This was far more exhilarating than sipping tea. Ronnel's heart raced with excitement, though his expression remained composed.
The black briefcase resting beside him was a mystery, even to the elderly man delivering it. He was merely a courier.
Ronnel didn't know what it contained, nor did he care. The tangled threads of the old man's life, the manipulation by the Matar family, and the coercion that had brought him to this point weren't Ronnel's concern.
Having flipped through the last pages of a travel magazine, Ronnel looked up as their vehicle slowed, arriving at the gates of the Matar family's estate.
Stepping out, Ronnel took in the scene before him.
A towering cliff loomed ahead, its dark expanse plunging into an abyss that seemed endless. The air was thick with an oppressive stillness, and standing at the edge felt like teetering on the brink of oblivion.
The other tourists gasped, some retreating instinctively from the precipice, their fear of heights evident in their pale faces.
"Welcome, dear travelers," the guide began, her cheerful tone at odds with the eerie atmosphere. "This is the legendary Lost Cliff and its infamous Bridge of Despair. According to legend, those who dare cross the bridge and fail to reach the other side will have their souls cast into Hirazaka, the abyss of eternal torment."
All eyes turned to the narrow suspension bridge spanning the gorge. Rusted iron chains anchored its sides, but the wooden planks looked ancient and frail, swaying slightly in the wind.
Beside the bridge stood a weathered stone tablet, its inscription describing the bridge's dark history.
"At the other end lies Mont Saint-Pierre, home to the world-renowned assassin family—the Matars," the guide continued, her smile unwavering. "Those who manage to cross the bridge safely are said to earn the family's favor, becoming their honored guests."
Her voice dropped slightly, taking on a sinister edge. "But this bridge is also known as the Bridge of Death. Statistically speaking, the number of people who survive the journey each year can be counted on one hand."
The group murmured in nervous awe, many stepping back as they processed the guide's words.
Ronnel, meanwhile, squinted into the distance, shielding his eyes from the sun.
"Perpetual mist obscures the other side," he muttered to himself. "Even condensation can't cut through it. Natural, yet deliberate—a fitting choice for the Matars. Mystique is a powerful tool. This feels even more theatrical than the Zoldyck family's Kukuroo Mountain."
But it lacked the Zoldycks' audacious transparency.
He smirked. Bridge of Despair, Testing Gate... Were the two assassin clans trying to one-up each other in grim naming conventions?
Still, the bridge was undeniably striking, a spectacle that lent the Matars their distinct allure. Unlike the Zoldycks' imposing gates, the Matars had crafted a setting that captivated the imagination.
"Ha! Bridge of Despair, my foot!" a greasy middle-aged man blurted out, his voice breaking the tension.
Though visibly unnerved, he quickly resumed his bombastic act. "They're just trying to scare us!"
The man's bravado didn't last long. His gaze drifted toward the bridge's edge, where a hidden structure caught his attention.
"Is that a cable car?" he exclaimed, pointing dramatically.
The group followed his gaze, murmuring in surprise as they noticed the concealed cable car station nestled beside the bridge.
"But the guide said the bridge was the only way across!" someone questioned, their voice tinged with suspicion.
The guide chuckled, her polished demeanor intact. "Ah, the cable car. It's an enigma, really. While it's true some have used it to reach the other side..." She paused, her smile growing sharper. "None of them ever returned."
The greasy man scoffed. "Convenient excuse! Who knows if that's true? Maybe it's just the Matars' private shortcut. Why risk crossing that death trap of a bridge when you can ride in style?"
Ronnel's sharp eyes flicked to the cable car. His lips curled into a faint smile.
Convenient excuse?
The similarities between the Matars and Zoldycks struck him again. Both families had their grand, perilous entrances—but also discreet, pragmatic alternatives. The Zoldycks' Gate of Trials had its adjacent scavenger path, and the Matars' Bridge of Despair came with a hidden cable car.
"Of course, the bridge isn't for the faint of heart," the guide replied smoothly. "Family members of the Matars cross it as a matter of pride. The cable car is merely for... special guests."
Her words hung in the air as a deep, guttural voice interrupted.
"You're not entirely wrong."
All heads turned as the voice emerged from the massive stone tablet. A hidden mechanism clicked, and the slab split in two, sliding aside to reveal a figure stepping forward.
The woman was broad and disheveled, with unruly curls, a worn robe, and a cattail fan dangling from his hand. A cigarette hung loosely from her lips, and her sandals slapped against the ground as she moved.
Rubbing his eyes, she let out a long yawn, her demeanor utterly unbothered by the spectacle she had interrupted.
------------
+335 chapters on patreon.com/FanficsHub