The Price Of Hatred

Chapter 31 – The Chained Legacy

​“That wasn't me,” Butcher said, his voice cracking with a sudden, raw wave of emotion. He leaned in even closer, his fingers twitching with desperation. “Tell me, James... what did you see right after you saw that face? Was there anything else?”

​James spat a mouthful of crimson foam onto the dirt. He slowly lifted his heavy eyelids, staring directly into the man's desperate eyes.     

​“Your fucking face,” James repeated hoarsely.

​“Haa... fuck!”

​Butcher lost his composure completely. He unleashed a brutal, blinding backhand straight across James’s jaw. The sheer impact sent James crashing sideways onto the gravel. Instantly, the two enforcers tore him back up by his arms, forcing him into a kneeling position once more.

​Butcher didn't step back this time. He stormed forward, his large hands bunching into the fabric of James’s shirt at the chest, violently hauling him upward until they were nose-to-nose.

​“Tell me right now!” Butcher roared, his breath hot against James's skin. “What did you see after my face? Speak!”

​James’s face was an absolute ruin. His skin was severely bruised, and a steady, thick stream of dark blood continued to pour from his nose, painting his jawline and lips in a gruesome mask. Yet, despite the agonizing pain, James looked Butcher dead in the eyes.

​With a sudden, sharp tilt of his head, James gathered the pooling blood in his mouth and spat it directly into Butcher's face.

​The courtyard went entirely frozen.

​Butcher didn't scream. He didn't rage. He simply stood there, his chest heaving as the warm blood slid down his cheek. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his bare hand and wiped his face completely clean. He didn't utter a single word.

​Instead, he tightened his fist until his knuckles turned white, drew his arm back, and smashed his knuckles directly into the center of James’s face with everything he had.

​CRUNCH.

​A massive spray of blood erupted from James’s mouth as his body was blasted backward, slamming hard into the dirt. This time, he didn't move. He lay crumpled in the gravel, his breathing shallow, completely unable to find the physical strength to stand up.

​The third operative standing nearby quickly reached into his pocket, pulling out a clean white handkerchief. Butcher snatched it from the man's grip without a word. He stood over James, methodically wrapping the cloth around his knuckles to wipe away the fresh blood coating his fist.

​“Should we kill him right now, sir?” one of the enforcers—a sharp-eyed Spanish operative—asked, his hand resting on his holstered weapon.

​“He dies, and you die next,” Butcher hissed, his voice dropping into a chilling, absolute register. He tossed the stained handkerchief onto the ground and turned his back on the scene. “Throw him right back inside the fucking container truck and lock it tight.”

​Butcher began walking away, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel.

​“Sir, we have to at least get him some water,” the Spanish guard called out hesitantly, looking down at James’s broken, unresponsive form. “Or else he will honestly die before tomorrow morning.”

​Butcher paused dead in his tracks.

​The silence that followed was suffocating. Slowly, Butcher turned his head back, his eyes narrowing into slits as he locked his gaze onto the guard.

​“Hey...” Butcher murmured, his voice laced with a terrifying calm as he walked back toward them. “It seems you have some fucking nerves talking back to me.”

​The guard instantly lowered his head, his posture rigid.

​“When I speak, you listen, and you do exactly as I fucking ask you to do,” Butcher growled, stepping into the guard's space. “No fucking water for him. No fucking food. Absolutely nothing for him to chew on. I want to see him dry.”

​Without another word, Butcher turned on his heel, signaling the third operative to follow him. The two figures vanished down the corridor, leaving the compound courtyard behind.

​Left alone with the order, the remaining two guards didn't waste any time. They grabbed James by his heavy boots and his collar, dragging his limp, bleeding body across the dirt like a sack of rocks. They hoisted him up, threw him carelessly back onto the hard metal floor of the container truck, and slammed the heavy iron doors shut.

​The metal latches ground into place, locking James entirely in the dark.

Ten miles away, buried beneath the industrial wasteland, the heavy iron blast doors of the syndicate's underground oil station hissed open. Roman stormed into the central operations hub, his long coat trailing behind him. The massive room was a hive of frantic activity, packed with tech analysts typing furiously on keyboards beneath the cold, flickering glow of dozens of surveillance feeds and terminal monitors.

​"Haven't you gotten a single damn thing for me yet?" Roman demanded, his voice echoing sharply across the concrete walls as he marched directly to the front of the main panoramic screen.

​He didn't look at the analysts. He kept his eyes locked on the moving data lines. Within a second, a young woman hurried across the raised platform, clutching a secure digital tablet tightly against her chest. She came to a halt right beside his flank.

​"Sir, we still haven't been able to pinpoint the exact locations of the three primary targets yet," she reported, her breath coming in short, nervous clips. "But—"

​She suddenly paused, her thumb hovering over the screen.

​Roman’s jaw tensed. "But what?"

