"Hey, buddy, at least say these things behind our backs."
Valmont's mouth twitched, feeling insulted.
Who loudly plots how to double-cross their partner right in front of them?
This generation of youngsters has no sense of martial virtue!
Shouldn't this kind of talk happen in a dimly lit secret room, whispered into someone's ear?
Pah, I'd even turn off the lights."
"What's the big deal~"
Victor grinned carelessly, his arm draping over Valmont's shoulder with extreme naturalness, giving him a hearty squeeze in a display of buddy-buddy affection.
"After all, I'm saying it specifically for you to hear."
Valmont felt deeply uncomfortable from this sudden "warmth."
The hand on his shoulder felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, pressing down on his heart and making him panic.
"You... what do you mean by that?"
A bead of cold sweat formed on his forehead; his intuition told him this guy's thought process was definitely not normal.
Victor leaned in closer, still wearing that harmless, brilliant smile, lowering his voice, yet his tone carried an undeniable allure:
"What I mean, brother Valmont, is that the cooperation I just mentioned isn't with that talking stone on the wall."
He paused, watching Valmont's pupils contract sharply, and spoke clearly, word by word:
"It's with you, Valmont, a personal cooperation with you."
"With... with me?"
Valmont nervously licked his dry lips, his heart pounding uncontrollably.
A vague yet incredibly tempting thought uncontrollably surfaced.
"Exactly!" Victor's smile deepened, like a fox spotting a plump prey.
"Come on, tell me, how big a pie did that stone dragon draw for you to make you so devotedly work for it?"
"The Golden Rooster King Treasure or something else? Well, whatever it promised, the key question is—"
Victor leaned back slightly, sizing up Valmont with an exaggerated expression, as if he had discovered a new continent:
"How much actual return have you received so far? Real gold and silver, or even a tiny, tangible 'deposit'?"
"N... none."
Valmont practically ground out these two words through his teeth, his face burning with shame.
Not just none—he, the esteemed leader of the Dark Hand, had nearly bankrupted himself searching for the talismans!
Compensation for his underlings' families, equipment wear and tear, maintaining the intelligence network... which one didn't cost money?
Lately, he had even started seriously considering layoffs—who would believe it if word got out?
"None?!"
Victor's eyes widened suddenly, his voice rising, filled with disbelief, sympathy, and... a touch of undisguised mockery.
"Good heavens! Working your fingers to the bone, losing money and people, and you haven't seen a single penny in return?"
"Brother, today's capitalists are missing a model worker like you! They'd give you a 'Best Contributor of the Year' award after hearing your story!"
Valmont's face flushed and paled alternately as he tried to maintain his last shred of dignity:
"As long as... as long as we can ultimately obtain the Golden Rooster King Treasure, these current losses are nothing more than the tip of a hair on a nine-oxen hide!"
But his voice trembled noticeably; he couldn't even convince himself.
"Come on, brother, stop lying to yourself."
Victor dropped the exaggerated expression, his tone turning sharp and direct, like a cold scalpel precisely dissecting the reality Valmont had been unwilling to face.
"You know better than anyone that that broken stone is just using you for free! It has no intention of keeping its promises!"
"It's exploiting you. Once you're no longer useful, being kicked aside would be a blessing—it might even swallow you as a snack!"
Victor's words hammered down on Valmont's fragile defenses. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and his lips quivered as he tried to retort:
"N... no, it wouldn't..."
"Listen, Valmont!"
Victor cut him off, his voice carrying an undeniable magic.
"Instead of pinning your hopes on a vague, untrustworthy ancient demon, why don't we team up and pull off a big one—we'll join forces and 'clean it out'!"
"C... clean it out?"
Valmont's pupils quaked; this ruthless, gangster-esque term made his heart race.
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