When Karl was brought to the headquarters by his own boss, his legs were trembling.
In Destiny, he was nothing more than a small fry, a low-level thug running an underground gambling den.
Normally, he rarely even saw his own boss. Hearing that the Master wanted to see him nearly scared him to death.
"Relax, there's nothing to worry about. Just answer when I ask you something." Quentin smiled, but his eyes lacked any patience or warmth.
Karl didn't dare lift his head, missing the lethal intent beneath Quentin's gentle demeanor.
"When did those people show up?"
"When I encountered them, it was at a racing event, four or five days ago. Two young men—one was quite talkative, and the other obviously skilled."
Quentin didn't bother asking their names; they were fake anyway. He would have these details investigated later—these were not his primary concern.
"Did you see a woman with them?"
Karl paused, then exclaimed, "I saw her during our first meeting. She looked quiet and delicate, appearing every bit the daughter of a respectable family."
Quentin hadn't had a chance to respond when Marcellus sneered, "A respectable lady?"
Quentin noticed the scorn in Marcellus's eyes. He also felt that his subordinates were blind and disgraceful, and the murderous intent in his eyes was immediately laid bare, without any attempt at concealment.
He glanced to the side, and his trusted aide immediately understood.
The aide grabbed Karl and escorted him out. Karl, clueless, thought the Master had finished questioning him and was letting him go.
But the Boss, standing nearby, saw it all clearly. After Karl was taken away, he knelt down in fear, awaiting his fate.
"You're a veteran in our organization. Don't let yourself slacken after too many easy days," Quentin said coldly, sipping his red wine and giving him a gentle reprimand.
The boss wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and responded with utmost sincerity. He knew full well that he still had some value to the Master, and it was that usefulness that spared his life.
Once everyone else had left, Quentin apologized to Marcellus, "We didn't catch her. She's highly alert."
Marcellus snorted. He hadn't really expected them to catch Arabella.
That woman was always vicious and shrewd.
Anyone wanting to deal with her needed to be fully prepared; otherwise, they could forget about catching that slippery eel.
"But the fact that she came herself means this must be a big deal," Quentin thought there might still be a chance to catch Arabella.
Marcellus had never imagined that the exiled beast would go on to commit atrocities and become infamous.
If he hadn't traveled all the way from Scalien to Kewa to visit an old friend, he probably would have never encountered her, nor would he have known.
Arabella was still alive—living well and vividly so.
Back then, he had clearly shattered her bones, drained her blood, and squeezed the life from her. How could she still be alive?
Truly, the life of a beast is unusually tough, and its harm endures.
Arabella's group did not return to their Rus base. She switched entry points and quietly returned to their main base.
This time, the reconnaissance had gone smoothly, but who would have thought that in the end, he'd run into someone he shouldn't have, resulting in a hurried departure that made it seem like he was fleeing in disgrace.
A flame of frustration burned within Arabella, but outwardly, she remained calm and composed.
So, Marcellus actually knew the heir of the Destiny, Quentin.
Now, that was an especially interesting fact.
She had initially planned to make one deal and leave, but now—it seemed her plan would need some adjustments.
When she tasted rust in her mouth, Arabella licked her lips, finding them bloody, and exhaled a breath of cold air through her nose.
The steward at the nightclub had received the message and was preparing to send a man to Arabella.
The nightclub had many young hostesses and a few young hosts, but Arabella was always selective and never touched anyone from the nightclub.
When the steward heard it was for Arabella, he guessed she was in a good mood after her recent mission and hurriedly brought out the newest, cleanest recruits for her to choose from.
Arabella sat in a cool chair, eyeing the lineup from left to right and back again, until she noticed a timid, round-faced boy with big eyes at the end of the row.
He looked about seventeen or eighteen, fair and tender, with a round, chubby face that was endearing.
He couldn't be called particularly handsome, but his eyes were large, round, and sparkling, which made him stand out.
"Him," Arabella said, pointing to the boy, settling her choice.
The procuress quickly nudged the boy forward and, smiling, said to Arabella, "He's a newcomer, untrained. I hope Master Unknown will be understanding."
Arabella, somewhat distracted, waved her hand. "Take him down and clean him up."
When the attendants brought the boy back, Arabella was half-lying on the bed, several empty wine bottles lying askew on the table beside her.
