Unwelcome Guests Arrive

"So, another hunter trained by Henry."

"M-Master, I don't know..."

"You don't know!"

On the high-backed chair across the long table, the candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the man's face. His complexion was ghastly, pale like a bloated corpse long soaked in water. With a hooked nose and eyes showing too much white, his pupils were mere pinpricks. He wore an exquisite double-breasted black wool coat, and the tips of his polished leather boots bore dark, reddish-brown stains that made one feel deeply uneasy.

"What about Vadoma? Is she still alive?" The man suppressed his emotions, though dark blue veins began to crawl across his forehead and the corners of his eyes.

"Alive! She's alive!" The slightly plump man, who had been hunched over and afraid to stand straight, answered in a frantic rush.

"Miss Vadoma has been imprisoned by the White House. We don't know the exact location yet, but we are certain she is still alive. Lincoln wants to extract our intelligence from her."

"Howlett, Howlett..."

The master on the high-backed chair toyed with a ring shaped like a fang on his finger, muttering to himself before speaking slowly: "I will handle Vadoma personally. As for that brat in Canada, you go and pay him a visit. Take plenty of men. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter."

"Yes! Master Adam."

"I'm telling you, Young Master, you and Victor spend half the day in the basement together every single day. You wouldn't happen to be..." O'Hara rested her chin on her hand, looking at James with a strange expression, her mouth hesitating as if she had more to say.

James paused for a moment, then irritably pinched the soft flesh of her puffed-up cheek. O'Hara cried out in pain and complained:

"Then why won't you go on a picnic and have afternoon tea with me! A great beauty like me, when have I ever been rejected like this?" She turned her back to him, leaning against James's desk with her arms crossed, refusing to speak further.

"You... I... Alright then." James said with a helpless sigh, his eyes filled with a hint of apology.

O'Hara whipped her head around: "Really?"

Before James could speak, she added, "No backing out! I'm going to prepare right now!" She lifted her skirt, strode out with her long legs, and hurried out of the room, giving James no chance to respond.

He felt a headache coming on, his words caught in his throat. Watching O'Hara's pretty silhouette, his eyes softened as if a gentle stream were flowing through them. James couldn't help but think back to the words of the elder Mr. Howlett on his deathbed, and he fell into a daze for a while.

Night fell, before bedtime.

Clang... clang... clang...

The neatly stacked giant barbell plates collided rhythmically as a naked, wild-haired giant squatted and rose.

This terrifying figure stood two meters and twenty centimeters tall, his frame impossibly broad. Sweat trickled down the deep furrows of his muscles, and his bare feet gripped the floor tiles tightly. The weight of his massive body and the exaggerated barbell caused cracks to spiderweb across the tiles.

Panting heavily, Victor finally finished his training for the day. He felt a strange pain and itching in his legs; the weight had been too great, exceeding his current physical limits, causing damage to his knees and leg bones that was now slowly healing.

The frantic tempering also caused his skin to seep tiny beads of blood, which mixed with the sweat on his body.

Victor slowly lowered himself, hands and feet on the ground, crouching like a fierce tiger. A rhythmic rumbling began to emanate from his abdomen, gradually spreading throughout his entire body, as if the sound were coming from every single bone in his frame.

After James had practiced the Tiger-Leopard Thunder Sound in front of Victor without reservation, this giant, who seemed to have nothing but "brute force" in his head, had slowly mastered the technique of generating power and sound, and began to practice it himself.

The Xingyi marrow-tempering Tiger-Leopard Thunder Sound was exceptionally well-suited for James and Victor. After practicing the Thunder Sound, their bones underwent a secondary growth phase, making their builds even thicker and taller—Victor's transformation was particularly exaggerated.

After a long while, Victor finally ended his training. He grabbed a wooden bucket, drew water from the pool in the corner, and poured it over his head, washing away the sweat and crimson bloodstains. The water drained quickly through the channels and holes in the floor; the details of this Underground Palace were quite well-designed.

Victor shook his wild, disheveled hair, grabbed his clothes, and headed upstairs.

"The fragrance of this flower has faded, like the breath your kisses once whispered to me."

"The color of this flower has withered; it once shone with the radiance that was yours alone."

"A shriveled, stiff, empty form, laid aside—"

"So you've been muttering this garbage all night, little Jamie?" Victor looked on with a mocking expression on his rugged face as James held a book and read to O'Hara. This scene was so ridiculous in his eyes that he used the mocking nickname from James's youth.

O'Hara glared furiously at Victor, who had barged in without even knocking. Her face was flushed with a mix of shame and anger, almost matching the color of her bright red hair. Just as she was about to lash out at Victor, James calmly closed the book and said in a relaxed tone.

"It's Shelley, 'To a Withered Violet,' a poet I quite like."

Victor scoffed with utter disdain, "Instead of reading about Shelley's withered radishes, why don't you fight me!"

O'Hara burst into a giggle, clutching her stomach and shaking like a little hen. James shook his head, looking at O'Hara with a helpless smile.

"Victor, you big idiot, it's a violet, not a radish... You two practice those strange things every day and are always fighting—what's the point? No matter how well you can fight, can you stand up to a hunting rifle?"

O'Hara complained, casting a dissatisfied glance at both James and Victor.

Victor smiled craftily, saying meaningfully and softly: "Guns... they really aren't much use..."

"Alright, alright, O'Hara, I'll read you more poetry tomorrow." James intervened to smooth things over, and little O'Hara wrinkled her nose and huffed.

He turned to Victor and said, "You should still read some books when you have the time. If you only train like a madman every day, your mind will—"

James suddenly stopped, frowning and sniffing the air. Victor seemed to sense something too; his nostrils flared, and he licked his lips unconsciously, a savage excitement appearing on his face.

"O'Hara, lock the doors and windows. Do not go out. If anyone tries to break in, go directly into the basement through the secret door in the study."

James spoke to O'Hara with a stern expression. It was the first time the young girl had seen such an expression and attitude from Master James, and she stood there, stunned and nervous.

James, conversely, turned to Victor with a relaxed air and said, "Come down with me and take a look, Victor. Unwelcome guests have arrived; we must go and entertain them."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Lord Marcus, this is the place."

A rider on a black horse, who had scouted ahead, galloped back to speak to the leader of the group. They all wore wide-brimmed cowboy hats, black buttoned trench coats, black gloves, and black boots, carrying no visible weapons. Yet, under the large, round moon of this night, each of them looked as pale as a bloated corpse.

The man known as Marcus had a slightly stout build, a thick beard, and a broad face with sunken cheeks. He looked up at the towering, imposing manor castle of the Howlett Family and asked with a hint of skepticism, "Are you sure this isn't the Governor General's residence in Canada?"

The rider nodded, and Marcus let out a slow, cold sneer. "A manor lord turning his home into a military base, walled off tight, with watchtowers and bunkers everywhere. You all better be careful; I suspect there are quite a few gunmen in there."

The men behind him chuckled rustlingly, "My lord, it doesn't matter how many gunmen they have, hahahahaha."

Marcus laughed as well. That was true; what use were guns, after all?

He flicked his whip, and his horse neighed as it surged forward. The troop galloped rapidly toward the castle, but just as they neared it, the torches that had been visible from the ramparts vanished, and the sentries seemed to have cleared out entirely. The castle gates creaked open in an eerie fashion, and two faint silhouettes could be seen on the vast, open ground inside.

Marcus hesitated for a moment, but the men beside him and the spirited horses beneath them did not. They charged swiftly through the gates, yet no one looked back to notice that the gate was slowly closing once again.