Early morning in Vespera did not begin with calm that day.

Inside the Mordecai residence, the usual order had shattered into chaos. Footsteps echoed across the marble floors, voices overlapped in urgency, and staff members rushed in every direction, their faces pale with panic.

Jax woke abruptly to the noise.

He stepped out of his room, irritation already forming before he even understood what had happened.

“What is going on?”

One of the staff members rushed toward him, breathing uneven.

“Sir… Mr. Rowan… he…”

Jax’s expression hardened instantly.

“What happened to him?”

The man swallowed.

“He fell… from the balcony.”

For a second, Jax did not react.

Then his eyes widened slightly.

“What?”

He pushed past them.

“Move aside.”

He moved quickly down the corridor, his steps sharp and heavy. The cluster of staff parted as he approached, revealing the scene.

Rowan lay on a long couch that had been pulled into the hall.

His body looked wrong.

One leg bent unnaturally.

Scratches marked his arms and face.

His breathing was irregular.

Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth.

His eyes were shut tight, his face twisted in pain.

“Looks like his leg bone is fractured,” one of the staff whispered nervously.

Jax stepped forward, dropping to his knees beside him.

“Did anyone call an ambulance?”

“Yes, sir. It is on the way.”

Rowan groaned faintly, his body trembling slightly, his chest rising unevenly.

Jax slid his arm beneath his father’s head, lifting him carefully.

“Father… it will be alright.”

But even as he said it, his voice carried uncertainty.

Within moments, the sound of sirens cut through the air.

The ambulance arrived.

Medical personnel rushed in with urgency, carrying equipment and a stretcher.

One of the paramedics immediately leaned over Rowan.

“Foaming at the mouth… check airway.”

Another moved to his chest, placing fingers against his carotid artery.

“Pulse is irregular. Weak and thready.”

A third quickly brought out an oxygen mask.

“He is having difficulty breathing. Possible rib fractures.”

The first paramedic checked his pupils, shining a light.

“Pupil response delayed… possible neurological involvement.”

Another voice followed.

“Blood pressure dropping. We need to stabilize him now.”

The oxygen mask was placed over Rowan’s face.

“Administer oxygen. Increase flow.”

A paramedic pressed gently along his torso.

“Possible internal trauma. We cannot rule out internal bleeding.”

Then one of them looked closely at his condition again.

“The foaming… this might not be just trauma.”

A brief silence.

Then realization struck.

“He may have had a stroke.”

Jax’s head snapped toward them.

“A stroke?”

The paramedic nodded quickly.

“Likely cerebrovascular accident. Sudden neurological failure could have caused the fall.”

Another added.

“We need to move. Time is critical.”

They carefully lifted Rowan onto the stretcher, securing him in place.

“Prepare for transport. Keep monitoring vitals.”

One paramedic looked at Jax.

“Mr. Jax, we are taking him to the hospital immediately.”

Jax stood up slowly, his expression tight, his mind racing.

“Do whatever it takes.”

The stretcher was wheeled out quickly, the team moving with practiced urgency.

The ambulance doors shut.

The siren screamed to life.

And it sped away.

Jax did not wait.

He grabbed his keys and rushed to his car, starting the engine and accelerating hard onto the road, chasing after the ambulance.

…

Miles stood alone in the Maple Forest.

The early morning air was crisp, the ground slightly damp beneath his feet. His body moved with precision as he trained, each motion controlled, each breath measured. Sweat formed across his skin, but his focus remained unbroken.

His phone vibrated.

A message.

He paused.

Picked it up.

Read.

A faint smile appeared.

Not warm.

Not soft.

Something darker.

His eyes reflected something cold.

“Well, grandpa…”

His voice was low.

“He will feel it too.”

He looked ahead, his expression unchanged.

“Lying on a bed… like a lifeless body.”

The forest grew quieter.

The sky above began to change.

Clouds gathered slowly, swallowing the light.

A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the horizon.

Miles looked up.

A drop of water fell onto his face.

He blinked once.

“Rain?”

Another drop followed.

Then another.

“What are you bringing this time…”

The rain began to fall steadily.

Miles finished his workout without hurry, his movements slowing as the droplets soaked into the ground around him.

He turned and walked back toward the villa.

By the time he reached the entrance, the rain had grown heavier, pouring down in sheets.

He stood at the doorway for a moment, watching it.

The sound of rain filled the space.

Behind him, Elena’s voice came gently.

“The season has arrived.”

Miles turned slightly.

“Mom.”

Elena looked at him, a soft warmth in her eyes.

“Yes?”

Miles hesitated for just a moment.

“Can you make me some hot cocoa?”

Elena blinked, surprised for a second.

Then a smile spread across her face.

“Of course, dear.”

Her voice carried quiet affection.

“Go take a shower. I will get it ready.”

Miles gave a small nod.

“Thanks, mom.”

He walked inside, leaving behind the rain that continued to pour outside, as if the world itself was preparing for something yet to come.

