Commander's Room
Inside the commander's room, the atmosphere was heavy, the scent of old wood and ink clashing with the faint smell of sweat carried in from outside. The room itself was modest compared to its importance—a few shelves stacked with dusty scrolls, a large table scarred with years of use, and the banner of the Guard fluttering on the wall behind the Commander's chair.
Commander Harlan sat there, a man in his late fifties, his stern face carved with years of scars and disappointments. His sharp eyes didn't miss a thing, and tonight, they were locked firmly on Brian.
Brian stood at attention, his hand still wrapped in cloth, hiding the deep wound. Behind him, his men shifted uneasily, but no one dared to speak.
"Report," Harlan said, his voice gravelly, like stone grinding against stone.
Brian took a breath. "Close to ton weighing demoic dust, Commander."
The words hung in the air like thunder.
Harlan's brows twitched. His fingers tapped the desk once, twice. Then, slowly, he leaned forward.
"how many… kilos?" he repeated. "How much is it worth on the market?"
Brian's throat felt dry. He forced the words out. "Approximately twenty million spirit stones, sir."
A low whistle escaped from one of the guards in the corner before he caught himself. The Commander didn't scold him. For once, the shock was justified.
"Twenty million…" Harlan murmured, his mind racing. That was enough to bribe a small kingdom, raise an army, or drown a city in blood.
Brian continued, his voice steady but grim. "The cartel behind this… Azel and his so-called brother, Arkel. Under them are Tito and Rock. Ruthless bastards, sir. Each of them runs a branch of the operation."
Harlan's eyes narrowed. "What do we know of Azel?"
Brian hesitated. "Nothing certain, sir. No one in the gang has ever seen his true face. Rumors claim he's a cripple, a fallen cultivator who lost all his power after a fight with some kingpin years ago. But…" Brian clenched his fist. "Every move, every scheme, every corpse we've found over the last two years—his fingerprints are on them."
The Commander leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable.
Brian's voice grew heavy, the weight of memory pressing down. "One hundred and twenty guards who worked this case… are dead, sir. Slaughtered. Their families destroyed. We know Azel's dogs did it, but we can't touch him. Not yet. Their influence runs deep. Even in our department."
For a moment, silence swallowed the room. Then Harlan spoke, his voice low and cold.
"What else did you find?"
Brian's lips pressed into a hard line. "Explosives. Weapons. Enough to wage war inside the city. And…" He hesitated.
"And what?"
Brian's jaw tightened. He thought back to the black box, to the impossible weight, the whispers that curled around his skull like a serpent's hiss. His bandaged hand throbbed even now, a reminder of what he had touched.
"They even had a sword, sir."
Harlan raised an eyebrow. "A sword?"
"Not just a sword," Brian said firmly. "An evil sword. Sealed. Hungry. When my men tried to move it, they couldn't even lift the box. I… managed to push it into the vault, but it wasn't easy." He adjusted the cloth over his hand quickly, hoping the Commander wouldn't notice. "Whatever it is, it's no ordinary weapon."
The room was silent again. Harlan's gaze sharpened, lingering on Brian's wrapped hand. He didn't ask, not yet. Instead, he nodded slowly.
"And the men you caught?"
Brian exhaled. "Low-level thugs. Escort service runners. Transporters. They know nothing, sir. They were just moving the goods."
The Commander cursed under his breath, his knuckles rapping the table.
"Who's your informant?"
"My boy, sir. Aris."
At that, Harlan's expression darkened. He leaned forward, his voice a low growl. "Tell him to be careful. If Azel even suspects him…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Everyone in the room already pictured the result.
"No one knows where the drugs are, correct?"
"Just me, my men… and you, sir."
Harlan nodded. He rose from his chair, moving toward the window. Outside, the farmhouse flickered with life—lanterns swaying in the night breeze, laughter spilling from the guards. A city blissfully unaware of the storm that loomed above it.
"Is the station safe?"
