The man says, "Hi, I'm Tristan Morvian."
Merin's mind kicks into high gear at the name Morvian. A member of the Morvian family… One of the Senate councillor seats of Nova Super City belongs to them.
A relatively new force by Federation standards—only 150 years old—but their rise has been meteoric, fueled by the arms industry.
Ten per cent of all Federation weaponry is sourced from the Morvian family.
They don't just sit in the senate of Nova Super City, but in many other cities across the Federation.
Wherever they are, they control Senate seats. But not in the Five Star Cities. Not yet.
Now Merin understands why.
Their strength is real, enough to kill even King Kong realm martial artists using their advanced weapons—but they're powerless against Demon Hunters, especially those in the Demon Weaver realm.
That's the true limit of their influence.
Merin responds calmly, "I don't think I need to introduce myself. You already know who I am."
Tristan nods, unfazed, and casually picks up one of the fries from the complimentary plate, popping it into his mouth.
"I want to offer you a deal," he says smoothly.
Merin leans back slightly. "My answer will probably be no… but go ahead. Let's hear it."
Tristan says, "I think you would say yes."
Chewing the fry, he continues, "I'll give you ten million credits and appoint you as the chief of my security detail—you only have to not join the Karst Crystal Research Institute."
Merin stares at him, trying to figure out if Tristan is insane.
He finds nothing outwardly wrong with him, but the offer makes no sense.
The value of the two choices isn't even close.
In a year at the research institute, Merin will gain more than ten million credits—if not directly, then from the benefits and connections alone.
He stands up and says, "You should get your mind checked—you might be losing it."
Tristan replies, "I'm offering you the position of top servant—to serve me—and you're saying no?"
He frowns, unable to understand how anyone could say no to him.
Especially after being promised a life of service, day and night, forever.
Only a fool would refuse that.
By the time he comes to his senses, Adam is gone.
Tristan blinks. "Where is he?"
Cole says, "Sir… he left."
Tristan, still confused, mutters, "How can he say no to me… when I offered to make him head of my servants?"
He taps his temple. "Maybe I need to open his head. See how his brain works."
In his entire life, aside from his own family, only twenty-eight people have said no to him.
He opened all of their heads and stored them carefully in his collection room.
Rare specimens.
Merin returns to his hotel room after the encounter with Tristan.
He sits down, opens his device, and begins digging into Tristan's background.
He finds that Tristan is the youngest son of the younger brother of the Morvian family head.
Spoiled, yes—but loved fiercely, especially by his father, since Tristan's mother died giving birth to him.
He's the same age as Merin, but already leads one of the Morvian family's entertainment investment companies.
After gathering all that information, Merin leans back, processes it, and then makes a few quick calls.
He speaks briefly with his parents, assuring them he's safe.
Then he checks his messages and sees one from Evelyn: "Call me when you're free. Kieran's here."
He frowns, then calls her immediately.
Once that conversation is over, and he's made sure she's okay, he sets his phone aside.
He begins his training again, this time focusing on visualising the fourth move of the Fire God Palm.
He can't practice it physically—not here, not in a hotel room that might ignite from a single failed experiment.
So he imagines the structure, the explosive rhythm, the core heat that needs to be layered just right.
His body still aches faintly from before, but after consuming two healing potions, the pain dulls.
And as the potion works, he feels a certainty rising.
If he had just five more potions, he could finally refine his body to withstand the third level of the Ice Fire technique without damage.
The next day arrives, and with two hours left before his scheduled time to join the Karst Crystal Research Institute, Merin steps outside, suitcase in hand.
He waits by the roadside, checking the time every minute as taxis pass him by without stopping.
Some drivers glance at him and shake their heads, speeding away.
Others stop, look him over, then suddenly get a "call" and immediately refuse to take him.
Merin narrows his eyes and scans the street.
At a distance, he sees the same group from yesterday—the ones who tried to force him into their van—holding up their phones and smirking provocatively at him.
And just beyond them, parked in a subtle but unmistakable way, is a police car.
Merin instantly understands their plan.
They want him to react—to start a conflict—so the police can intervene and arrest him.
If he gets detained now, even briefly, he'll miss his appointment at the Karst Crystal Research Institute.
And missing the appointment today means waiting an entire year to try again.
Merin had already checked the map from his hotel to the Karst Crystal Research Institute.
