Just as Ashley was about to hang up the walkie-talkie, a distant-sounding voice suddenly came through the receiver.
“A Tribunal officer! Save me! I’m kidnapped…”
Before the words were finished, the person’s mouth was covered, leaving only muffled nasal sounds, faint to the point of being almost inaudible, but clearly from a young girl’s voice.
After a moment of silence, Coleridge’s voice rang out again. The previous composure and playfulness were gone, replaced by a low, angry tone.
“I’ll prepare a generous gift for you. Pretend you heard nothing just now, understand?”
“I’m not deaf, sir,” Ashley replied calmly. “I declare, first, this ship is prohibited from leaving Card Court. Second, I’ll report to the Tribunal and apply for a search warrant. I’ll arrest you personally.”
“You damn brat! What gives a puny Three-Star Inspector like you the right to talk to me like that?! Do you know the consequences of messing with me?! I’m Coleridge! Even high-ranking government officials have to give me face!” An enraged roar exploded from the other end of the walkie-talkie.
Splash!
Ashley tossed the walkie-talkie into the river. It barely made a splash before she turned and left.
After hearing the girl’s cry for help, three options flashed through her mind.
The first was to ignore it and wait for the rich merchant and the Secret Alliance dogs to finish biting each other, then clean up the aftermath.
Judging from the power the Mental Wardrobe had shown so far, Coleridge was surely doomed.
Not to mention the methods yet to be revealed.
Up to now, the King and Queen of Spades hadn’t appeared, and according to her speculation, the strongest sub-ability might even be held by the Society President personally.
Because if all sub-abilities were granted out, the president themselves would become an ordinary person, hard-pressed to control the crowd.
The Card Court Society members were clearly no saints. Controlling the president would allow command of the entire Card Court Society—using the emperor to command the vassals.
The second option: Pretend to demand a bribe, actually infiltrate and investigate, then stir up the battle between both sides. By playing dirty tricks to balance them, force the Card Court Society and the merchant’s guards to exhaust their last breaths, then reap the benefits as the mantis stalks the cicada.
But it was too idealistic. A chaotic battle was full of uncertainties and high risks.
The third was the current approach: Deliberately escalate the conflict and force Coleridge to target her.
The first two methods offered little help for rescuing the hostage, and in high-intensity extraordinary battles, hostages could easily be caught in the crossfire and die from stray AOE.
According to the House Thousand Cockroaches theory, one cry for help might mean more victims unable to make a sound.
Thus, only by weakening the merchant’s guards and letting the Secret Alliance gain the upper hand could the battle intensity be reduced, increasing the hostages’ survival odds.
In simple terms, rescuing the hostages required the merchant to die or obtaining a search warrant—and the third method facilitated both.
–
On the cruise ship’s -1 level, in a room shrouded in deep crimson light, the circular walls were lined at intervals with large oil paintings: masterpieces from famous painters centuries ago, works by contemporary rising art leaders, and ‘ink treasures’ from big shots symbolizing close friendships.
In the center of the starburst-patterned floor was a sunken circular sofa, flanked by two crude, ancient stone gargoyle sculptures embracing a wildly stylish spotted sofa pieced from leopard skins. Seated there was a fierce-looking bald middle-aged man, shirtless, his wheat-colored muscular body glistening with essential oils, draped in a shawl of albino golden python skin.
On the hexagonal emerald tea table before him lay a dazzling array of collectibles: gems, minerals, spices, roots, amber, vials of unknown liquids, and various ancient jade carvings and bronze vessels.
Coleridge gripped the ivory handle of his magnifying glass, his fingers tightening, his low voice laced with irritation.
“That woman notifying the police to blockade the river is trouble. Easy to see the King of Hell, hard to deal with the little demons. A sesame-seed official can stall my 12,000-ton behemoth.”
“Foolish people often don’t know any better,” an elderly butler stepped forward. “She thinks she can extort a fortune this way, unaware that making a nobody like her disappear costs next to nothing.”
“Exactly. Make her ‘disappear’ quietly. By the time they investigate us, this ship will be a thousand miles away—no evidence, not even suspicion… Kantelo, take her out.”
“Yes.”
With that, a lean, capable young man with ancestral totems painted on his face vanished from the spot.
Coleridge then cast a sidelong glance at the girl pinned to the ground with her hands bound behind her back and said,
“Your cry for help will only get others killed. That innocent inspector will die because of you.”
Seeing despair gradually creep onto the girl’s beautiful little face, Coleridge flashed a mocking smile.
“Since you want to run so badly, I’ll give you a chance. Five minutes—no one will stop you. If you can get off this ship, I’ll let you go. Though you’re a precious and rare collectible, you’re not particularly special in my collection.”
The girl froze, hope reigniting in her dim eyes. Day and night since her kidnapping, she’d dreamed of escape, memorizing every place on the ship she could reach.
I can do it…
I definitely can…
I want to go home…
Mom… Dad…
She ran for her life, dodging the servants in the corridors.
She passed through a greenhouse garden, weaving through winding paths, shoving aside tropical plants blocking the way.
Broad, dense leaves rustled, shaking the plump, vibrant giant flowers violently, sending clouds of sweet, choking pollen drifting down.
At the garden’s end, a massive wall hung with a gigantic oil painting—Elegy.
This work from a famous Fauvist painter featured tense, writhing red humanoid shapes—not dancing, but desperately struggling, as if trying to break free from suffocating red latex suits.
The soft limbs of twelve girls twisted at impossible angles, their screams and wails muffled within. Some lay on the ground, motionless, limbs limp, as if they hadn’t escaped in time and had already died.
Above the square where the dancers were, a blood-drenched monster spread pitch-black wings. Its head was a columnar mass of forked flesh, like coral or a crown, with a terrifying vertical maw crossed by sharp teeth, its lower body dangling twisted, entwined intestines.
It blotted out the sky, dominating the mortal world!
A storm of shock and terror echoed in the girl’s chest. These red-clad dancers were like her own reflection—fighting to break free from the monster’s clutches, to flee the sunless Devil’s Den!
She skirted the wall and burst into a resplendent grand hall.
Geometrically beautiful arches intertwined overhead, with exaggerated reliefs and mural colors like illusions. The bundled columns on either side were built of gold-inlaid marble, reflecting in the mirror-smooth floor.
The disheveled girl dashed through the hall, turned left into a side chamber, then up a staircase carpeted in crimson to the first-level terrace. The gunwale was right there!
The evening breeze was so refreshing, opening every pore, filling her with ease—freedom was within reach!
But…
Snap!
With a crisp mechanical click, the girl collapsed to the ground. In horror, she twisted her head and saw her Achilles tendons severed, snapping back!
Without the tension to keep them taut, her straight, athletic legs went limp and floppy, like a doll’s.
“No! No!”
She cried out, recalling the modifications Coleridge had performed on her body after her kidnapping—severing her Achilles tendons and connecting them with remote-controlled locks. With a switch, the locks would disconnect.
