Chapter Fifty-Two: Chu Chaoyan

Arthur had always been calm, playing the role of the perfect spectator as people came and went in the room. In truth, Vladimir could hardly be called a gentleman—no true gentleman would tie up his guests just to have them listen to music.

From the moment Zhao Tianxing and Ji Ning entered, Arthur had inched his way off the sofa. The GOC was never one to launch a rescue mission straightaway; they would only issue a perfunctory, commemorative task once they sensed, through some intangible means, that his situation was beyond saving. To them, Arthur was at best considered an external aide—though, in reality, he was little more than a temp.

He hid at the first opportunity, uncertain whether Ji Ning and Zhao Tianxing were friend or foe, hoping to escape while Vladimir was distracted. One should never pin their hopes on others. He was nearly through cutting the ropes with a blade he’d concealed in the sole of his shoe, using the sofa as cover, when a sudden explosion rattled the building. The shock knocked him to the ground, and though his head spun, his hands never ceased working.

At last, as the ropes fell away, a pair of pitch-black women’s boots appeared before him. He blew aside the messy golden hair that had fallen over his eyes, raised his head slowly, and forced a radiant smile.

A young Asian woman, dressed as if fresh from a day of sightseeing, looked down at him with serene composure. Her long black hair fell in a silken cascade behind her, her lips crimson and teeth pearly white. Yet when Arthur met her gaze, all fleeting fancies vanished in an instant.

Her eyes were too calm. Arthur had seen such eyes before—once, while studying Zen theory for an assignment, he’d glimpsed this same profound tranquility in the eyes of an aging monk. Never had he imagined he would see such pure serenity in someone so young—a stillness as natural as a fish gazing at water.

He knew this didn’t mean the young woman before him was devoid of desire. On the contrary, no one so young could truly be beyond worldly concerns—such peace could only be born from a singular, overwhelming obsession, one that relegated all else to irrelevance.

“Hello,” Arthur began in passable Mandarin, but abandoned the attempt; it was clear the woman was not someone to trifle with.

“Don’t move.” With a casual air, the young woman pressed a tiny button into Arthur’s breast pocket before striding over to a painting hanging on the wall. She removed it with practiced ease, as if she knew a safe would be hidden behind.

Cold sweat broke out on Arthur’s brow. Even the blade in his hand, which hadn’t paused for the explosion, faltered. As a GOC special agent, recognizing bombs was a basic skill. He identified the button in his pocket immediately—but the knowledge was useless.

“May I know at whose hand I am to die, beautiful lady?” Arthur’s tone was grave. This woman was not in league with Vladimir’s crew, but the enemy of one’s enemy was not always a friend—this world was full of shifting allegiances, and the gray areas swallowed up most.

“How rude of me—almost forgot to introduce myself. You can call me Chu Chaoyan. If you keep quiet, you can keep that as a memento of our meeting.” She entered a code and began rummaging through the safe, not sparing Arthur a glance. He forced himself to suppress his fear, scoring the rope a little more with every racing heartbeat.

Arthur blinked, resuming his work with the blade. It was clear that Miss Chaoyan shared his goal. The statue was like Poseidon’s blood dripping into the sea, luring hunters from every direction.

Chu Chaoyan glanced at her watch, shook her head thoughtfully, then raised a finger to her lips and gestured at Arthur. He nodded, playing along. “I’ve never seen you before.”

A distant murmur of voices drew her attention to the window. Down below, Vladimir had already assembled the members of the Black Room. Even if a bomb had gone off, neither firefighters nor police would dare enter—a place with too many secrets to hide.

“It would be best if you waited until I left before making your escape. If you startled me, perhaps I’d press the wrong button, and neither of us wants to see fireworks, do we, Mr. Arthur?”

With that, she slipped out the window. As soon as she vanished, Arthur freed himself from the ropes, stripped off his jacket, rubbed his aching wrists, and, after a few paces’ running start, leapt out the window himself. His eagle-sharp vision allowed him to draw his gun and take aim at the lithe figure below, but his finger never squeezed the trigger.

Arthur sighed. “So be it. If I can’t complete the mission, so be it. Risking my life day after day—when the end comes, there’s not a single thing left to remember. Maybe it’s time for a rest.”

Vladimir, for his part, did not erupt in anger. Instead, his tone was calm as he arranged a dinner with a certain politician. The evening news in Moscow brought expert speculation about the explosion—aging heating pipes.

By the time Vladimir had established a new Black Room base, it was deep into the night. For ordinary people, Moscow’s cold felt less like an external force and more as if it seeped out from their very marrow. Still, it didn’t deter Vladimir from strolling the deserted streets. He closed his eyes, and only when he was sure he was not being followed, slipped quietly into an alley.

When a man has chased away thieves, what is the next thing he does?

He checks his real safe, of course.

Kremlin Milos Hotel, standard single room.

