Chapter 1 Part 1

He was dreaming.

He knew he was dreaming.

An icy mist enveloped him like a gentle embrace, its frigid temperature sending physiological shivers through his naked, helpless form cradled within it.

An exquisite pleasure surged from some unknown source, crashing over him like a merciless tsunami, battering and shattering him until his conscious will teetered on the brink of collapse. He released his grip, allowing himself to surrender to the swirling vortex of chaotic bliss.

But then a shrill, grating sound—like a tiny wail of madness—pierced the mist like a chisel, stabbing into his eardrums.

“No… no!”

“Wake up… you must wake up! I beg you… no, you cannot. You have no right to sleep. Open your eyes! Ode Douglas!”

“▇▄▆▁…” The surrounding mist shuddered suddenly, as if shaken by some force.

A razor-sharp pang of agony erupted like a sword thrust through his heart.

Almost instinctively, he began struggling in the thick, heavy whirlpool. A familiar sensation arose, as if in memories he couldn’t quite recall, he had faced this exact situation countless times before.

“▂▄▁█…”

A voice seemed to speak to him from within the mist, low and rumbling like thunderous drums, vibrating his eardrums, his heart, and every drop of blood in his bones.

But he did not listen.

Unable to feel his legs, he tore desperately at the suddenly solidified wall of flesh before him with his hands. When his knuckles cracked and folded backward, he ripped at the bloody mass with his teeth like a wild beast—until at last—

“…Ode? Ode.” A voice laced with impatience and suspicion cut through the invisible yet thick barrier, hooking him as he floundered in the abyss and yanking him back to the bright reality. “Hey! Snap out of it.”

Ode’s eyeballs trembled beneath his eyelids for several seconds before he slowly opened his eyes.

He was greeted by the midday sun streaming through the window of the bank office, illuminating the lazily dancing dust motes in the air like fleeting fairy dust.

Outside the window, traffic roared past on the street in front of the bank—a familiar sight: ordinary, real.

An ice cream truck rumbled by with a squeak, trailed by a gaggle of pint-sized kids clutching colorful cones, their rice-ball cheeks smeared into messy masterpieces.

“…Hey, come on!” The blond young man seated behind the desk reached out wordlessly and impatiently, snapping his fingers in front of Ode’s face to drag his attention away from the strawberry ice cream.

“What’s wrong with you? Did you party too hard last night or get high on something? Never mind. Listen, I’m sorry to say this, but I have to reject your loan application.”

“…? …!” Ode jolted fully awake in an instant. He immediately raised his hand to press down on the application form that had been pushed back across the desk. “No, wait.”

He cast aside the lingering haze from the nightmare without a second thought. He didn’t waste even a second reviewing the meaningless dream, merely warning himself inwardly never to skip meals before negotiations again—extreme hunger clearly impaired his clarity to a dangerous degree. Fainting from starvation mid-negotiation was just too absurd.

“I really need this loan. We’re classmates—you know what I’m capable of. I can pay it back quickly—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The blond youth gripped the other end of the application form and flashed Ode a smile utterly devoid of sincerity, despite Ode’s hurried words. “But I don’t want to lend it to you.”

“Even though this bank is owned by my family. Even though I could approve it with a snap if I wanted. Even though I know you’re likely good for it.”

“Do you get it? I could—but I don’t want to.”

Ode took an imperceptible deep breath, suppressing the urge to smash the crystal paperweight on the desk corner into the other man’s skull. “Does this have anything to do with our conflicts back in university, Mr. Qian Ning?”

“What do you think?” Qian Ning tossed his steel pen aside and leaned back comfortably into the extravagantly upholstered executive chair. The expensive Aurora 85th Anniversary Commemorative Pen rolled across the desk, its encrusted diamonds scattering cool, ruthless glints of light throughout the room.

“Every time. Every single time! Whenever I’m about to shine, you always get in my way and oppose me. Even my father took your side…!”

Qian Ning’s outburst halted midway as he forced it back down, soon resuming his relaxed smile. “But that’s all in the past, right? Look at us after graduation—I’m here, sitting in my family’s empire of gold and silver. And you?”

Qian Ning’s gaze swept up and down Ode, who sat in the borrower’s chair: suit slightly rumpled, travel-worn, exhaustion and haggardness impossible to hide. The unspoken implication hung in the air. But he quickly spread his hands, his tone turning falsely warm and friendly.

“All right, I admit that’s a bit rude. Here—old classmate, let me pour you some black tea as an apology. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll clear my schedule for the rest of the day; we can catch up right here in this office.”

