Thirty minutes later, a sedan slipped through the pitch-black night and arrived at Orland's Old Manor—a classical mansion brimming with vintage charm.
This was Kensington L. Orland’s old house. He hadn’t lived here for nearly twenty years; sometimes he’d go three or five months, or even a year or two, without visiting once. Yet nobody knew that most of his truly valuable records and documents were actually kept right here in this old manor.
He walked into the kitchen, lifted a perfectly normal-looking floorboard, and revealed a pitch-black hole beneath. Down a ladder for several meters, he flicked on an old incandescent lamp and discovered that the manor’s basement had been converted into a rather sizable cellar.
To be precise, it was an underground study. Books and files lined the shelves in neat rows, filling the air with the scent of fine ink and paper. He picked up a random volume and flipped through it—these were the musings Orland jotted down in his prime. Sure, some ideas were wild and fanciful, but plenty of them were solid gold. Looking back at these 'ancient texts,' it was hard not to be stunned by the forward-thinking genius buried in those pages.
Not all these manuscripts and books were written by Orland himself; some were copied from elsewhere. Still, Orland’s own masterpieces made up the bulk of the collection.
Orland ran his fingers over the old bookshelf, his mind slipping into the words, whisked back to those wild years decades ago.
"Hey, eyes up!" Snap—a finger clicked in front of Orland’s face, yanking him out of his swirling memories and breaking his sneaky glance at Susan Morrow across the room.
"Uh... Sorry, sorry." The old gentleman looked genuinely embarrassed. Peeking at a lady was hardly the mark of a gentleman, and a proper British professor like him would never stoop to such things.
But—she looked so much like her! Try as he might, he just couldn’t help letting out a long, silent sigh.
Truth is, to most white folks, nearly all East Asians look pretty much the same—just like we can hardly tell one foreigner from another. But this time, the old professor took a deep breath. There was no way—absolutely no way—he’d mistake her for someone else! That once-in-a-lifetime genius he’d spent years with, who made him question his own IQ and self-worth, the super prodigy he’d personally mentored only to watch her surpass him in every way—how could he possibly get it wrong?
No, it’s not just the looks—it’s the vibe. Watching her stand by the bookshelf, totally absorbed in those manuscripts, even the way she habitually lifts her pinky, it’s exactly the same as before.
But the real kicker—just look at that face! That lovable, infuriating face!
I know, I know, what I’m saying might sound sketchy, but seriously, check out that ambiguous, half-smiling expression—like she’s silently judging, ‘Interesting idea, but full of holes. I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll give you a passing grade.’ That look could drive even the most confident scientist nuts! I swear on all the hair I’ve ever pulled out—nobody else could ever pull off that expression!
It’s a one-of-a-kind look, a one-of-a-kind confidence—the kind that could stomp, crush, whip, and toy with even the world’s top scientists. No doubt about it, she’s back—the demon queen of science has returned!
Thirty years—thirty years gone in a flash...
Snap! Another finger click right in front of him. Mr. Yang spun the old professor’s attention (and face) back: "You done with the peeping yet?"
Alright, there’s another demon queen in the room, and she looks pretty scary too. She’s giving him the classic ‘I’m disappointed in you, you hopeless idiot’ stare: "Look at you, always sneaking peeks. Do you even know what you’re supposed to be doing right now?"
"What?"
"Obviously—digging a hole!" Mr. Yang snapped his fingers, and Jonathan Black swept a big, old wooden table clear, making four seats.
"Sit!"
Creak—Queen Jill plopped herself down without a care.
Creak—the old professor gingerly perched on the edge of his seat.
Creak—Jonathan Black sat down with military precision, full of energy.
Creak—well, not this time. Dream Monroe, nearly invisible, settled onto the fourth stool with quiet interest. Glancing left and right beneath the glow of the old lamp, the three in front looked like some evil cabal plotting a scheme with zero conscience, their faces drenched in shadow—only their eyes gleamed with very different lights.