….

Flashback… Paris.

The morning air carried a crisp chill, softened by the gentle rhythm of the waking city. The streets were quieter than usual, touched by the calm that only early hours could offer.

Ghost jogged through the familiar lanes, his pace steady, his breathing controlled. Sweat lined his forehead, but his expression remained composed. Even in something as simple as a morning run, his awareness never dulled. Every movement around him, every passing figure, every parked car… all of it registered in his mind.

As he slowed down near the corner, the newspaper vendor spotted him.

“What an energetic young man.”

The old man smiled, raising his hand in greeting.

Ghost gave a slight nod as he passed.

“Good morning.”

He continued forward.

A little ahead, an elderly woman stood near her gate, adjusting her shawl.

Ghost slowed just enough to speak.

“Good morning, Mrs. Seine. Did you take your medicines?”

The old lady’s face lit up.

“Oh dear, what a lovely boy you are. Yes, I took them.”

Ghost picked up his pace again.

“Take care.”

She watched him go, her smile lingering.

“Reminds me of old days… The neighborhood feels alive when someone like you lives here.”

Ghost did not respond.

But somewhere… he heard it.

…

He reached his house.

Or rather… his safehouse.

From the outside, it looked like any other residence in the quiet Parisian street. Nothing about it stood out. No signs of anything unusual.

Exactly as it should be.

He picked up the newspaper placed at the front door and stepped inside.

The first thing he did was stop.

His eyes scanned the entryway.

Every mark.

Every tiny indicator he had left before stepping out.

Position of objects.

Angles.

Dust patterns.

Nothing was disturbed.

No one had entered.

Only then did he move.

He removed his shoes, placed them neatly, and walked straight toward the bathroom.

The shower ran.

Steam filled the space.

Minutes later, he stepped out, his mind already shifting back to the task ahead.

In the kitchen, he moved with ease, cracking eggs, placing bread into the toaster, preparing a simple meal. His actions were efficient, practiced, almost mechanical.

Anyone looking at him would see a normal young man.

Living alone.

Cooking his breakfast.

Starting his day.

But there was one thing missing.

He did not go to school.

He did not live a normal life.

He carried a war within quiet walls.

He picked up his plate and walked toward another room.

His study.

No… his war room.

The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere changed completely.

The walls were covered.

Photographs pinned across every surface, connected with thin strings that formed a complex web of relationships and movements. Faces, locations, vehicles, routes… all linked together with precision.

A large whiteboard stood at one side, filled with notes, calculations, timelines, and possible scenarios. Markers lay scattered nearby, each color representing a different layer of analysis.

Two large monitors dominated the desk.

Both displayed live feeds.

Different camera angles.

Different routes.

All focused on one man.

Gabriel Moreau.

Director of a nuclear facility.

A man who never followed patterns.

Each day, he used different cars.

Different routes.

Different timings.

Sometimes he appeared in convoys.

Sometimes alone.

No one could say for certain which car carried him.

That was his protection.

Ghost had been studying this for days.

Hours of observation.

Minutes of analysis.

Patterns hidden within randomness.

And one thing stood out.

Every vehicle… regardless of route… originated from the same place.

A private forest estate.

High walls.

Limited access.

According to records, the property belonged to an industrialist who lived abroad. Only a caretaker and minimal staff were registered.

On paper, it was insignificant.

In reality… it was the origin point.

The hidden layer.

The truth.

No one suspected that Gabriel Moreau began his day from there, leaving quietly and heading toward one of the most critical facilities in the country.

Ghost stood in front of the screens.

Rain began to fall outside, tapping softly against the windows.

His eyes did not leave the monitors.

Cars moved across the display.

One turned left.

Another right.

Then…

A blue car.

Ghost’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“Blue today… as expected.”

Somewhere in the city, another Graveyard agent had already picked up the trail, following from a distance, maintaining the illusion.

Days had passed like this.

Observation.

Tracking.

Waiting.

The mission was clear.

Protect Gabriel Moreau until the trade agreement between Haven and France was finalized.

But Ghost was not just watching.

He was preparing.

Because he knew one thing.

Threats did not always announce themselves.

They appeared suddenly.

And when they did… it was already too late.

He reached for a stack of printed images.

A fresh one lay on top.

He picked it up and walked toward the wall.

Pinned it carefully.

The image showed a woman.

Red jacket.

Dark glasses.

Standing outside an opera house, surrounded by high profile figures from both France and Haven.

Aveline Chevalier.

The Disaster Maiden.

A name that carried death behind it.

The real threat.

The one hunting Gabriel Moreau.

Ghost stepped back slightly, studying the image.

Then his hand reached for a dart.

Without hesitation, he threw it.

The dart struck the photograph.

Not on her.

But on the man standing beside her.

A man from Haven.

Connected.

Linked.

Working for Mordecai Industries.

The board grew more complete.

The web tightened.

And somewhere within it…

A storm was beginning to form.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep