Chapter 5: You're a Ghost!

"Reginald Lyson! I didn't kill you with a club in broad daylight, but you're not getting away this time!" Benjamin Wokey snarled. "When this day comes around next year, I'll take your wife to your grave and burn a stick of incense for you! Hahaha!" He laughed three times, then his face snapped cold. He barked at his men, "Kill him. Kill him for me. Fifty grand each!" Murder meant consequences. Even bodyguards did not dare move lightly. But money could make devils dance. The moment they heard Benjamin Wokey's bounty, the six bodyguards' expressions twisted into something feral. Fingers slid onto triggers. Clang! A sword's clear cry rang out beside everyone's ears. A streak of red light swept across their vision. In the next heartbeat, a breathtaking woman in tight black clothes appeared out of nowhere in front of them. Every gaze locked onto that face, beautiful enough to topple kingdoms. Only Reginald Lyson shook his head, almost resigned. "Red Feather. Didn't I tell you not to step in?" "I'm sorry, Sovereign." Red Feather lowered her head, guilt written all over her. "I saw they had guns." "Three years apart, and you've decided I can't even handle a few guns anymore?" Red Feather shivered and bowed even deeper. Benjamin Wokey watched the two of them trading lines back and forth and did not understand a word. To him, it sounded like some kind of stage routine. *Can't handle guns?* What a joke. Six guns. Dozens of bullets. Even if that woman joined in, what could she possibly change? Then- "Ahhh!" A sudden shriek came from behind Benjamin Wokey, making him jolt. He spun around and saw the model who had gone to shower earlier. Wrapped in a bath towel, she stood behind the bedroom door, face drained white, eyes squeezed shut as she screamed. "The hell are you screaming for?!" Benjamin Wokey snapped. "D-dead! Young Master Wokey, they're dead!" "Tch." Benjamin Wokey snorted. "They're not dead yet. Give it a minute. Get back in the room!" He thought she was terrified of the guns his men carried. But when he turned back to look at his people, he realized he had it wrong. What made her scream was not the guns. It was the men holding them. Thin red lines had appeared across the six bodyguards' bodies. Dark crimson beads seeped out and slid down those lines. A cold draft passed through the suite. One of the burly men suddenly tipped sideways, bumping into another. And then the nightmare happened. Their bodies collapsed like toppled blocks, splitting apart into chunks that scattered across the floor. Every cut surface looked impossibly smooth. On a few pieces, intact blood vessels were still clearly visible. That red flash from when Red Feather appeared had already turned Benjamin Wokey's six men into a pile of butchered flesh. It had been so fast their bodies had stayed standing, as if nothing had happened at all. Such swordsmanship was beyond belief. Thud! The scene in front of him shattered Benjamin Wokey. He dropped hard onto the floor, and a yellow puddle spread across the tiles. He had pissed himself. Reginald Lyson rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Again with this… Red Feather, your hobbies are disgusting. Clean it up." "Yes!" Red Feather answered and drew the long sword at her waist, walking to the pile of meat. Reginald Lyson, meanwhile, started toward Benjamin Wokey again, one step at a time. But Benjamin Wokey's eyes could not leave Red Feather. At first, he had lusted after her beauty. Only then did he understand. She was not some gentle, moon-shaming beauty. She was a painted skull. A real, full-blooded she-devil. Under his stare, Red Feather stamped down with her foot. The chunks of flesh shot up into the air. Then red light flared again inside the room, one streak after another. Each time that red glow flashed, the pieces shrank. In the end, she cut all six men down, piece by piece, until nothing remained but a heap of powder. A cold wind swept in from outside, and the powder drifted to every corner of the suite. Some of it even floated right up to Benjamin Wokey's face. Staring at the salt-like dust, Benjamin Wokey finally snapped back to himself. He screamed, scrambled up from the floor, and bolted for the bedroom. "Move!" He grabbed the woman blocking the door and shoved her out, trying to use her to slow Reginald Lyson down. Then he rushed into the room in a frantic mess. Outside, Reginald Lyson set the unconscious woman down and walked after him. Bang! A gunshot cracked through the air. Benjamin Wokey stood inside with a pistol in hand, smoke curling from the muzzle. So it was not only his men. Benjamin Wokey carried a gun himself. But after he fired, he shifted the barrel aside, and his pupils blew wide. In that instant, his limbs went ice-cold. Reginald Lyson raised his right hand. Between his index and middle finger, he held the bullet. He pinched his fingers together. The bullet flattened into a metal disc. "All right. Let's continue our little conversation," Reginald Lyson said calmly. "Didn't you ask how I planned to kill you with all these guns around?" "Like this." "To me, what use are these guns?" At some point, Reginald Lyson's hand had already settled over the pistol in Benjamin Wokey's grip. His five fingers tightened and kneaded. Right in front of Benjamin Wokey, the gun crumpled into a lump of scrap. When Reginald Lyson opened his hand, iron filings fell in soft flurries, drifting down like willow catkins. "Ghost… You're a ghost!" Benjamin Wokey's mind snapped taut. His eyes bulged, and the last of his courage caved in. Terror crawled all the way into his heels. He hopped onto the bed and curled into the corner, desperate to put distance between himself and Reginald Lyson. When he realized it did not help, he dropped to his knees on the mattress and started kowtowing. "Don't kill me! Don't kill me!" "I'll make River City Bank approve the loan for Perfect Sky Company! I'll make them release it, right away!" Reginald Lyson shook his head. "You still have one thing wrong." "I didn't come here to hear you beg. I didn't come for River City Bank's loan." "What I want is your head." "Put your clothes on. Die with some dignity." Those words made Benjamin Wokey's legs tremble so hard the bed shook. How could this be? How could anyone be like this? He had already begged. Why would Reginald Lyson still refuse to let him live? Desperate, Benjamin Wokey roared, "Reginald Lyson! If you kill someone, you pay with your life!" "Pay with my life?" Reginald Lyson's voice stayed even. "You weren't afraid, so why would I be?" "Fine. If that's how you want to go, then let's do it." Reginald Lyson turned around, slow and unhurried, as if he meant to leave the room. As he walked, he lifted his hand lightly. With the same casual air, he flicked a tiny object away. In a flash, something spun in a tight arc through the bedroom, letting out a shrill, tearing whistle. A heartbeat later, it sank into Benjamin Wokey's forehead. Benjamin Wokey's eyes rolled back, and his body went limp. Between his brows, something had buried itself into his skull. It was the very bullet Reginald Lyson had flattened into a metal disc. The bullet pierced bone and ruined the brain. Benjamin Wokey died on the spot. "Clean up." Leaving only those words behind, Reginald Lyson walked straight out of the presidential suite toward the elevator. He rode down and left as if he owned the place.