645 “Gifts”
After Louis Berry left the coffee area, Kolobo breathed a sigh of relief. He removed his sunglasses, retrieved the 5,000 verl d’or, and counted it again.
Trouble always waits until it’s ready to explode, he thought, clutching his sunglasses.
He stood up and headed for the door.
Something was wrong. He could feel it. His body tensed with some kind of danger sense he couldn’t explain.
His heart raced as he scanned the place professionally, trying to pinpoint the danger. Kolobo’s footsteps changed–sometimes fast, sometimes slow. He’d zip off in one direction only to stop short a few paces later.
Kolobo took in the morning sun, the quiet shop that had just opened its doors, and the handful of customers scattered about. Not a single pair of eyes seemed fixed on him, and there was no one lurking in the shadows, observing his every move.
Yet, following his instincts, his feet carried him back to the coffee shop area. That’s where he finally stopped, in front of the bathroom sign.
Two years as a Beyonder taught Kolobo the most important lesson: trust your gut. Without thinking, he yanked open the heavy wooden door and walked inside.
The Matani Import and Export Shop wasn’t some back-alley dive. This restroom was big. Three urinals, three stalls, and gas lamps flickered on the clean tile.
Kolobo headed to the sink to splash cold water on his face. Maybe that would shake this weird danger feeling that was creeping all over him.
As he looked up, a face stared back at him in the mirror.
But it wasn’t his.
The face was freakishly white. The guy looked late twenties, with light brown skin and eyes that flashed a dark, sickly green. He stared at Kolobo with dead, cold eyes.
Kolobo’s brain short-circuited as recognition hit.
Twanaku Tupi??n, the only Prisoner pathway Beyonder on their patrol team. The guy had become a Sequence 6 Zombie last year.
He was also the first guy to ever make Kolobo’s skin crawl. If he told anyone else, he gut told him he’d end up dead!
When Lumian asked Kolobo to spill the beans about the Prisoner pathway Beyonder on his team, something about it felt wrong. He’d almost bailed on the whole deal. He’d counted that huge 50,000 sum not out of distrust but because he needed time to think, to weigh the risk.
He decided to trust his gut, but he hadn’t told Lumian about this feeling, this fear of Tupi??n…
And now, here Twanaku Tupi??n was, reflected in the mirror.
This is a Sequence 5 Wraith power. When did he advance? Kolobo could barely think over the growing horror. Suddenly, his body felt like it’d been dropped into an icy lake.
Kolobo could barely move. An icy coldness gripped him, the kind that chilled you to the bone.
“Looks like my cover is blown. You were actually asked to provide my information.
“I’ll get out of Port Pylos, but I’m going to leave two gifts for Lumian Lee.”
What did that even mean? What kind of gift? And who the heck was Lumian Lee? Kolobo’s thoughts were a jumbled mess. His own hands were tightening around his neck.
Then, with a sickening jolt, he realized what “gift” the voice was talking about.
Twanaku Tupi??n was going to kill him and leave a gift–his dead body!
But he said two gifts. What was the other one?
…
In the four-story beige building of the patrol team.
Camus sipped his Highlander coffee and read the West Balam Telegraph, contemplating the deal between Kolobo and Louis Berry.
If successful, as an intermediary, he would receive 20% of the amount.
Knock, knock, knock. A gentle rap echoed on Camus’s office door.
“Please come in.” Though not particularly young, Camus had ample experience, leading one of the patrol team’s operations teams. If there were a vacancy for the vice-captain position, his only competition would be Twanaku Tupi??n of the Prisoner pathway.
The Southern Continent was a chaotic place, especially in an area torn between multiple factions. Whether dealing with the bloodthirsty Rose School of Thought, the ominous Numinous Episcopate, ambitious adventurers, spies from various countries, or missionaries, danger lurked at every corner. Some would take the initiative to assassinate patrol team members, while others would rebel and escape. Meticulous planning was not uncommon, and even the patrol team members found themselves as targets. Consequently, the patrol team faced casualties every year, leading to a constant need for new recruits.
