A Trapped Beast on an Isolated Island

Deep in the Pacific Ocean, there lies a coral atoll, no bigger than a pinhead on a map, marked as privately owned.

The island is small, with a slightly higher elevation in the center, covered by dense tropical rainforest. Its edges are bordered by silvery-white beaches and a ring of emerald-colored lagoons, while beyond that lies the vast, deep blue ocean, shimmering in the midday sun like a giant, flowing sapphire.

The sky was a pure, unblemished azure, with a few wisps of white clouds drifting lazily by. The sea breeze, carrying the salty, moist scent of coconut palms, rustled softly through the swaying palm leaves.

This is one of at least three little-known overseas properties owned by Richard Walton, a fully equipped and secluded private fortress. On the eastern side of the island, nestled against a cliff and facing the lagoon, stands a low-rise building with clean lines and a modern aesthetic.

The building largely uses floor-to-ceiling glass and local stone and wood, blending seamlessly with the natural environment. However, the thick bulletproof glass, the hidden sensor array, and the disguised satellite communication and monitoring antennas on the roof all reveal its true nature—a luxurious and heavily guarded refuge.

On the top floor, there's a study with the most expansive view. One entire wall is made of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering unobstructed views of the boundless sea and sky. The indoor temperature is constant, the humidity is just right, and the expensive Persian carpet absorbs all footsteps.

The dark walnut desk was heavy and solid, and apart from a satellite phone, a Montblanc pen, a crystal ashtray, and a thin kraft paper folder, it was completely empty.

Richard Walton sat in a high-backed leather chair behind his desk. Instead of his usual well-tailored suit, he wore a soft linen shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tanned but still muscular arms.

But there was no sign of relaxation on his face; instead, a thick, lingering gloom hung over it. His once sharp, hawk-like gray eyes were now bloodshot, with heavy bags under them, and he was staring intently at the satellite phone on the table, its screen now darkened after a call had just ended.

The call was from Thomas Harris. It was brief, but the message was cold and clear: the police route was blocked.

That damned Deputy Commissioner Jonathan, and his unknown but incredibly powerful backers, are determined to label the recent bloodshed in Seattle and at his estate as "gang infighting" and cover it up. Thomas clearly stated that he was "powerless" to stop it and suggested that he "think of other ways."

Click.

Walton's fingers unconsciously tightened, squeezing the cap of the expensive limited-edition Montblanc pen in his hand until it made a slight, almost shattering crack. Unaware of this, he slowly, very slowly, pushed the satellite phone away from him, as if it were a hot, ominous object.

The study was deathly silent. The only sounds were the extremely faint whirring of the central air conditioning vents and the rhythmic, distant white noise of the endless waves crashing against the beach outside the window. But this silence was more suffocating than any noise.

Was he angry? Of course. Richard Walton had built his empire in Seattle and Washington State over decades, his wealth, connections, and influence deeply entrenched. He had never before been so brazenly attacked, his men murdered, his estate burned, and even the official forces he relied on were easily undermined, turning the tables on him and giving him a cold shoulder.

What a humiliation! His anger, like magma, surged and roared in his chest, almost breaking through the fragile crust called "calmness."

But even stronger than anger was a chilling cold that was spreading rapidly deep within his heart.

He originally thought that his opponent was just a nouveau riche from the East who was arrogant and perhaps a bit ruthless because he had some money.

He thought he could easily resolve the situation using his most effective methods—commercial fraud, legal pressure, and local connections—or at least make the other party pay a heavy price and back down.

His son Brandon was seriously injured—it was an accident, a provocation—but it also gave him a more direct reason for revenge.

He hired "Ghost," one of the West Coast's top assassin teams. He thought it would be a fatal hook, enough to wipe the opponent out completely.

However, reality dealt him a heavy blow.

The "Ghost" team was wiped out silently and completely in less than 24 hours, as if they had never existed.

Immediately afterwards, the other side retaliated in an even more violent and undisguised manner—the manor was blasted open with rocket launchers, and the bodyguards left behind were slaughtered. The villa in Bellevue was infiltrated. Although Brandon's transfer to the hospital was timely, it also demonstrated the depth of the other side's reach and the speed of their actions.

This is no longer a business competition, or even a typical gangland feud. It's more like a... war. On one side are deeply entrenched local tyrants, and on the other side is a well-equipped, well-trained, ruthless, and frighteningly efficient army that suddenly emerges from the shadows.

The armed forces, intelligence capabilities, and the speed and depth of their infiltration of officialdom demonstrated by the other party completely exceeded his initial expectations. This was something no ordinary businessman could possess.

Thomas's words on the phone, "Someone is determined to protect him, and will do so thoroughly, at any cost," echoed in his ears like a curse. Who was behind Jonathan? A rival in the state legislature? Or a higher-level force? And who exactly was this Lin Mo?

What chilled him even more was the other party's vengefulness and decisiveness. Without any probing or warning, once hostility was confirmed, the attack was thunderous and relentless.

From wiping out the assassin team to raiding the manor, there was almost no interval in between.

This ruthlessness and decisiveness sent a chill down his spine, even for someone who prided himself on being a seasoned veteran of both the business world and the underworld. This wasn't bluffing; this was a genuine attempt to uproot and completely eradicate the Walton Family from Seattle.

