CHAPTER THIRTY ONE:Rain hammered the asphalt as the team trudged away from the burning hydroplant. The smell of ozone and scorched metal lingered in the air. Billy’s ears still rang from the blast, but his mind was louder — his father’s final words replaying like an echo through static.“Round two.”He gritted his teeth, sliding the cracked data crystal into a reinforced case. Evelyn glanced sideways. “You really think that thing’s still active?”Billy didn’t answer immediately. His eyes tracked the horizon, where black smoke smeared the storm clouds. “He planned for this. Every move, every failure — he left breadcrumbs. That plant wasn’t his end. It was a warning.”Tyla wiped blood from her lip. “A warning for what?”“That he’s already somewhere else.”---They regrouped in the back of an abandoned freight yard. Floodlights buzzed dimly, and old train cars lay derailed like rusted bones. Owen set up his portable console on a crate, the screen reflecting in his rain-slick glasses.“I

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE:The world above was silent.But beneath it, the earth hummed like a living thing.Billy crouched near the edge of the drainage canal, watching the last patrol fade into the mist. The city’s blackout had driven people indoors, leaving the streets hollow—perfect for ghosts like them. Behind him, Evelyn checked her ammo clips while Tyla wrapped her shaking hands in bandages scavenged from a med kit.“How many do you think?” Evelyn whispered.Billy’s gaze didn’t shift. “Enough to kill us before we get ten feet inside.”Tyla winced. “Then why go in at all?”He turned to her, his expression unreadable. “Because if we don’t, this blackout becomes permanent. No recovery, no system, no freedom. They’ll own every second of life left in this city.”His voice carried a quiet conviction that silenced argument.They moved at dawn. The air was heavy, saturated with ozone and the faint metallic tang of machinery. Their destination loomed across the water: the old hydroelectric s

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE:The drive to the gallery was long and quiet.Rain drizzled over the windshield, blurring the world into streaks of silver. Billy sat beside Owen, eyes fixed on the folder resting on his lap — the one Monsieur had left behind, containing nothing but an address and a strange sketch that looked like half a cipher, half a riddle.Owen kept glancing at him between turns. “You sure about this, kid? If that man’s playing a game, we’re walking straight into the middle of his board.”Billy’s tone was steady. “I need to see what my father left behind, Owen. Whether it’s a trap or not, this—” he tapped the folder “—is the only lead we’ve got.”Owen exhaled, jaw tight. “Then we stay sharp. No trusting smiles, no handshakes. If Monsieur so much as breathes wrong, we’re out.”By the time they reached the address, dusk had settled.The gallery wasn’t what Billy expected. It wasn’t a grand museum or an art house — it was a forgotten three-story structure tucked between warehouses

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN:The night pressed in thick around Billy as the storm roared over the Loushen’s steel deck. The sea beneath thrashed in relentless fury, hurling waves high enough to claw at the vessel’s bruised hull. Each crash of thunder echoed through the metal corridors like a warning.But Billy wasn’t listening to the sea anymore. He was focused on the flickering holographic interface before him — the puzzle his father had left behind. It was a labyrinth of shifting symbols, light fractals that rearranged themselves every few seconds as though mocking his efforts to decipher them.He wiped the rain from his face with a trembling hand. His pulse hammered against his ribs. “Come on,” he whispered. “What are you hiding, Dad?”A shadow moved behind him.Monsieur’s voice sliced through the darkness — calm, almost soothing. “You’ve always been impatient, Billy. That’s what makes you dangerous... and useful.”Billy didn’t turn. He’d long stopped trusting the man’s tone — the fabrica

Chapter THIRTY NINE:Billy sat in the dim glow of his office, the city lights of Parsippany-Troy Hills flickering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His fingers tapped against the polished mahogany desk, a rhythm that mirrored the tension coiling in his chest. Since recovering the Luoshen, every move he made had been calculated. Every breath measured. Yet, the feeling of unease refused to leave him. Monsieur’s shadow loomed large, even from the confines of a prison cell, and the memory of Noah’s betrayal lingered like a bitter aftertaste.The Luoshen rested on the velvet cloth before him, its intricate brushstrokes almost mocking in their serenity. To the untrained eye, it was just a rare painting. But Billy knew its secret: it was a map, a guide left by his grandfather, Alexander Anderson, to treasures that could rival nations. Gold artifacts, priceless relics, treasures of a civilization long buried in history, all meticulously hidden. And now, Monsieur’s obsessive greed and jeal