Walker was watching from the terrace.
The thugs were scattered near the goalpost, some thugs were freeing the boss.
Beside Walker lay a metallic sphere—compact, heavy, fitted with two nozzle-like holes and a small safety key.
His fingers closed around it.
He pulled the safety key.
The countdown began.
6… 5…
The boss was finally free.
The thugs relaxed slightly, though their eyes still darted around—half-expecting an ambush.
4… 3…
They started to regroup, preparing to leave. But tension still clung to them like smoke.
Something about this felt wrong.
Walker enhanced his arm.
Muscles tensed. Sparks flickered. He hurled the sphere in one clean motion—high and fast, arcing toward the goalpost.
2… 1…
The ball crashed down beside the group with a thud, creating a small crater.
Heads snapped toward it.
0.
PFFFSSHHHH—
A violent burst of white smoke exploded from the sphere's vents, covering the ground in seconds.
Chaos followed.
The closest thugs collapsed instantly—jerking, choking, then still.
Those farther away turned to flee, sprinting toward the narrow path. But they didn't make it far.
Some tripped. Others crawled. Legs gave out. Lungs failed.
They collapsed in heaps, twitching—then dying.
Only three or four made it to the exit—but even they stumbled, eyes red and streaming, breaths ragged.
One fell.
Then another.
Then silence.
---
Walker waited. Twenty minutes.
He donned a breather mask, climbed down, retrieved the metallic shell, and vanished.
---
That day, over 30 of Raev's men died on Street 6.
The balance shifted.
Raev's hold over Streets 5 and 4 had crumbled.
And Zarin—already flooding Street 3—was poised to pounce.
Even if he suspected that this was a setup, he wouldn't waste the chance. He couldn't.
Because Raev would come.
And when he did, he'd bring everything.
Zarin had always known this day would come. Even before Rollo's death.
Now, he was just making sure he'd be the one left standing.
---
All this time, Victor wasn't idle.
The poison bomb that wiped out Raev's men—that was his creation.
Victor was a scientist.
Not just any scientist—an extraordinary one.
At Myth's request, he had carefully studied, tested, and assembled a gas-based bomb powerful enough to incapacitate dozens in one go.
And it worked.
Flawlessly.
---
Evening fell.
News of the massacre spread like wildfire.
Street 6 was locked down.
Fear hung thick in the air—like the poison that had killed so many.
Police scrambled.
Tensions exploded.
Everyone connected to Korbel Construction was dragged in for questioning.
The bodies were collected.
Autopsies began.
The people of Lowden—already distrustful—turned furious.
They blamed the police for negligence, the authorities for inaction.
Pressure on the department reached an all-time high.
By sundown, a public statement was made:
Enforcers were being dispatched to Lowden.
Immediately.
---
The main suspect behind the deadly attack?
Raven.
Newspapers plastered his face across their front pages.
Headlines screamed:
"TERROR MASTER IN LOWDEN!"
"5 MILLION BOUNTY — DEAD OR ALIVE!"
"ENFORCERS MOBILIZED. RAVEN TO BE HUNTED."
---
Night came.
Myth sat slumped near the tram station, disguised as a beggar.
The stench was unbearable. His stomach ached from hunger. His limbs were sore.
But he remained alert.
Focused.
This mission couldn't afford failure.
Not this time.
If he messed this up—even Ashley would stop believing in him.
This was it.
His last shot.
Then—he saw them.
Raev.
Flanked by a small group of thugs.
Moving toward the tram station.
A quiet smile tugged at Myth's lips.
But then—
Raev stopped.
His eyes snapped toward an alley.
Right at Myth.
A shiver ran down Myth's spine.
He felt Raev's stare pierce through his disguise.
But Myth didn't flinch.
He didn't look away.
He kept a neutral face—calm, confused, like any beggar would if someone stared at them too long.
Inside, however, a storm of panic thundered through his veins.
Seconds passed.
A thug nudged Raev's shoulder.
Raev blinked.
Dismissed the thought.
And kept walking.
---
Myth didn't move until much later.
Only after the streets emptied and silence fell did he rise.
The lamps flickered overhead. The night air was cold and dry.
He walked to a public washroom, cleaned up, changed clothes. He wore the military uniform.
By the time he reached Juno's house, he looked like someone else entirely.
He stopped at the edge of the street.
Took a long, deep breath.
Then another.
He cleared his mind.
Reviewed his story—one last time.
There would be no room for error.
Myth walked with measured, confident steps.
In his hand—a folded paper, crisp and official-looking.
He approached the outer gate of the compound.
A thugs stationed there spotted him and one stepped forward, blocking the path.
The man's stance was guarded, but his tone was careful—respectful.
"Sir… what brings you here?"
He'd clearly recognized the military uniform Myth wore.
Myth kept his voice level, calm.
Just another cog in the machine. Just another soldier doing his job.
"I'm here to deliver a message," he said, holding up the folded paper.
"Please inform Juno Marel. She'll want to see this."
He wasn't assertive.
He wasn't timid either.
He played the role perfectly—just a man following orders.
The thug hesitated only a second before nodding.
"I'll ask her," he said, turning toward the house.
Two guards remained near the gate, their eyes fixed on Myth. He didn't flinch. Just stood still, expression neutral, posture relaxed—just enough to blend in without seeming suspicious.
A few minutes later, the thug returned.
"Sir, madam wishes to see you," he said. Then added, "If you have any weapons, please leave them here."
Myth nodded without protest and handed over the small stun gun at his side. The thug accepted it carefully, impressed by the man's calm compliance.
He gestured forward, and Myth followed him inside.
---
The hall was spacious and warm, bathed in a soft golden glow.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting elegant patterns across the tiled floor. The scent of polished wood and faint perfume lingered in the air.
The thug guided Myth to a luxurious velvet sofa, near the center of the hall.
A maid approached from an inner corridor.
"Sir, would you like something to drink?"
"Yes," Myth replied politely. "Coffee. Half a spoon of sugar, two spoons of milk. Thank you."
He took his seat but didn't relax.
But his face… unreadable.
He didn't have to wait long.
A woman stepped in from the left corridor—graceful and composed.
She wore a simple yet elegant white dress.
Her brown hair cascaded in waves.
Eyes sharp, confident. A beauty born of poise rather than ornament.
"Good evening, Sir," she said, her gaze fixed on him.
Myth rose smoothly.
"Good evening, Miss Marel."
She gave a nod and sat on the sofa to his right, choosing distance over familiarity.
"How was your travel, Sir?" she asked.
Myth gave a tired exhale, playing his role well.
"They're working us overtime. So travel felt more like a punishment than a journey."
Juno gave a small, polite smile. "I understand that too well."
The coffee arrived.
Myth gave a small nod of thanks but didn't touch the cup.
They exchanged a few more lines of polite small talk—calm, formal, but neither too stiff nor too friendly.
Then Myth leaned forward slightly, retrieving the folded paper from his uniform.
"I'm here to deliver a message."
He handed it to her, careful to keep his fingers steady.