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to calm his wildly beating heart and turbulent thoughts.

Sunlight streamed through the glass, warmly bathing him, yet it couldn't dispel the chill that seeped into his bones. He knew he had met a true adversary, a terrifying opponent who didn't play by the rules and possessed the power to overturn the table.

A few seconds later, he opened his eyes again, his gaze falling on the lone brown paper folder on the desk. He reached out, somewhat wearily, pulled it towards him, and opened it.

Inside were just a few pages of paper and a few blurry photos. This was all the information he could gather about "Lin Mo" by using almost all his connections.

The information is pitifully scarce.

Name: Lin Mo

Nationality/Ethnicity: Chinese

Public identity: Head of Mofeng Capital), recently acquired Eagle Creek Ranch in Skagit County, Washington State.

Known connections: Closely associated with the "Blood Spear" mercenary group, suspected of being its behind-the-scenes controller. Has recently had some contact with the local Chinese community, but the network of relationships is unclear.

Financial situation: Abundant funds, source of funds unknown. Suspected of controlling assets through offshore companies and complex trust structures.

Entry record: Entered the United States approximately six months ago on a business visa.

Earlier records: None. Background at Great East, educational experience, family situation, history of making money... all blank. It's as if this person appeared out of thin air on the West Coast of the United States half a year ago.

Most of the photos were taken from a distance, in Eagle Creek Ranch, on the streets of Seattle, and outside the Pan-Pacific Ocean Center building. The young man in the pictures always had a calm expression and deep eyes, and was always accompanied by his assistant named K and several capable bodyguards.

Judging from his appearance alone, he was excessively young, and his demeanor was even somewhat reserved, which was completely at odds with the ruthless, decisive, and wealthy image described in the intelligence reports.

Walton's fingers traced the few lines of text, then he looked at the blurry photos, a complex expression on his face a mixture of confusion, resentment, and a deeper sense of apprehension.

A blank page.

That's the most terrifying thing. Someone who can mobilize such resources and accomplish such great things in such a short time has a past that's as clean as if it's been erased by the most professional eraser. What does that mean? It means either the other person's background is so deep that it can easily erase all public traces, or... the other person is not as simple as they seem on the surface. The waters at Great East University are much deeper and more murky than he imagined.

He closed the folder and tossed it aside as if it were a useless piece of junk. Leaning back in his chair, he gazed out the window at the dazzling sunlight, the azure sea, and the swaying coconut palms. This secluded paradise, at this moment, filled him with a deep sense of powerlessness and... fear, as if he were being exiled and trapped in a cage.

Yes, fear. He didn't want to admit it, but the chill of being watched by a higher dimension, a more unknowable force, was becoming increasingly clear, like a bone-deep infection.

Conventional business tactics? They've become a joke after the other side demonstrated overwhelming military force and police influence. Legal avenues? Just look at Thomas's attitude. Local political connections? They seem to be strongly constrained as well.

What else could he do? Sit and wait to die? Watch as his business empire was slowly eroded (he vaguely sensed unusual activity in the financial markets), waiting for his opponent to launch another fatal physical attack at any moment?

No. Absolutely not.

Richard Walton's eyes once again held a cold, ruthless edge, a desperate, all-or-nothing quality characteristic of a seasoned tycoon. Since the rules of the day and the methods of the gray areas had failed, the only option was to plunge completely into the deepest, darkest shadows.

He slowly sat up straight, as if the previous exhaustion and suspicion had been forcibly suppressed, and his face regained that commanding, imposing coldness. He reached for the satellite phone, but this time he didn't dial any known numbers. Instead, he pressed a complicated speed dial button that required multiple verifications.

The call connected, and a respectful but equally low male voice came through. "Sir."

Walton spoke into the microphone, his voice steady, but every word sounded as if it had been pulled from an icebox:

"Prepare the boat. I need to see reliable, absolutely clean people aboard the island before sunset."

"Yes, sir. Should we arrange a meeting?"

"No," Walton's gaze drifted out the window, as if it could pierce through thousands of kilometers of ocean to see the dark corners of Seattle's Chinatown, "It's not a meeting. It's a message."

He paused, his mind rapidly filtering through the names and forces hidden in the city's darkest corners. Finally, the name of an organization known for its ruthless style, secretive operations, and equally hostile attitude towards "outsiders" came to mind.

"Contact the ' Fuqing Gang '," Walton clearly instructed into the microphone, his voice devoid of any emotion, only a resolute determination as if he were mortgaging his soul. "Tell them I have a 'problem' that needs 'professionals' to handle. The fee is negotiable. But I need to see the person who can actually make the decision. As soon as possible."

"Understood, sir. I will arrange the most discreet channels." The other party agreed without hesitation.

Walton hung up the phone, tossed the satellite phone back onto the table with a dull thud, leaned back in his chair, lit a cigar, took a deep drag, letting the pungent smoke fill his chest, and then slowly exhaled.

The bluish-white smoke rose and swirled in the sunlight, eventually dissipating in the airflow from the air conditioner.

Outside the window, the paradise-like scenery remains: azure sea, blue sky, white sand, and green trees.

But the air in the study seemed to have been completely polluted by that phone call, filled with a thicker, more deadly darkness and bloody stench.