Marcellus received a confidential message from Blade. The report contained only a word in block letters: "Cooperation."
Blade was one of the most formidable figures in international law enforcement, a shadowy figure rarely seen.
In the days of the Night Owl single-combat rankings, the top three names were always contentious. Arabella's position at the top was scorned by both the underworld and law enforcement due to her being a woman, deemed unworthy of the title. As for the second and third spots, the underworld argued that AE had superior skills, while the law enforcement community insisted that Blade deserved the top rank.
Marcellus casually destroyed the message and let out a cold laugh. Perhaps Blade forgot—on the single-combat rankings, he was classified as a criminal. Did Blade really think that just because the Ackerley family had a vendetta against Arabella, he would automatically help?
The Ackerley family, branded as traitors, had once massacred the national leadership and assassinated the military commander-in-chief, General Vincent, on the battlefield. For nearly twenty years, this legacy remained a stain on their name. Though their rule had brought Scalien prosperity in contrast to the war-torn chaos of other nations, they could not shake the label of treason.
All of this, of course, could not have been achieved without the machinations of the Night Owl organization. In earlier years, he hadn't understood why Night Owl persistently targeted the Ackerley family. It wasn't until Nicholas surfaced three years ago that he finally discerned the filthy motives behind it.
As for the ranking list, while Nicholas's personal biases were evident, Marcellus firmly believed Arabella's strength should place her at the top. At the very least, he knew how terrifying she had been in those days.
During the years Arabella had been absent from Scalien, Arabella gambled that few had truly witnessed her full power. These days, she appeared like a gentle breeze—calm and amiable on the surface. Yet who could fathom that beneath it all, she was more akin to a beast consumed by wicked intent?
Cyrus had once uncovered a faint glimmer of humanity within her, but after his death, that light was buried along with him. What followed was an unyielding cruelty, unfettered and without limits.
The "Tumor" operation had been in play for years. Though a coalition of international military and police forces had dismantled Arabella's base three years ago, they had failed to deal her a critical blow.
Marcellus knew this all too well. Arabella's pursuits—murder, pillage, rebellion, territorial disputes, smuggling, and drug trafficking—were never truly about power or profit. Her singular goal was to reclaim Cyrus's body, and anyone standing in her way was marked for death.
Labeling him as a criminal wasn't entirely inaccurate. On the surface, he presided over the central government for the people, but in truth, his sole purpose was to engage Arabella in this fatal deadlock, disregarding the lives of everyone else.
Marcellus squinted at the now-destroyed report. For Blade to have gone undercover beside Arabella for so many years was a testament to meticulous planning. Reaching out now could only mean law enforcement was entering the final stages of their operation.
He took a deep breath and raised his hand to cover his eyes, concealing the thoughts that lay within. If it came to a joint operation to capture her, Arabella must fall into his hands. He and Arabella were locked in a game of life and death, one that could not be avoided. Arabella wanted him dead, yet he wanted her to live—nothing more, nothing less.
Arabella had cut her hair short, likely doing it herself, leaving uneven layers that looked somewhat awkward. Fortunately, her appearance was not particularly striking to begin with, and the plain hairstyle made her blend entirely into the crowd. Recently, she and Bramwell had taken an interest in racing. The nation of Fandel excessively glorifies peace, yet beneath its facade of false prosperity lies a web of criminal activities cloaked in the guise of legality.
Take racing, for instance. While the races themselves were nothing unusual, the situation changed when they involved matters of life and death, gambling, or spectators consuming drugs in their excitement. Any of these activities alone would be illegal in Fandel, but when wrapped together under the guise of legal racing, it became far easier to overlook.
This year's racing competition, for some reason, was especially popular, captivating the entire city and becoming the focal point of attention.
Due to her identity, Arabella didn't participate in the races. Instead, she stayed hidden, modifying cars for Bramwell, spending her days buried in auto parts and ending up covered in grease and grime. Bramwell, with his top-notch driving skills and penchant for adrenaline, coupled with his tall, handsome appearance, drew fervent admiration from the audience, becoming the breakout star of this year's racing competition.
On the day the final concluded, Bramwell, clad in a red-and-white motorcycle suit, descended from the podium amid a cascade of flowers and applause. His face wore a genial smile as he walked through the sea of adoration, heading straight into the repair room. As soon as he pulled down the rolling door behind him, his expression changed abruptly. Tossing the bouquet aside, he respectfully greeted Arabella inside, "Master Unknown, everything is taken care of."
Arabella didn't look up as he spoke, continuing to tinker with the scattered parts before her. Only after a long stretch of work did she finally lift her head. In the dim light, her face appeared deathly pale, her hair disheveled and curling at odd angles, yet her eyes gleamed with an unusual intensity. She grabbed a nearby rag and wiped her hands carelessly, her demeanor as composed and unshakable as ever.
"Norris has returned from Jingle?"
"Yes, a portion of the weapons has successfully reached the border between the two countries."
"Bramwell, do you think I'm cruel?"