"Let’s be real here. We came to you because we need your help," Jill Young said, laying it all out. "For certain reasons, we have to get inside the Heart of Tiberius."
"Figured as much." Orland glanced at Susan Morrow, who was quietly reading in the distance, then sighed. "I’ve heard some... not-so-great things about her. But now it seems the rumors weren’t all true. You folks must’ve been through some seriously complicated stuff. So, you’re here for revenge?"
Jill Young was noncommittal: "Revenge isn’t our main goal—it’s rescue."
"Rescue? Maybe. But revenge’s definitely part of it." Orland stared into Jonathan Black’s eyes, his own old eyes shining. There’s a reason they say old folks are crafty: "I can see it—the hatred burning in his eyes could torch all of London."
"Not denying it, but that’s not what we need to talk about right now." Jonathan Black met Orland’s gaze, sharp as a steel blade: "What we need to address is trust. To be blunt, you don’t trust us."
"Well..."
"No need to deny it or feel awkward—distrust is totally normal," Jill Young said, very open-minded. "If someone karate-chopped me, tossed me into a dark room, flashed a spotlight in my face, and mixed threats with sweet talk, I wouldn’t trust them either. It’s been us talking the whole time, so your skepticism makes sense."
"Uh... Well, thanks for understanding." Orland had never seen a 'kidnapper' defend him like this. After thinking it over, he admitted, "I really can’t believe everything you’re saying."
"Exactly. We need to prove our words, and you need to watch how things play out. Instead of letting seeds of doubt sprout in the dark, let’s dig them up and roast them into sunflower seeds right now." Jill Young spoke with confidence. "As for how to roast those seeds—just like I said before: dig a hole."
"Dig a hole?" Orland was all question marks. "How?"
"Taking a beating isn’t our style. So my plan’s simple," Jill Young crossed her legs. "Lure out whoever wants you dead and take them out. If someone really comes for you, it proves we’re telling the truth. If not, well, we’ll figure something else out. I bet they won’t let you off the hook, and they’ll act soon. If they’re not smart enough for that, they’re not worth my time anyway."
"Uh... I get the gist, but how do we get these so-called 'enemies' to bite?"
"Easy—we use you as bait." Jill Young grinned. "Dig a hole, cover it up, set the bait, count to five, boom—the prey falls in. Trust me, this trick works every time. The only catch is, our bait-man has to take a little risk."
"Huh?" Orland’s eyes went wide. "Me, as bait? I—I—"
Jonathan Black’s voice was icy: "Mr. Orland, risk is part of the deal. If you don’t, you give up all initiative. Either you spend years on edge and get ambushed when you least expect it—or we set a trap, catch them all, and take out the mastermind too. Which sounds better to you?"
Orland was mentally prepared, but still broke a cold sweat: "I get it, I get it... So, how exactly do we dig this hole?"
Jill Young raised her brows, every inch the seasoned general plotting on the battlefield—commanding presence on full display:
"Tomorrow, we’ll spread fake news and make up a phony itinerary for ourselves."
"Whoever’s pulling the strings, once they see our moves, they’ll think we’re rushing to London the day after tomorrow to meet you."
"The day after tomorrow, you’ll head to Buckingham Palace to receive the Royal Medal—that’s our golden opportunity."
"According to our schedule, the timing’s just right. We’re in a rush, they’re in a rush, but they’ll think we’re even more pressed for time—when really, we’ve got a whole extra day to prepare."
"Will they hold back and let us take the initiative? Not a chance."
"We’ll analyze whether they see through our plan, when they catch on, how fast they strike, what methods they use, the impact of their actions, and how quickly they cover it up—all to gauge their capabilities and war potential."
"Buckingham Palace, all eyes on us, life’s peak—the perfect time for digging a hole."
Jill Young whipped out a pair of sunglasses, spun them in her hand, and popped them onto her nose as she sprang to her feet: "Let’s go—I can’t wait to see the spectacle this time!"