Chapter 71: Countdown
This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation
At first, everyone gathered in the dimly lit room had tensed up, anticipating a terrifying ghost to emerge. However, when a young man stepped out instead, a wave of revulsion swept over their faces as if they’d just choked down a live bug.
“From the look on your faces, I gather you’re all quite disappointed,” Miles observed, a trace of amusement evident in his voice. “Were you perhaps hoping for some ghost instead of a mere mortal like me?” A teasing smile crept up on his face as he emerged from the shadows.
The leader of the group, who went by the name ‘Writing’, scowled, “Who are you?”
Even though Miles looked just like any other man, Writing was wary. Anyone who came out of that room was not to be taken lightly, especially when their earlier inspection had led them to believe that only Ethan was present.
Pausing to assess everyone in the room, Miles replied, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation through the door earlier. You were discussing a plan to abduct my family for either ransom or theft, am I right? And you,” he nodded towards Writing, the tallest among them, “you seem to be the one in charge.”
Unfazed, Writing retorted, “Answer my question first, young man,” and motioned to his comrades.
On his cue, two burly men advanced, faces twisted in aggression, clearly ready to engage in a physical altercation.
Yet, in an unexpected turn of events, the two men ignored Miles entirely and proceeded further into the room.
Miles, closing the door behind him, remarked, “I find it interesting. In a world where paranormal activities are not only real but also controlled by some, why would anyone risk upsetting us? What’s your game?”
The two men abruptly disappeared into the room’s depths, amplifying the already thick tension.
Suddenly, recognition flashed across Writing’s face. “Hold on. Your face… it’s familiar. You’re Miles, aren’t you? The rookie who has been working with Ethan.”
The resemblance was unmistakable. Miles looked just like the new ghost tamer who had recently teamed up with Ethan.
Laughing lightly, Miles said, “So, it finally dawns on you? Your recall leaves much to be desired. Now, back to our initial conversation – what brings you here?”
With a malicious grin, Writing replied, “The answer’s simple: riches.”
“Before the age of the supernatural, humans were willing to commit heinous acts for wealth, and that hasn’t changed. Our line of work is highly lucrative. Whether it’s a genuine ghost or not, we stand our ground if the reward is substantial.”
He continued, “A million might be considered a paltry sum for a life, but ten million? That’s enough to drive someone to desperate measures. Greed is a powerful motivator, and this world is overflowing with those entranced by its allure.”
“You’re fresh out of high school, right?” Writing said with a smirk, his eyes cold and calculating. “Let me tell you, the real world is much harsher than the schoolyard, and its cruelties run deeper than you’d think. Most people are blissfully ignorant of its darkest corners, so don’t hold a grudge against me for playing dirty. Instead, blame Ethan for not guarding such a valuable asset. And don’t think for a moment you’re equipped to handle it either. Showing up here? That was your first big mistake.”
Miles took a moment to absorb the threatening words, his eyes darting to Ethan, who lay battered and restrained on the cold floor.
“Do you think you’re getting under my skin?” Miles deliberately quivered his voice while revealing the crimson eye imprint on his backhand.
Writing scoffed, “I’m not trying to ruffle your feathers. I’m just letting you know my intentions. That artifact is leaving with me today. Otherwise, neither of you is walking out of here.” Swiftly, Writing pulled out a metallic baton from his belt, clicking it into full extension.
Miles raised an eyebrow, “That baton, is it made of gold?”
Nodding, Writing responded, “It’s crafted especially for those of your kind, ghost tamers. It’s one of the few things that can genuinely harm you, beings teetering between the living and the dead.”
“Sure, gold might deter malicious ghosts,” Miles retorted, “but to think that it grants you absolute dominance over us ghost tamers is an oversimplified assumption, wouldn’t you agree?” He smirked, “Do you really assume that because you’ve managed to overcome Ethan, the rest of us are pushovers? Who do you think we are?”
Writing’s grin faded slightly, replaced with a hardened stare. “It seems to me, young one, that you’re the one who’s mistaken about the real world.”
Miles’s voice took on an edge of bitterness. “Choosing to ignore the paranormal and instead relying on numbers, brutality, and deceit to rob and manipulate those grappling with sinister spirits. You’re a monster in your own right.”
Unfazed, Writing shot back, “This is just business for us. Are you trying to preach morality? Such naivety.” He then commanded, “Take him down first.”
But his words were merely a diversion.
Behind Miles, Writing’s henchmen quietly prepared their weapons, loading crossbows with specialized bolts tethered to golden threads.
These weren’t ordinary threads. Infused with gold’s unique properties, they were incredibly robust. If a bolt struck its target, the attached golden thread could ensnare and even incapacitate its victim. Developed overseas for military units facing wrathful spirits, this technology had since become a tool against ghost tamers, albeit with less effectiveness against actual ghosts. Adaptation was the name of the game in this ever-evolving world.
Suddenly, a rush of air signaled the release of the bolts.
They found their mark, embedding deep into Miles’s skin, causing him agonizing pain. As the henchmen yanked the threads back, Miles’s body was dragged down like a trapped animal, his defenses momentarily shattered.
“Is that the best you can muster? If so, you’re practically begging for your end,” Writing sneered, confidence radiating from his every step as he advanced towards Miles. With a swift and fierce motion, he brought down his gold-infused baton onto the spot where he believed Miles’s head to be.
The impact was thunderous.
In an instant, blood erupted and splashed across the floor. The fallen figure shuddered once, then lay unnervingly still.
“Did I just kill him?” Writing whispered, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
Given how resilient Ethan had been, he hadn’t anticipated Miles would fall so easily.
His brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait, this isn’t Miles.”
To his horror, Writing realized the body at his feet was one of his own men, one who had mysteriously disappeared into the room earlier.
“How? When did this happen?”
Suddenly, the silence was punctuated by slow, mocking applause.
Across the room, Miles lounged comfortably on a sofa, clapping with a smirk. “Bravo. The way you strategized earlier, biding time and then striking decisively— it’s evident you’ve seen your share of battles. I’ve taken notes on your tactics against ghost tamers. Rest assured, I’ll be prepared next time.”
“You did this?” Writing’s voice was a dangerous whisper, his face twisted in rage. Miles’s ghostly talents were quickly becoming a significant issue.
Had he cast an illusion?
Manipulated their perceptions?
Or, did he possess the power to swap places?
In the face of such uncertainties, Writing felt increasingly vulnerable.
Miles leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “I won’t spill my secrets so easily. But here’s a game for you. You have three minutes to answer my questions truthfully. Succeed, and I might let you walk away. Fail, or attempt to delay, and you’ll experience unimaginable pain.”
His tone was deadly serious, reflecting his growing disdain for the adversaries before him, especially after witnessing their callousness earlier.
If not for his keen instincts, he could have been the one lying lifeless.
It wasn’t hard to see how Ethan had fallen prey to them.
His blood, while effective against malevolent spirits, appeared less potent when dealing with human adversaries. It was a grim reminder that in this realm, one had to fear both the supernatural and the very human threats.
With that, Miles shifted his tone to one of determination. “Now, let’s get started. Question one: Who pulls your strings? Wait, that suggests someone’s controlling you like a marionette. Let me reword it: Who’s profiting from your endeavors?”
Nonchalantly, he pulled out his phone and set a timer, the ticking countdown glaring from the screen.
For Writing and his crew, this was the clock that would determine their fate.