Encountering more attacks had its advantages. Victorious confrontations often yielded valuable items and Beyonder-related ingredients. Many of the patrol team’s advancement formulas and potions were acquired in such situations, creating a noteworthy trend.
Compared to cities of similar size in the Northern Continent, Port Pylos had an even greater number of official Beyonders, especially Mid-Sequence Beyonders. However, they lacked higher levels of power or corresponding Sealed Artifacts.
Camus found himself in a tight spot financially due to his rapid advancement outpacing his cousins.
Arriving in Matani State and Port Pylos as a Sequence 9 Arbiter, he had swiftly climbed to a Sequence 7 Justiciar in just five years. His goal was to advance to Sequence 6 and become a Judge, and he had recently been gathering the funds to purchase the necessary materials. If the opportunity to become a vice-captain arose, the patrol team would certainly contribute resources to aid his advancement.
Spoils of war weren’t always suitable for him; sometimes, he needed to trade with teammates or sell them to the patrol team for money. He patiently waited for the potion formulas and Beyonder ingredients corresponding to his pathway to appear.
The patrol team, being relatively new, hadn’t accumulated substantial reserves. Camus needed to find a way to purchase practical mystical items, regularly replenish charms, potions, and other essentials to stay prepared against assassinations and conflicts.
In such a situation, money was naturally scarce.
Chaos was a path to hell but also a ladder to the top!
Pugilist Sow entered.
With his brown braids gently swaying, Sow, clad in a sky-blue shirt and beige pants, approached Camus with one hand in his pocket, smiling as he asked, “Have you seen Kolobo? I need to discuss something with him.”
“He went to the Import and Export Shop to buy coffee beans.”
Sow tersely acknowledged, “Then I’ll wait for him to return.”
“What’s up?” Camus asked casually.
Sow took two steps forward and smiled.
“There’s an investigation we would like to involve him in. Maybe he can uncover clues that others can’t.”
“You bastards, aren’t you concerned about Kolobo getting hurt?” Camus replied with amusement, lifting his coffee and taking a sip.
At that moment, Sow withdrew his right hand from his trouser pocket, holding a poker card flickering with a metallic gleam between his thumb and index finger.
The card portrayed a grayish-white clown.
With a swift motion, Sow hurled the poker card at Camus’s head.
…
In the men’s washroom of the Matani Import and Export Shop.
Kolobo finally caught his reflection in the mirror.
His skin had turned a sickly green, and his hands were locked around his own neck, the pressure making his bones crack. Twanaku Tupián stared back at him from his bright blue eyes.
Kolobo tried to scream, but nothing came out. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t move.
It was like his body wasn’t his anymore—it was killing him.
Ugh… A choked sound finally escaped Kolobo’s throat, too quiet for anyone to hear.
Fear and despair tightened around his heart.
Then, Kolobo’s fingers slipped.
A figure emerged from the shadows by the bathroom vents.
Lumian—black hair, green eyes, all dressed in black and white with a golden straw hat.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, then understanding. He held a black bone flute to his lips.
A hum resounded, accompanied by a melancholic tune echoing from the dark red holes.
Symphony of Hatred!
Why did I only sense malice and danger now… Just as this thought crossed Twanaku’s mind, Twanaku’s murderous intent exploded, fueled by the haunting melody.
Silently, a figure peeled away from Kolobo’s body. It was Twanaku Tupián, his light brown skin gone deathly pale.
Blood vessels bulged in his yellow eyes, threatening to burst.
The Symphony of Hatred tore into Kolobo, already weak with fear.
His heart almost stopped. He crumpled to the floor, barely alive.
Lumian stopped the melody. Holding the black bone flute, he slid back into the shadows and under the vent.
A moment later, he reappeared behind Twanaku Tupián, who was practically vibrating with murderous intent. Lumian lifted the flute, its blood-colored holes gleaming ominously, and took a breath.
Finally, you’re here!
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