Chu Chaoyan was drying her hair. No matter their age, the more beautiful a woman, the more she loved a hot bath. Swathed in a white towel, her skin, for a fleeting moment, seemed whiter than the endless snow outside. She sat on the sofa, watching the map on her laptop; only when the red dot on the screen stopped moving did she mark its position.

Barely a hundred meters away, in a luxurious suite, a dramatic interrogation was underway.

Ji Ning sat on the sofa toying with a knife. Though it was a hunting blade with a blood groove, it was, in truth, an instrument of kindness—it belonged to Qin Mo, a gift from Professor Kristina, used only for peeling apples. The only thing it had ever tasted was apple juice. Its exquisite Damascus pattern, though, preserved its dignity—the restrained sharpness of true steel.

Zhao Tianxing stood coldly behind Ji Ning, sunglasses covering his eyes—a pair borrowed from Avra. The girl had wanted to play the role herself but, after much pouting in front of the mirror, had failed to muster any intimidation. Zhao Tianxing was tasked with setting the mood.

Though his expression never changed, once the senior nodded, everyone instinctively lowered their voices.

He needed no words; his mere presence exuded a killing aura.

Catherine, wearing her gold-rimmed glasses, radiated an insurmountable elegance beneath her cool exterior. She needed no disguise—or rather, her usual demeanor was intimidating enough. Even if Siberian snow were to melt, it would remain cold.

It was only natural that the unfortunate soul now tied to the chair, Leonid Sidorov, should receive the full attention of the Forgotten Seekers. His mouth was sealed with orange tape, and only his eyes remained to communicate.

Leonid Sidorov had been captured personally by Qin Mo. According to Avra, they had been driving to pick up Ji Ning and the senior when, by coincidence, they’d spotted Sidorov on the street. Qin Mo, sensing something amiss, had leapt out, kicked him behind the knee the moment he heard the brakes, and tied him up with her hunting knife pressed to his throat. By the time Ji Ning and the others got in the car, he was already silently weeping in the trunk.

Ji Ning asked three times; Avra confirmed three times. Though Qin Mo seemed gentle and frail, she had handled the entire process herself. Despite his complicated feelings, he hid his shock well in front of Qin Mo.

Could it be that when Sylvia said Qin Mo was far stronger, she wasn’t just trying to get under his skin?

What was this? Had he rescued a hidden yandere that night?

He did not dare pursue the thought further, as Catherine signaled for the interrogation to begin. Best to pretend nothing happened and behave in the future.

Ji Ning ripped the tape from Sidorov’s mouth, glancing at the bit of blond hair stuck to it. Ouch—he winced in sympathy, then assumed the role of an elegant but violent interrogator. He set a small alarm clock for five minutes, then spoke coldly:

“Answer the questions. If we don’t get what we want before the alarm rings, you’d best prepare to spend the night with the fish at the bottom of the Moskva River.”

“Ah!”

“Crying? That counts toward your time.”

“Name?”

“Leonid Sidorov.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Affiliated organization?”

“The Black Room.”

“Do you know who we are?”

“No.”

Ji Ning frowned, his gaze drifting to the silent snow outside. He didn’t look at Sidorov, but wore a pensive expression, as though composing his last will and testament. The tense silence stretched on until Sidorov cracked under the pressure.

The alarm rang.

Ji Ning’s knife flashed—shearing off a lock of Sidorov’s yellow hair, which drifted to the floor.

“I’ll talk! I’ll tell you everything! Someone put me up to luring you.”

“Who?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Stubborn as a frozen fish,” Ji Ning muttered.

Seeing Sidorov shake his head, Ji Ning sheathed Qin Mo’s hunting knife and, without a word, stabbed a dining fork between Sidorov’s legs. Meant to intimidate, it missed its mark by a hair—Sylvia hadn’t taught him close-quarters combat yet—and landed harmlessly beside his thigh.

Still, the cold metal and the jarring proximity sent Sidorov into a panic.

“I’ll talk! It was an Asian woman like you who put me up to it!”

Ji Ning breathed a sigh of relief—almost a disaster. He’d never intended to actually inflict harm, and the spot was a bit too close for comfort.

The mood grew awkward, but Catherine broke the silence coolly. “Continue.”

“That night, after I met Mr. Ji Ning at the bar, the woman found me. She told me to plant a micro-tracker on him.” Sidorov’s words tumbled out. He’d thought these youths were only bluffing, but they were dead serious—no sense in keeping secrets when his life was at stake.

“And then?” Catherine pressed, frowning. They were being targeted.

“She wanted me to draw Black Room’s attention to Mr. Ji Ning, and had me use my ID to book every hotel in Moscow, then purchase a train ticket home. I was supposed to leave tonight, but...” Sidorov swallowed the rest of his curse—no need to insult anyone’s mother tongue if it might cost him his life.

