CHAPTER 14 :- BLOOD, POWER AND DESPERATION.

Calon.

The warehouse was eerily silent now, the only sound the slow, rhythmic drip of blood onto the cold concrete.

Drip.

Drip.

Calon forced himself to turn his head, his vision swimming. A few feet away, the shadow user's body lay still. Once arrogant, once untouchable—now reduced to something pitiful. A lifeless corpse.

A hoarse chuckle bubbled up from Calon's throat, tasting thick with iron.

"Hah… cough… cough… Bet you didn't see that coming, huh?" His voice was weak, barely more than a rasp.

His own words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.

Pain flared through his chest as he tried to move. He could feel it now—how deep the wounds were. How much blood he was losing. It was pouring from him, warm against his skin, pooling beneath him like a broken dam. His heartbeat, once steady and strong, was slowing—thudding unevenly in his ears like a distant drum fading into the horizon.

The warehouse around him was hollow, empty yet alive with sound. The groan of rusted metal beams settling above. The distant scurry of rats hidden in the shadows. The wind slipping through shattered windows, whispering through the rafters like ghosts.

The world didn't stop just because he was dying.

His lungs pulled in air with a wet, rattling struggle. His nerves fired off their final signals, his fingers twitching weakly against the rough, dust-covered floor. The hum of his failing body filled his ears—the sloshing rush of blood, the weakening crackle of electricity in his brain.

He muttered something under his breath. Maybe a final prayer. Maybe nothing at all.

Then—footsteps.

Not the slow, methodical march of officers, but fast, purposeful strides.

A sharp, familiar voice cut through the haze.

"Calon!"

His sluggish mind barely registered it, but the name struck something deep within him. Hope. Maybe.

Through the dim, flickering light, a figure rushed in. She moved like she owned the space, clad in tactical gear, a long coat sweeping behind her. Her brown eyes—sharp, assessing—locked onto his crumpled form. A flicker of relief crossed her face before she knelt beside him, all efficiency and control.

"Hold still," she muttered, pulling a small, glowing device from her belt. She slapped it onto his chest.

A jolt of warmth spread through him, dulling the agony. Not a miracle cure. But enough to keep him alive.

"R-Reyna…?" Calon rasped, barely able to form the word.

"It's me, Calon. Everything's going to be alright," she answered, tone brisk but steady. "You're lucky we weren't too late, or you'd be a corpse by now."

His vision blurred. His body felt distant, weightless.

"The… man… he—"

Reyna's gaze flicked to the decapitated body with a hardened gaze. "We'll deal with that later. Right now, you need to focus on staying alive."

He barely registered her standing before she waved to the incoming officers.

"Over here! I need a stretcher, now!"

Boots pounded against the floor as officers rushed forward. He felt Reyna's hand on his shoulder—firm, grounding.

"You're not dying on me, Calon."

He wanted to believe her.

But as his eyes fluttered shut, darkness took him.

The Rodriguez Estate

The grand hall of the Rodriguez estate shimmered under the glow of crystal chandeliers, their golden light casting elegant patterns across the polished marble floors. Laughter and music filled the space, nobles dressed in fine silks and tailored suits mingling with glasses of expensive wine in hand. It was a scene of wealth and status—wealth that Jatom Rodriguez did not possess.

Yet, here he was, dressed in an ill-fitted black suit, weaving through the crowd with a forced smile, shaking hands with men who barely acknowledged him. His laughter was too loud, his gestures too exaggerated, his desperation bleeding through every word. He needed their approval. He needed their favor.

Celine, draped in an elegant white gown, played the game with ease. Her hand rested lightly on the arm of a nobleman, her laughter soft and melodic, her whispers laced with flirtation. She knew how to make them look her way, how to make them linger.

In the corner, away from the spectacle, James sat with a drink in hand. His fingers curled around the glass, the coolness pressing against his palm as he stared at the swirling liquid inside. The suit he wore—perfectly tailored to his fifteen-year-old frame—should have made him feel powerful. Important. Yet, all he felt was disgust.

This party wasn't for him. It wasn't even for his father.

It was for them.

The nobles. The elite. The ones his family groveled before, spending what little they had to put on this facade, all in the desperate hope of gaining favor with the S.A.M.T.

It was pathetic.

And James knew it would never be enough.

He clenched his jaw, his mind drifting elsewhere.

Dio should have been here by now.

Where was he?

Had something happened?

Had he been caught?

Had he been killed?

A smirk ghosted over James' lips at the thought. A painful, agonizing death would be fitting for someone like Dio. The bastard deserved it.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the presence looming over him until the chair beside him creaked.

A heavy weight seemed to settle in the air.

The man who had sat down was tall, broad-shouldered, his black S.A.M.T. uniform pressed and immaculate. Four silver stars gleamed on his shoulders—a mark of his rank. Elite. Level 4.

James' gaze flickered over to the man's neck, where jagged tattoos crawled up toward his jaw. A beast warrior. One of the four ability classifications.

Piercing green eyes locked onto him, pinning him in place.

"I respect your brother deeply, you know?" the man said, his voice deep, steady. "Came all the way to this backwater estate just to see what the brother of Eric Frostbound was made of."

James swallowed thickly.

Eric. Always Eric.

His hands curled into fists under the table.

He forced himself to meet the man's gaze. "And… what do you see?"

The man held his stare for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose. Unimpressed.

"Someone not worth mentioning."

Then, without another word, he stood and walked away.

Silence.

The nearby nobles had heard. James could feel their eyes on him, their disdain, their amusement. Their whispers slithered through the air like venom.

Weak.

The word echoed in his skull, rattling through his bones.

His nails dug into his palms, hard enough to draw blood.

He'd show them.

He'd show them all.

Through gritted teeth, he muttered under his breath, voice trembling with rage—

"Where the hell is Dio?"

A voice answered from behind him.

"I am right here."

James jerked, twisting around sharply.

Dio stood before him, silent as ever. The black leather jacket, black trousers, and black boots remained unchanged—an image of dark simplicity against his striking white hair and piercing red eyes.

James scowled, more out of frustration than fear. "How do you do that?—No, whatever, I don't care." He waved a hand dismissively. "Did you get it?"

Dio gave a curt nod.

James' heart pounded. He grabbed Dio by the wrist and pulled him away from the crowd, weaving through the corridors until they reached a secluded corner.

His breath came faster now, excitement surging through his veins.

"Where is it?"

Dio, ever calm, reached into his jacket and produced the package.

A small, metallic-gray box. Strange markings shimmered faintly on its surface, pulsing with an eerie energy.

James' breath hitched.

His fingers trembled as they brushed against it. These box contained what he needs the most, the one thing that he would use to shoot up the ladder surpassing his elder brother.

The Elysium Serum.

He could almost taste victory.