The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, and the youth took a hesitant step back, only to find that the door behind him had already closed.
Raven stood outside as well, not permitted entry.
He stood at the threshold, his expression wary as he listened to the sounds from within.
He sensed something was off about Arabella, though he couldn't pinpoint what. All he could do was wait silently for the situation to unfold, hoping for a chance to catch a glimpse of her rarely seen side.
"Are you done?" Arabella asked softly, a smile gracing her lips.
The youth nodded, keenly aware of the strange calmness of the woman seated before him, yet her smile, soft and serene, was in stark contrast to the fierce and terrifying image he had expected.
Arabella's smile grew even brighter. "Take it off, let me see."
Though the youth had not been trained, once sold to the nightclub, he had long since resigned himself to his fate.
He obediently removed his clothes, standing naked, his penis was pink and cute, yet mature in its proportions.
Indeed, he was a virgin, pristine in every sense.
Arabella was pleased, swiftly disrobing and lying down on the bed herself.
"Come here—"
At that moment, the youth lowered his guard significantly. His gaze was warm, a hint of longing in his eyes.
It was said that this woman held great power and was exceedingly wealthy.
He had seen many wealthy women at the nightclub, but none had been as young, as gentle, or as calm as she.
He climbed onto the bed slowly, his movements unskilled and lacking in finesse. He clumsily licked Arabella's neck and trailed downwards, trying to please this woman.
But Arabella wasn't focused on what was below his waist; her gaze was fixed on his eyes.
She lay there steadily, staring into those eyes, and a flood of malicious thoughts filled her mind.
Especially after seeing Marcellus, she remembered the real owner of those beautiful eyes.
Since she had personally hanged the owner of those eyes, whatever humanity she had left had likely been hanged with him.
Arabella reached out, pulled the boy closer, and under the light, his eyes sparkled brilliantly, bearing a trace of that person's gaze. Her heart fluttered with malicious delight as she said, "Such beautiful eyes."
The boy froze at Arabella's compliment, sensing the flash of cruelty and sadness in her eyes.
He instinctively shuddered, retreating, trying to escape her embrace.
But it was too late.
Arabella suddenly sat up, flipping him onto the ground with one hand. The boy struggled in terror, only for her to snap his arms with ease.
He let out a earth-shattering scream, but before he could even cry out in terror a second time, Arabella seized his head and slammed it mercilessly into the ground.
The force of the blow was filled with murderous intent, yet her face remained contorted with a cruel smile.
The impact left the youth stunned, his body wracked with excruciating pain as his head rang with a deafening buzz, and his form had already gone limp, as soft as cotton.
Arabella flipped him over, holding a sharp knife in her hand. The gleaming blade was chilling to behold.
"Please—" the boy, in a daze, pleaded for his life, whimpering for a sliver of mercy.
Arabella was unmoved, and the boy's tearful begging stirred an inexplicable thrill within her. Even though he was merely a replica, he still made her heart race.
She bent down, gripping his head tightly, and drove the knife straight into his eye.
As the blade pierced his eye, he let out a blood-curdling scream, a gut-wrenching, chest-splitting howl.
Blood spurted forth, and the scream grew increasingly pitiful, until it gradually faded into a faint whisper.
After gouging out both his eyes, Arabella felt a wave of satisfaction. She hummed a delighted laugh, which escalated into full, hearty laughter.
Then, as if in a twisted mercy, she twisted his neck sharply, snapping it before he could draw another breath.
"Raven. Clean up the body."
Raven heard everything clearly from outside, his blood boiling.
He entered after receiving the order, only to see Arabella, covered in blood, standing naked by the table, lifting a bottle for a drink.
He watched, parched, his fingers trembling, breath unsteady, wishing he had a powerful body to pin her beneath him right then.
But lacking such fantastical abilities, he could only stand tall, clenching the iron-hard mass between his thighs.
Bramwell, who had come running at the noise, could only stand frozen at the doorway.
The woman before him was like a devil, but what she awakened in the men was a deeper instinct—violence and conquest.
A desire to ravage, with blood singing a haunting refrain.
To descend into the darkness.
At that moment, a dark seed took root in Bramwell's heart—the preciousness of human tears. To obtain Arabella's tears…
What an exhilarating and thrilling feat that would be.