Catherine looked thoughtfully at Ji Ning. “We’ve been watched for some time. Sidorov was just bait. We wanted to use him to reach Black Room, but someone else wanted to use him to reach us.”

Ji Ning’s eyes darkened. “A mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. Someone’s trying to steal my prize? Who?”

Catherine turned to Sidorov. “Mr. Ji Ning asks if you know the woman’s name.”

Sidorov shook his head desperately, fearing Ji Ning’s sinister gaze. “I’ve seen her—I can identify her if I see her again!” He was a desperado himself and knew that among their kind, pleading was worthless; only proving his usefulness might keep him alive.

Catherine left, returning shortly with Qin Mo.

Qin Mo produced a tiny button from her belt, held it before Sidorov, and instructed him to swallow it.

Forcing herself to seem villainous, she said coldly, “That’s a button bomb. Swallow it and we’ll let you go. But if your signal leaves a five-kilometer radius, you know what happens.”

Sidorov swallowed hard, and Zhao Tianxing untied him. Limping, Sidorov staggered out of the room.

A minute later, Avra peeked into the corridor, then shut the door. “He’s gone.”

Catherine’s expression was grave. “We’ve all heard the conversation. We’re being watched.”

Qin Mo frowned. “Is someone else after the statue, too?”

Despite all their efforts, it seemed their work was for someone else’s benefit. Zhao Tianxing, as ever, remained detached, silent by the window, gazing at the snow. If things always went as planned, the bell at Deer Academy wouldn’t ring so often.

“Why don’t we order room service and talk it over?” Ji Ning suggested, rubbing his stomach. No matter how serious the situation, why not eat while you talk?

Catherine ignored him. “If the woman’s after the statue, she’s probably already clashed with the Black Room’s leader. If she failed, they’ll be on high alert. We’ll have to abort the mission.”

Ji Ning wanted to ask, what if she succeeded? But he held his tongue. If she had, things would be even worse—the Black Room would blame them for everything, and they’d have to face the full force of Moscow’s underworld.

Catherine decided at once: “Pack up. We leave tomorrow.”

Avra piped up, “What about the bomb in Sidorov’s stomach?”

Qin Mo sighed and patted her shoulder. “Silly girl, our equipment list doesn’t include micro-bombs. That was a chocolate bean I bought this afternoon.”

As dusk descended, the lights along the New Maiden Convent and the banks of the Moskva River came alive. Ancient bells and the flowing river together made their nightly journey to the harbor. From afar, Smolensk Cathedral could be spied; its white stone bell tower stood quietly in the night, the snow settling silently atop the fingerprints of sixteenth-century craftsmen. Looking at the brightly lit streets, none could guess this city had once been a turning point in war. Blood had flowed here, too. Last century, trains puffed smoke through the countryside toward the gulags, and medals thrown high at the station fell to earth, heralding a new world.

Chu Chaoyan strolled unhurriedly across the snow. Her black boots crunched with each step. She glanced at her watch—not for the time, but at the city’s blueprint displayed on its face. A small red dot blinked; she was certain she stood at its location. Yet aside from the falling snow, the streets around her were as still as the moments before war.

She surveyed the area, confirming her solitude, then removed her watch and set it on the ground. Soon, four mechanical legs sprouted from it, transforming it into something like a robotic spider, which scuttled into a nearby alley. Chu Chaoyan followed, nimble as a snow cat.

The hidden door lay underground, its entrance as humble as a potato cellar. Chu Chaoyan knocked tentatively; the hollow echo calmed her. She squeezed through the narrow opening.

It was pitch dark—she couldn’t tell which way to go until the mechanical spider connected to the cellar’s power, illuminating the space. She passed through a long tunnel to a tightly shut iron door.

This was no cellar—it was a wartime bunker, built during World War II by farmers, blacksmiths, and coachmen who feared the tanks would one day roll into Moscow’s outskirts. Together, they dug fortresses beneath the city, waiting for the end. Yet the strength born of desperation was never tested; they emerged from their shelters to find a changed world. But beyond the fortresses—was it truly the world they yearned for?

The machinery of war and slaughter, worn by time, now creaked and groaned, its gears no longer turning smoothly.

Chu Chaoyan smiled when she saw the lock on the iron door—gleaming and new, out of place on such a shabby structure. No one would fit so costly a lock on a humble hut unless a treasure lay within.

She picked the electronic lock with ease, grinning to herself. If it had been an old-fashioned one, she might have had to return another day. The more complex a thing, the easier it is to betray its purpose.

It was instantly clear the place had been renovated. The shift in eras began at the door—outside, the silence of WWII; inside, the carelessness of a new century: battered floors, mottled walls, a ceiling mural yellowed with age. Chu Chaoyan took it all in at a glance.

Though the room looked like the lair of some down-on-his-luck artist, she remained patient, examining every corner. After a circuit of the space, she approached the walls, tapping as she went, until a hollow sound caught her attention.