With a sigh, he breaks into a jog, weaving through the early morning footpaths and narrow lanes.
Elsewhere, Tristan lounges between two women, each in a damp bathrobe, their hair still wet from the morning shower.
They are actresses—new stars whose faces light up ads across Nova Super City—and now they feed Tristan slices of fruit while trailing their fingers across his chest.
On the large screen before him, the live footage of Adam Taylor running through the city plays in silence.
Tristan pouts theatrically and sighs, "Start the third method to stop him."
Then, in a mockingly apologetic tone, he adds, "But please remind A and B not to shoot him in the head."
Merin sprints steadily, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings.
He doesn't know what Tristan has planned, but he knows something is coming.
So he takes precautions—slowing on the road, speeding through alleyways, cutting across parks where open space gives him more vision.
Thirty minutes later, the bridge comes into view.
Crossing it would take him into the outskirts of Nova Super City, where the Karst Crystal Research Institute stands.
But something's off—no people, no vehicles, no joggers, no kids biking.
His instincts scream.
Still, Merin doesn't stop.
He tightens his muscles and heightens his senses, pushing his biological field to its maximum range.
He's ready for anything.
Mid-sprint across the bridge, Merin suddenly dives to the side.
A chunk of concrete behind him explodes, a hole appearing exactly where his foot would have landed two steps later.
He doesn't stay down.
Rolling to his feet, he bursts forward again—this time not in a straight line, but a wild, unpredictable zigzag.
Shots come from somewhere distant—silent, precise, invisible to his biological field.
Sniper-grade.
He ducks, rolls again, leaps over a fallen lamp post, another bullet grazing past his arm with a hiss.
Ahead, the other end of the bridge comes into view.
So does a man.
Burly, bald, armoured.
He stands in the centre of the path, cradling a mounted machine gun.
The gun lights up with a roar.
Merin twists to the side as bullets tear up the bridge around him like paper.
He can't stop.
Killing the man might end it, but what will follow?
What consequences?
What trap waits after that?
A stream of true energy bursts from his hand, swirling into a glimmering Ice Shield.
It shatters almost instantly under the barrage.
But he forms another.
And another.
He ducks behind each, moving closer, learning, adapting.
His breathing sharpens, his movements tighten, and slowly the shields begin to last longer—first a second, then two, then five.
His will doesn't waver.
Improvement comes with each step.
The next shield doesn't break.
It holds.
The bullets spark and deflect off its surface as Merin charges forward behind it like a moving wall.
The gunner widens his eyes.
It's too late.
Merin closes the distance, rams the Ice Shield into the man like a battering ram, and with a single strike, hurls him over the edge of the bridge like tossing a bag of trash.
The gun skitters to the ground.
Merin doesn't stop to watch it fall.
He breathes hard, cracks his neck, and starts running again.
A few minutes later, Merin breaks through the final stretch of the bridge and reaches the edge of the city outskirts.
Up ahead, a police blockade stretches across the road.
He doesn't slow down.
The officers turn as he approaches, their expressions neutral—until they recognise his face.
Their eyes widen.
Some steps back.
Merin flashes them a smile as he passes.
He doesn't stop, doesn't speak, just runs straight through the checkpoint without resistance.
No one moves to stop him.
From a lavish room across the city, Tristan watches the screen, eyes locked on the figure stepping through the gates of the Karst Crystal Research Institute.
Adam Taylor had arrived.
Tristan's smirk vanishes.
His stomach knots.
His pride burns.
He slams a glass off the table.
Failure.
Complete and humiliating failure.
Worse, his siblings would mock him for this.
He had promised his father he would join the Karst Crystal Research Institute when his father publicly praised his half-sister for entering the Giant Beast Research Institute.
He wasn't bluffing when he made that promise.
He truly believed it.
With his grades, his test marks, his charm—and above all, the influence of the Morvian name—he was certain his spot would be waiting.
But a week ago, he learned the truth.
No open seats.
The rejection ate at him.
And now, Adam Taylor not only took that final seat but walked through every obstacle Tristan threw at him.
No more chances this year.
None.
His jaw tightens.
He looks down at the two women curled up against him.
Bite marks cover their skin.
Bruises darken their necks and thighs.
Both stir slightly, dazed and silent.
A dangerous gleam sharpens in his eyes as his mind turns dark.
His humiliation needs an outlet.
And someone will pay.