Brian straightened. "No place in the city is safer, sir. The office is an old building. There's a hidden basement beneath it. Few even know it exists. We'll keep the evidence there until it can be recorded officially."
Harlan's lips curved into the faintest of smirks. "Good. Then we move fast. Keep it sealed, keep it hidden. Not a whisper of this reaches the wrong ears."
He turned sharply to the men standing behind Brian. "Step out. Go have a drink. Training's almost over anyway. You've earned a night."
The men exchanged glances, then saluted. "Yes, sir!"
The heavy door shut behind them, leaving only Brian and the Commander in the dim room.
For a long moment, Harlan stared at Brian's bandaged hand. His eyes flickered with suspicion, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned back to the map spread across his desk, marking the city with his finger.
The Commander poured himself a glass of amber liquor, the sharp scent filling the room. He swirled it once, watching the liquid catch the lamplight before he threw it back in a single gulp. His face didn't flinch; the man was as hardened as the blade of a veteran's sword.
"This is a major case," Harlan muttered, more to himself than to Brian. The words seemed to scrape out of his throat, heavy with years of bitter truths. "Nine hundred kilos. Twenty million spirit stones' worth. Enough poison to rot a kingdom from the inside."
Brian stood rigid. His chest tightened at the thought of what would happen if the drugs reached the streets. Generations would be lost.
But then Harlan's tone shifted. He let out a cold chuckle, low and humorless. "You can't pull off a consignment this big without political involvement. Don't fool yourself. Someone powerful is pulling strings."
Brian frowned. "Sir?"
Harlan poured himself another drink, this time slower, deliberate. The clink of glass echoed in the room like a verdict being delivered.
"For some political reasons…" he said, raising the glass slightly, as if toasting the corruption itself, "…it won't be surprising if we have to give these back."
The words slammed into Brian like a blade. His eyes widened. "Give them back?" he asked sharply. His voice cracked with disbelief.
Harlan met his gaze, calm but unyielding. "It's a possibility."
Brian stepped forward, unable to restrain himself. "Sir, with respect—if these drugs flood society, thousands will die. Families ruined. Cultivators turned into addicts. Mortals broken. We can't—"
"Brian." Harlan's voice cut through the air like steel. The Commander leaned back in his chair, his glass dangling loosely between his fingers. "I was speaking hypothetically."
But his eyes said otherwise.
Brian clenched his fists, his injured hand throbbing beneath the bandages. "You know what would happen if—"
"Of course I know," Harlan snapped, slamming his glass on the table. The sharp crack rang across the room. "Don't preach to me about consequences. I've seen more bodies than you've counted stars."
The room went still, the silence broken only by the faint creak of the old building.
Then Harlan sighed, his tone softening. "Try to understand, lad. This isn't just about right and wrong. The higher the stake, the dirtier the game. People far above us… people we can't even name… will decide what happens next. If they say burn it, we burn it. If they say return it, we return it. That's the world."
Brian swallowed hard, but his jaw set in quiet defiance.
The Commander studied him for a moment, then reached for the bottle again. "Tell your boys to be safe. Nothing about this must leak out. If the wrong ears catch a whisper…" He didn't finish. He didn't need to. The shadows in the room carried the weight of that silence.
He filled his glass once more and raised it high. "Now come. Gulp down two large shots with me. If tomorrow burns, at least we'll have tonight."
Brian hesitated. "No, sir. I'm under medication."
Harlan smirked, shaking his head. "Always the straight arrow, eh?" He knocked the liquor back in one gulp, the burn doing nothing to his iron will. "Alright, then. At least give me company. And for fuck's sake don't drink milk in front of me."
Brian exhaled slowly and pulled out a chair. He didn't drink, but he sat opposite his commander, the flickering lamp casting long shadows on the wall.
X Cartel Main Base
Inside the dimly lit manor, Arkel sat cross-legged, his massive frame shadowed by the flickering oil lamp. His eyes glowed like embers, his butcher-knife sword leaning against the wall beside him. The air reeked of blood from the earlier carnage, yet he looked calm—too calm.
