Chapter 4
In the heart of the southwest Slum Valley, nestled deep within the dilapidated and despair-laden Section 12 District of Country E, lay an address that epitomized the grim reality of this forsaken corner of the country.
The slum itself was a haunting tableau of urban decay. The once-vibrant buildings, now reduced to crumbling skeletons, seemed to lean upon each other for support, as if they, too, had lost the will to stand tall.
Their walls, adorned with layers of peeling paint, bore the scars of time and neglect, leaving behind a tapestry of unsightly blemishes. Broken windows, their jagged edges a testament to countless struggles, stared blankly at the world beyond.
As one ventured deeper into this desolation, the streets narrowed, winding through a maze of ramshackle hovels that huddled together for warmth and security. These hovels, constructed from scavenged materials and mismatched scraps, leaned perilously, creating a labyrinthine network of makeshift shelters.
The atmosphere hung heavy with the acrid scent of desperation, where hope had long since abandoned its inhabitants. Pools of stagnant water collected in potholes, breeding grounds for disease, while refuse littered the alleyways like macabre confetti. The gutters ran with filth, a vivid reminder of the slum's neglected state.
At night, the slum transformed into a realm of shadows and whispers, where danger lurked in every dimly lit corner. The flickering streetlights, a feeble attempt to push back the encroaching darkness, only served to emphasize the pervasive gloom.
The address itself was a sorry spectacle, a decaying structure at the far end of a desolate alley. Its façade, once painted a cheerful color that had long since faded, offered no solace to its occupants.
A crooked door, hanging by a single hinge, seemed to invite both those seeking shelter and those with ill intent.
Inside that door in dimly lit room, a woman with mesmerizing, once-blonde hair that cascaded down to her waist lay on a simple bed. Her beauty, although still evident, had been dulled by the hardships of life and the relentless grip of disease.
Her mature face held traces of enchanting charm, yet her eyes, once vibrant, had faded to a pale green, drained of their vitality. She endured the agony of her ailment day by day, her strength waning.
"Mother, here, drink this; it's medicine," a child's voice quivered as a boy of not more than ten offered a small vial. He held onto a flicker of hope, despite the medicine's apparent ineffectiveness. The fear of something dreadful happening gnawed at him, a fear he desperately tried to push away.
"It's okay, Aaron. You go and get some sleep. I'll be fine," she reassured him with a weak smile, her voice interrupted by a cough that wracked her frail form.
"No, Mother, I won't leave you," the determined child declared, standing resolute by her bedside. His mother's eyes welled with tears as she gazed upon her unwavering son.
She leaned back against a tattered pillow, closing her eyes, hoping to find a moment of respite.
Eventually, the exhaustion overtook them both, and they drifted into a fitful sleep, clinging to each other in the face of an uncertain future.
....
*Knock* *knock*
"Come in," boomed a commanding voice that reverberated with unwavering authority, echoing through the opulent chamber. Albert, a man who had once witnessed his master's battle against death, now stood in awe before the transformation that had overtaken him.
The figure before him, known far and wide as the God of Wealth, had shed the frailty of illness and emerged as a formidable presence.
His master's eyes, as dark as the abyss, gleamed with a fiery intensity that sent a shiver down Albert's spine.
He could feel the weight of those penetrating looks, as if they bore into the depths of his very soul. Fear and respect mingled as he stammered, "S-sir, I heard you call for me."
The God of Wealth wasted no time. "What are you looking at, Albert? Are the jet preparations in order?" The man's words were laced with impatience, and his gaze brooked no hesitation.
"Y-yes, sir," Albert replied, his voice quivering. "The Global 8000 has been prepared and is waiting for you."
With a curt nod, the God of Wealth made his way toward the exit, his tailored suit clinging to his commanding frame like a second skin. The room seemed to vibrate with his presence, an aura of dominance that left no room for doubt.
"Let's depart," he ordered, and Albert hastened to follow him. The bodyguards, a group of seasoned professionals recruited from ex-special forces and reputable cultivation sects, moved swiftly and silently, adhering to the ironclad principle of following orders without question.
Outside the hospital, a line of luxurious Rolls-Royce Phantoms stretched as far as the eye could see.
They were joined by an entourage of sleek Mercedes-Benz and rugged Land Rovers, each vehicle a testament to the God of Wealth's status.
The procession of vehicles made its way to the opulent Presperos Airlines Airport, a domain befitting a man of his stature.
Avendial Croceus, the God of Wealth, was synonymous with extravagance, and the grandeur of the airport matched his reputation.
As the line of vehicles rolled to a stop outside the airport, anticipation hung heavy in the air. The door of the Rolls-Royce Phantom swung open, revealing the God of Wealth himself.
A bodyguard, chosen for the task, assisted in his graceful exit, and the world watched in awe as he emerged, a living embodiment of opulence and power.
Avendial Croceus stepped out of the Rolls-Royce Phantom with a grace that seemed to defy the laws of physics. His tailored suit, a masterpiece of sartorial elegance, clung to his frame with impeccable precision. The obsidian-black fabric was a stark contrast to his raven-black hair and the commanding aura that enveloped him.
As he exited the vehicle, his movements were a study in poise and refinement. His polished black shoes touched the pavement with a quiet confidence, each step a testament to the man's unwavering control. The world seemed to slow down around him, as if acknowledging his arrival.
The God of Wealth's presence was a symphony of opulence and power, and those fortunate enough to witness his exit from the Rolls-Royce Phantom could not help but be captivated by the sheer magnificence of the moment.
As he reclined in the opulent confines of his private air vehicle, Avendial Croceus's mind drifted towards the black ord that was only visible to him.
"What is the status of that woman?" he inquired, his deep voice resonating through the quiet cabin.
[Human, she will hold on for only three more days, driven solely by her unwavering will to live]
Avendial closed his eyes, his thoughts consumed by the memory of the woman who had fought fiercely to cling to life. She had been a beacon of resilience, a symbol of the strength that defied the impending solitude he would face in this world.
His heart smoldered with an insatiable desire for retribution against the beings responsible for their suffering.
Every moment of pain he had endured fueled his resolve to return it tenfold to those who reigned supreme, the very individuals his fury was now singularly focused on.
He closed his eyes unaware when he fallen asleep.
.....
"Sir, we have arrived," the Airhostess announced hesitantly, her voice trembling slightly. She had noticed the faint glistening of tears in the man's eyes, a sight she shouldn't have seen, given her role. Her professionalism kept her from inquiring further.
Without opening his eyes, the man with obsidian hair asked, "What time is it?"
"It will be midnight within two hours, sir," the Airhostess responded.
"Let's depart. Prepare a simple car for me alone," he commanded as he opened his deep Obsedian eyes, his voice resonating deeply in the empty cabin.
"But, sir, your safety..." she began, concerned about the absence of the bodyguards who had also arrived on the Airbus that followed the plane to Country E.
"No need," the man replied tersely. He disembarked from the plane, causing all the guards to stand in a respectful line, clearing a path for him.
He swiftly shed his tailored suit, revealing his shirt beneath, and casually tossed the discarded garment onto another seat.
He then settled into the driver's seat of his Maserati MC20, the engine's purr coming to life as he accelerated toward the airport's exit, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and bewilderment among the guards.