Bramwell paused for a moment. In front of Arabella, there was no need for pretenses beyond his true self. "Cruel," he admitted. Then, fearing she might take offense, he pointed to his own nose and added with conviction, "But so am I. It works perfectly."
Arabella cast an intrigued glance at Bramwell. Her true face was indeed harsh to behold, and anyone who claimed otherwise was being hypocritical. It was rare for Bramwell to be so honest.
As she walked past Bramwell, Arabella patted him on the shoulder and suddenly said, seemingly out of nowhere, "A few years ago, a cop with the codename Eagle disappeared from Night Owl's ranking list. Nicholas said they haven't found anyone more skilled to replace him, so they just left the spot vacant. I think that's pretty fitting."
Bramwell was terrified, his mind racing as his body went hot and cold. His lips trembled slightly as he stood there, unable to figure out how to respond. He stood there awkwardly, while Arabella seemed to be in a good mood, leaving through the repair room's back door with a cheerful smile. Bramwell followed her back to the residence, uneasy for the better part of the day, yet Arabella made no move or showed any sign of intention.
He couldn't discern Arabella's true intentions. Years ago, he had joined the Tumor Project and gone undercover with his leader, but after killing his superior with his own hands and destroying his police records—with his leader's deliberately concealing his identity—his status as a cop had long since been reduced to ashes, erased from existence. Based on Arabella's words, she seemed to know the truth about him. But the fact that she hadn't acted yet left him uneasy—was this forgiveness or was she saving him for execution?
Alone in his room, Bramwell couldn't calm his restless mind. Finally, he decided to confront Arabella and get some clarity. After searching for her, he didn't find her but instead saw Taras leaving in a hurry, unaccompanied by his usual subordinates. Bramwell frowned but didn't dwell on Taras's actions. He rarely interacted with that thug anyway. Arabella would use whoever suited her needs. From the moment Bramwell decided to betray his past, the boundaries between evil and kind had ceased to matter to him.
After searching the house, even peeking into the room of the madman Merrick, there was still no sign of Arabella. Lately, Merrick's condition hadn't exactly improved—his episodes of madness seemed to have diminished, but he spent most of his time dazed, his consciousness unclear. Only when Arabella visited his room daily could his crisp laughter be heard. He glanced into the room to find Merrick sitting alone on the floor, leaning against the wall and staring out the window, motionless like a caged bird. And Arabella, he thought, was the one who held the key to his cage.
Bramwell was puzzled. They had returned together, and even though he'd been brooding in his room moments ago, it shouldn't have been possible for Arabella to vanish without anyone noticing. Bramwell made another round of the villa, questioning everyone he encountered, but no one had seen Arabella. Frustrated, he returned to his room. The moment he shut the door, Arabella slid out from under his bed like a phantom. Dressed in camouflage and holding a submachine gun, she lounged lazily as she stared at him.
Bramwell felt a chill run through his heart, convinced that Arabella had uncovered his past as an undercover agent and had finally decided to kill him. Resolutely, he shut his eyes, choosing not to resist at all. Resistance was pointless; if Arabella, like a grim reaper, decided someone's death, it was a certainty. But after a long moment without feeling any pain, he heard Arabella's light laughter.
He snapped his eyes open to see Arabella flashing him a radiant smile. The long shadows of her lashes veiled the gleam in her eyes.
Arabella raised her hand and tossed the submachine gun toward him. Bramwell, quick-eyed and swift, caught the grip but stammered in confusion, "W-What's going on?"
"We're leaving now to take care of business."
"Huh?"
Arabella smacked him on the head and grabbed him by the nape, like a cat dragging its prey, chuckling as she said, "They say to turn from darkness to light, but you turned from light to darkness. How amusing."
Bramwell stumbled after her for a few steps as she handed him a set of camouflage clothing. Still dazed, he asked, "When did you figure out my identity?"
Arabella was pulling a large black bag from under his bed, unzipping it to reveal an assortment of firearms and bullets. As she loaded the weapons, she replied without looking back, "Before your leader died."
Bramwell was incredulous. "That early? Then why didn't you kill me when he died?"
Arabella finished loading the bullets, stretched her neck, and glanced up at Bramwell with a faint, ambiguous smile but said nothing. Bramwell immediately understood he had overstepped. After all, she hadn't killed him all this time, so it was unlikely she would now.
Arabella was almost an inhuman beast—but only almost. One of her rare human traits was her unwavering commitment to her promises. When his leader trusted Bramwell to take his place beside her, Arabella had agreed. That meant she would never betray that trust.
Having figured it all out, Bramwell was thrilled. He had spent years treading carefully, terrified that a single misstep would lead to Arabella discovering his past and killing him. It wasn't death he feared—it was dying and never seeing Arabella again. Now that she had brought it up, he suspected she was about to entrust him with an important task.
After his initial excitement, Bramwell straightened his expression and said solemnly, "Master Unknown, what are your orders?"
Arabella grinned and pointed at herself. "Take me to die."
"Huh?"
In such a short span, Bramwell had been startled multiple times. Now, like a bewildered owl, he could only keep squawking, "Huh? Huh?"