​"We did manage to locate James," she said, tapping the tablet to transfer the visual feed to the massive main screen in front of them. "And it’s not just him alone. Take a look at this."

​Roman focused on the display. The satellite feed zoomed in on a secluded, dusty courtyard—the exact coordinates where Butcher and his operatives had just broken camp. The resolution sharpened, showing the unmistakable, brutal form of Butcher stepping away, followed by the chilling sight of a thoroughly beaten, limp James being hoisted by his clothes and carelessly thrown back into the pitch-black interior of the cargo truck.

​"That’s actually Sydney’s sector, along with his personal unit," the woman explained, her eyes widening as she tracked the footage. "And that’s James. He is in a thoroughly messy state, sir. Looking at the blunt-force trauma... he could honestly die inside that metal container if they leave him there."

​Roman didn't speak immediately. He closed his eyes for a long, calculating moment, his mind turning over the pieces of the puzzle. He looked right, then left, ensuring none of the surrounding lab technicians were paying attention to their conversation.

​"Come with me," Roman ordered quietly.

​He opened his eyes, turned on his heel, and abruptly exited the computer lab. The woman kept her head down, walking briskly a pace behind him as they navigated the maze of cold, reinforced corridors. Within a minute, they entered a secure, heavily insulated room at the end of the hall. This wasn't an ordinary briefing area; it was Roman’s private executive office.

​Roman marched straight to his heavy mahogany desk. He knelt down, punching a complex, multi-digit sequence into the digital keypad of the reinforced steel floor safe hidden beneath the wood. The lock disengaged with a heavy mechanical click. Reaching inside, he carefully pulled out a massive, heavily worn antique book bound in dark, weathered leather. Wrapped tightly around its spine and covers was a thick, oxidized iron chain, secured by an old mechanism.

​The woman stopped in front of the desk, still clutching the tablet flat against her chest like a shield. Her brow furrowed in utter confusion. "What... what is this?"

​Roman set the heavy object down onto the polished wood with a dull, resounding thud. "As you can clearly see, it's a book."

​"And it's heavily chained," she pointed out, her voice dropping into a nervous whisper.

​"It's a fucking ancient book, so shut the fuck up for a second and let me explain," Roman growled, his fingers moving deftly over the links as he unlocked the restraint and uncoiled the heavy chain. He threw the metal aside and flipped the thick leather cover open, revealing pages filled with dense, handwritten script, strange anatomical drawings, and complex symbols.

​"This is not just an ordinary text," Roman said, his eyes gleaming with a manic, dangerous intensity. "Absolutely everything you will find recorded inside these pages is real. And I personally managed to smuggle this book directly out of my father’s private lab this morning during the chaos of the funeral preparations."

​The woman gasped, taking a small step back. "What? I thought you went to the High Council specifically to claim the throne!"

​"Fuck the throne!" Roman snapped fiercely, his voice vibrating with a sudden, raw venom. "If you are not powerful enough while sitting on that throne, you will fucking end up dying right on it, just like Arthur did! Nobody thoroughly wants a block of wood to sit on. All we ever want is what that throne wielded—what my father willed. The absolute power and sovereign control it carries over every single member."

​He slammed his open palm onto the ancient page.

​"I didn't go to the Pitch House for a title, Vener. I went there specifically to take this book. And it is not a normal artifact, so you need to listen to me carefully."

​Vener stared at the open pages, her face draining of all color as the sheer danger of the situation settled over her. She shook her head rapidly, her voice trembling. "Please... I want entirely out of this. I don't want to get myself involved in whatever chaotic madness this book is going to bring down on us. Please, Roman. Just let me handle the tech feeds."

​"No. You can't leave," Roman said instantly, his tone shifting into something fiercely possessive. "You are already completely in, and there is absolutely no going out now. You already know about the existence of this legacy, and its secrets must only exist between the two of us."

​Step by step, he rounded the desk, his expression thick with a sudden, heavy emotion. He reached out, his grip tightening firmly on her shoulders as he forced her to look directly into his eyes.

​"Hey... Vener. Look at me. I wouldn't have just chosen to reveal this to you if I didn't trust you with my life. We have been running in this together for a very long time. And I am thoroughly done wearing masks, hiding who I really am, and playing the fucking disappointment son. And I know you are tired of the act, too."

​He glanced back toward the closed office door, his jaw tight.

​"Most of those pathetic people sitting inside that computer lab right now? I don't fucking trust a single one of them. Because I know for a fact that given the right amount of money, most of them would love to see me dead."

​Vener let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders slowly relaxing beneath his grip as she realized her fate was permanently tied to his. "Okay..." she whispered, looking up at him. "What exactly are we going to do this time?"

​Roman’s face contorted into a slow, sharp grin. "We play a new game."

​"What?" Vener countered seriously, her expression hardening as she pulled away slightly. "No. No, I am absolutely not playing a new one again while we haven't even finished the first one."