Ode watched Qian Ning intently as he rose to brew the tea, willing to bet his last pound that the invitation harbored no good intentions.

After all, they hadn’t truly “not seen each other in ages.” They’d just graduated together from Mida University in May—a little less than a month ago.

Moreover, what kind of person defined bullying as “stealing the spotlight” and then talked about rudeness?

Reason split in two: one half warned him to get up and leave immediately, as Qian Ning was clearly looking to settle scores; the other half coolly and cruelly pointed out that in his current straits, where else could he find a second bank able to urgently free up that much capital and willing to take the risk on an unknown fresh graduate like him?

“Gurgle…” The electric kettle bubbled with boiling water.

Ode forced himself to stay seated, inwardly persuading himself that “this is better than being kicked out outright. At least now I have plenty of time to talk.” His gaze, unable to hide its anxiety, darted around the modest-sized office before settling on a flip-style electronic clock mounted above a floor-to-ceiling filing cabinet.

June 2, 1980, 16:24:59.

“Click…” The clock emitted a soft chime as the seconds display flipped backward another page.

Less than eight hours remained until the bank seized his mortgaged ancestral home from the Douglas Family and auctioned it off.

He recalled again the scene ten days prior: his grandfather, on the verge of death, thrashing madly against the paramedics, struggling to crawl off the stretcher.

Those aged, skeletal hands, twisted like deformed twigs, had clutched Ode’s arm tightly.

“The manor… this house.” His grandfather’s voice was hoarse and terrifying, wheezing like a punctured bellows. “You cannot… let it… fall into anyone else’s hands but yours.”

“Swear to me! Swear, Ode, that you will guard it with your life. No one else may set foot on this land. Not a single blade of grass or tree may leave it—”

“Swear to me! Ode! You will hold it dearer than your principles! Dearer than me! If you don’t, don’t you dare come claim my corpse!!”

His grandfather’s shriek was piercing and shrill, like nails raking across a blackboard. Even in recollection, it made Ode shudder involuntarily.

He couldn’t understand why his usually mild and wise grandfather had suddenly gone mad, why in his final moments he would delay emergency treatment just to extract that oath to preserve the main house.

Was there some ancient Douglas Family secret hidden in the house that couldn’t be revealed? No—if so, his grandfather wouldn’t have said “not a single blade of grass or tree may leave.”

Was the house hiding chemical weapons left over from World War II?

Ode couldn’t figure it out, but he knew his grandfather wouldn’t act without reason. Even if he wanted to abandon the now-empty ancestral home, the old man’s words—”if you don’t, don’t you dare come claim my corpse”—and the demand to prioritize the house over his own principles left him no choice. He had to save it.

“Woo—” From the office’s built-in water station to his right came the shrill whistle of boiling water. The clock clicked backward another notch.

Time was running out.

He had to secure this loan.

Qian Ning was his only chance.

With that thought, Ode hypnotized himself into ignoring the snapping pain in his back and spine, straightening his posture once more.

His grandfather’s body had lain in the morgue for ten days already; it couldn’t wait longer. He’d tried every method during that time, even sneaking in at night to steal the corpse—but the custodian, honoring the old man’s instructions, refused to release the body until Ode reclaimed the house.

Once the auction ended without him redeeming it, he’d lose his chance to retrieve his grandfather’s remains forever.

That was his only family.

Ode’s stomach began to twist faintly from the stress, as if tiny tin soldiers were jabbing him petulantly with slender spears.

He didn’t understand why his grandfather had left such instructions before dying, but he couldn’t let the old man rot away in some cramped stone locker, only to be melted down and dumped into the town’s waste pit.

“Care for some cake to go with it?” Qian Ning finally emerged from behind the frosted door of the water station, carrying the steeped tea and a Black Forest cake freshly taken from the fridge, still wafting chill air. He plopped down on the leather sofa across from Ode. “Now, let’s talk about how we’ve been.”

Qian Ning spread his hands. “My situation’s just as you see it—nothing to tell. But I heard from the alumni group that things haven’t been going well for you lately?”

“I heard—your dear grandfather passed away? Just ten days ago? Oh… my poor friend, that’s truly heartbreaking.”

Ode’s jaw clenched tightly. “…Thank you for your concern.”

It took more effort than he’d imagined to tear his gaze from the crystal paperweight (‘Even if I smashed this over the idiot’s head, then what?’ he thought. ‘I’d either collapse from hunger and let Qian Ning overpower me easily amid mockery, or land straight in jail… who knows, maybe that blow would boost his IQ a few points—his baseline’s low enough.’). He shifted his attention to the black tea and cake beside it.