2024-09-14 19:02:36
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The Master's Chain and the Father's Lie
The stench of mildew and rust saturated the air in the underground warehouse, thick enough to taste. It clung to the tongue like copper and dust. In one forgotten corner, slumped against a wall of crumbling stone, the mysterious man trembled.Blood stained his lips. His left eye was swollen shut. Every breath came jagged and shallow, and he was almost certain several of his ribs had cracked beneath the brutal heel of President Lee’s boot. His hands, usually so precise and deadly, now hung limp at his sides—scraped, bruised, and shackled by shame.He could have killed Lee. Easily. Before the tyrant raised his voice, before the first blow landed—he could’ve ended it. One strike to the jugular. A twist of bone. Silence.But he hadn’t.Because a shadow assassin does not bite the hand that owns his leash.Even now, curled in agony, his master’s voice echoed like a curse inside his skull.“You are a weapon,” the voice of his old mentor had once said, “and weapons do not choose their targets
Echoes of Blood and Cure
The world had barely begun to recover from the seismic shock of Calvin Hudson’s “death” when another revelation shattered headlines like glass—he was alive.In the days following the funeral, speculation raged. Theories spun like autumn leaves: a staged deception, a political maneuver, a resurrection. No one had answers, and Calvin gave none. He didn’t hold press conferences. He didn’t explain. He simply returned—like the calm after a devastating storm.And resumed his life.The clinic in Bacca reopened under gray skies and curious gazes. The white doors creaked, the herbal fragrances wafted through the halls again, and patients, once hesitant, returned in droves. Many came just to see if the man they’d mourned was truly alive. But as soon as Calvin placed his hands on their wounds—those familiar, steady hands—they wept. Not from grief, but from relief. The healer was back. And he was unchanged.Or so it seemed.Behind his calm smile and methodical care, Calvin knew the truth: he was
Masks and Echoes
A moist, sour breath rasped over Calvin’s palm as he throttled the masked assassin. Up close, the latex smelled faintly of glue and rancid greasepaint. The man’s eyes—pale gray, rimmed with burst vessels—bulged with fury rather than fear. And then he uttered a phrase in a rapid series of clicks and consonants—so quick it could have been mistaken for a choking fit.“Serpent … sheds … skin,” the assassin whispered.Three words. It meant abort and flee in an extinct coastal dialect—one that only the inner circle of Han Xin’s court still practiced.Across the aisle, President Lee’s head jerked up. His face—already chalky in the candlelight—lost what little color remained. Recognition flashed in his eyes. Then survival instinct devoured everything else.He bolted.“Guards!” Lee shrieked, pitching his voice with theatrical tremor as he shoved through monks and mourners. “Protect me—he’s gone mad!”The effect was instantaneous. Panic detonated like fireworks beneath a silk canopy. Gasps ripp
Funeral of a Living Man
The moon was still tangled in the horizon when Calvin summoned Arden to the back entrance of the newly rebuilt clinic. A single hurricane lamp cast a weak amber glow, catching motes of turmeric dust that still floated in the air. The place smelled of antiseptic, scorched wood, and fresh plaster—a testament to weeks of nonstop reconstruction.Arden arrived in a swirl of night‑fog, coat half buttoned, hair slick with dew. “You sent for me at—” he checked a battered pocket‑watch—“three twenty‑six a.m. I assume this isn’t a house‑call.”Calvin stood beside an examination table, bandages still peeking beneath his shirt. His eyes, however, were knives—cold, focused, alive. “I need the whole world to believe I’m dead.”Arden’s breath hitched. “You want… a funeral?”“Exactly.” Calvin folded his arms. “A funeral…and a body.”“Where in the Six Realms am I supposed to find a body that passes for you?”“A nameless corpse,” Calvin replied, tone clinical. “There was a chemical blast at the Hathen t
The Antidote That Shouldn’t Exist
Although the System had successfully neutralized the Kalasert venom, Calvin’s recovery was anything but swift.It took twelve agonizing hours.Twelve hours of lying on the frigid floor, barely conscious, feeling like every breath was a battle. His muscles had locked up. His organs throbbed with residual trauma. Even his thoughts came slow, as if wading through molasses. Rising from the edge of death wasn't just a physical feat—it was an act of war against the body itself.But Calvin Hudson was not the kind of man who surrendered to the pain.He wasn’t wasting a second.Even as his body lay still, cocooned in sweat and blood, his mind was sharp—digging, sifting, hunting. He entered a deep meditative trance, slowing his breathing, silencing the screaming nerves, and turning inward. The halls of his mind unfolded like a well-kept library, and he marched through them, pulling memory after memory off their metaphorical shelves.“Come on… think,” he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse. “W
Venom
Calvin’s body convulsed violently.It was no longer just pain—it was a raging inferno surging through his veins, a firestorm that started in his throat and tore through his chest like molten glass. Every heartbeat pounded like a war drum inside his ribcage, echoing with suffering. The venom wrapped around his lungs like barbed wire, crushing every breath into a gasping, agonized wheeze. His limbs jerked uncontrollably, flailing with no coordination. He collapsed onto his knees, the cold surface beneath him offering no comfort—only a cruel reminder that his body was failing him.The edges of his vision darkened, like shadows creeping in from another world. Black spots swirled in his eyes, and every blink became a desperate attempt to hold onto consciousness. His breath caught in his throat, dry and burning, each inhale like trying to swallow shards of broken glass.Then came the System’s voice—distorted, flickering, broken like a glitched recording.[Warning: Internal system disruption
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