frowned. "We told Helmsman about the fifty billion—he said to give it to Young Lord. Now what?"

"Contact Helmsman for backup. Wait for Young Lord to emerge, then launch a joint strike. Intel says Fyren is Herbert's mole. Any outfit that can field a Central Quadportal master like Herbert is no joke."

Just then, Gold King stiffened. "Tactician—did you hear that?"

A raspy voice echoed:

"Hadoken!"

"ta tsu ma ki sen puu kya ku!"

They shot up, blood pressure spiking. "Bastards! We returned the money, gave the elixir—they're still hunting us!"

"Let's fight!" Gold King snarled.

"Wait..." Tactician listened again:

"Ding, ding!"

"Hadoken!"

"Yayayay!"

"Hadoken!"

They crept to a video game machine. Two kids were glued to the screen, mashing buttons. Onscreen, Ken and Ryu hurled Hadokens and Tatsumaki Senpukyaku.

Gold King and Tactician watched in silence, then squeezed their eyes shut.

Tactician pointed at the screen, then at Gold King. "This is absurd."

"So... the hotel kid was playing games, shouting Hadoken... Fyren checked in with his secretary by chance... and we gave him fifty billion and the recovery pill... Is that the reality, Tactician?"

Tactician was speechless. "I... suppose..."

"You overreacted!" Gold King stamped his foot. "Fifty billion! Fyren's probably laughing his ass off!"

Tactician groaned. "That son of a bitch Herbert—he used crappy video game moves to con Young Lord into thinking he's a master!"

"Now what? If this leaks, we'll be disgraced for life!"

"Not a chance!" Tactician wiped his forehead, hands shaking with rage. "That bastard Herbert! I trusted him! This must stay buried. If Helmsman finds out, he'll tear us apart."

"But we told him about the fifty billion—he and Young Lord are expecting results!"

"Find Herbert."

"Find him?"

"Track him down, seize his funds, and pretend Fyren handed over the fifty billion. Otherwise, we're dead. After we kill Herbert, we shake down Fyren for more. We'll each pocket three or five billion, then eliminate him. Clean and simple."

The plan was reckless. Their overthinking had led to this mess. If a rival organization existed, they could blame the theft. But there was no such group. Losing fifty billion wasn't just about the money—it was a death sentence. Helmsman would destroy them.

They were tied together by this mess—sink or swim.

"Brilliant," Gold King breathed. "Tactician, you've turned disaster into opportunity."

Relief washed over them. They were true comrades now: one success, both thrive; one failure, both perish.

"But where is Herbert?"

Tactician smirked. "Recall the footprint I found?" He produced a plastic bag. "This red soil exists only in one place in Northlandia."

"Where?"

"Foolish Hill, Crystalpeak City. The old man's boots were caked in its mud—he must be there."

"Then what are we waiting for? Central Quadportal peak be damned! Together, we can take him down."

"Right," Tactician snarled through clenched teeth. "Let's move."