A faint hum vibrated through the spirit transmission artifact, and then a voice crackled to life.
"I'll tell you where your dest is," the mole whispered, nervous but firm.
Arkel leaned forward, lips curling into a grin. "Talk."
"To ensure the corps don't interfere," the mole said cautiously, "I'll need twenty kilos of it."
Arkel's grin froze.
"Then he threw his head back and laughed—a laugh so sharp it felt like knives scraping bone. His men around him stopped what they were doing, their eyes trembling as that laughter filled the room.
"You know how much twenty kilos is worth in the market?" Arkel asked mockingly. His tone had the softness of velvet, but his eyes were pure madness.
"I don't know how much twenty kilos is worth," the mole shot back quickly. "But I know how much nine hundred kilos is worth."
The smile on Arkel's face vanished. His voice dropped low, carrying a weight that pressed against the artifact. "Careful, rat. I don't like games."
"I can't do this all by myself," the mole explained hastily. "Special Corps, Forest Corps, Murim Office—they all must be handled! A lot of people must be compensated. If twenty kilos is acceptable, we can talk further."
Arkel's hand twitched toward his sword. For a moment, his men thought he'd cut the artifact in half. Instead, he leaned in close, his words like venom.
"Never mind twenty. Take however much you want. But I need to know the scumbags who seized my drugs. They must die tonight!"
The mole gulped audibly. "A cop must consider the consequences of entering Azel's area. So must the entire force. The one who led the bust was Brian. Squad head. His squad has—Charlie, Heather, Alex, Darius, Fenn and Elias."
Arkel's aura flared, suffocating the entire room. His voice thundered:
"I'll kill those five dogs before dawn! Send me their details!"
But the mole hesitated. His voice cracked through the artifact. "Not just five people you must kill."
Arkel's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"There is an informant in your gang."
Arkel roared. "No chance! Every one of them—"
"He's there!" the mole cut him off desperately. "One of them has been passing information to Brian for two years!"
The artifact fizzled as the connection ended.
Silence.
Arkel's lips curved into a smile again, but this time it was something far more terrifying. He reached for his sword, his knuckles cracking.
"John," he growled.
His right-hand man stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Yes, Arkel?"
"There is a cop among us," Arkel said, voice icy. "Do you suspect anyone?"
John's face hardened. "No, Arkel. There can't be such a thing."
"There is!" Arkel's voice snapped like a whip. His killing intent surged, and several of his men staggered back, coughing blood from the pressure alone. "He eats my food. Drinks my wine. Takes my coin. And snitches me out. He hides in my house… but I'll rip his throat out with my own hands."
John clenched his fist. "What do we do?"
Arkel rose to his feet. His towering presence swallowed the room whole. He took out a folded paper and showed it to all the gangs who came on his summons.
"I know who the cops who siezed our drugs are. We must deliver their heads to the station before tonight ends!" Arkel shouted.
John took the paper and started scanning the names.
Arkel's grin widened, his voice turning into a roar that shook the bloody manor.
"The names of the special squad are in this paper. The one who brings me their heads…" He raised his hand and threw a bag full of gold coins on the ground. "…gets a settlement of a lifetime!"
CLING CLING
His men howled in unison, their bloodlust exploding like wildfire.
Arkel paced slowly, his aura now crackling like lightning. "All those dogs are at the Commander's farmhouse. Their deaths will make every guard who even thinks of messing with us…" He paused, slamming the flat of his sword into the blood-soaked floor. The ground itself seemed to quake. "…shiver in fear!"
Then he raised both arms wide, laughing maniacally.
"This is an open challenge! Take it if you dare!"
The courtyard erupted with crazed cheers, blades clashing in frenzy, men chanting Arkel's name like a war hymn.
And in that moment, the X Cartel wasn't just an organization. It was a storm of madness, with Arkel Dron standing at its center—blood-soaked, smiling, and unstoppable.