Santiago's face didn't twitch, but his eyes were sharp with tension. He swept a glance over the crowd of guests—these local big shots hadn't noticed anything amiss yet, so he muttered under his breath, "What's going on?"
"Something's off with the wind," his bodyguard captain replied quietly. "Boss, Number Three picked up some noises. He suspects there's a suspicious group on the building."
Number Three was the scout of the bodyguard squad, whose special ability was freakishly good hearing. Physically, he was just a regular guy, but he could detect weird 'essences' in sounds—the kind you hear when a parent catches their kid sneaking online, or the evil intent when the class cat is spying on you, or the panic of a courier about to be chewed out for a late delivery. Santiago knew Number Three's skills well, so he tensed up instantly: "Did Number Four go in yet?"
"Already sent Number Four to get closer and investigate," the bodyguard captain said, just as Number Three made a hand signal nearby. The captain's expression turned grim: "Confirmed—there's a Chosen One among them."
Number Four was the squad's infiltrator, basically the rogue of the bunch. Not only was he a pro at picking locks, but he had the classic thief's brow, mouse eyes, sneaky feet, a bag full of guts, and a sixth sense for not getting caught. He could lower his visibility and sneak up close for recon. When he used his 'mouse eyes' skill, he could spot hidden things—though it made him easier to notice and risk getting busted.
"A Chosen One? How many are there?"
"I'll go check," the captain said, stepping away for a moment before coming back. "Not many Chosen Ones—most are just regular folks, but these 'regulars' clearly have some military training."
Trained civilians? That didn't worry Santiago. He glanced at Number Two, who stuck close by—basically the budget version of a steel-bodied guard. With Number Two's defensive skills and Number One (the captain)'s ambush powers, Santiago wasn't fazed by a crowd of regulars. What he really cared about were the Chosen Ones: "Among that group, how many Chosen Ones are top-ranked?"
"Not too high—none of them outrank me, that's for sure."
"Oh." Hearing that, Santiago finally relaxed a little. As a freelance financial vampire, Santiago valued his own life above all else. After the White Night Incident, his reflexes were sharper than any politician, corporate shark, or royal king. Having dabbled in arms dealing and sketchy trades, he knew: money's great, but staying alive is better. That's why he always checked out the Chosen Ones first—and paid top dollar for new Chosen One bodyguards.
After several rounds of upgrades and layoffs, Santiago's current bodyguard crew was tiny but way more reassuring than the old thirty-man muscle parade.
Taking advantage of a few minutes while the guests were busy talking business, Santiago asked under his breath, "Can you tell who they're after?"
"Not sure yet. They seem laser-focused on the upper floors of the Burj Khalifa, but it's hard to say what they're up to," the captain replied confidently. "Relax, boss. This place is sky-high—no sniper within ten kilometers can get a shot. As for any weird supernatural powers, you've got us."
"Good," Santiago felt a bit more at ease, but still kept up the orders: "Keep an eye on that group."
Soon enough, the captain came back: "Number Three confirmed it—the group skipped this floor and headed straight for the top. Looks like they're not after us."
Santiago relaxed a bit more—but when it came to staying alive, he never slacked off: "Tell Number Four to get ready."
"Number Four's already set," the captain said, knowing Santiago's playbook by heart. He didn't even need orders to prep everything in advance: "If anything goes sideways, Number Four can use his 'Quick Getaway' skill and whisk you out in a flash."
Santiago felt even safer—he was naturally jumpy, and if trouble started, he'd bolt faster than a mouse. That paper-thin courage was exactly why he'd survived so long. Tonight, the room was packed with guests, mega-deals were on the table, and every Middle Eastern mogul had their own heavy-hitter bodyguard. All the top dogs were here.
Watching all the pros trickle back in, seeing the relaxed faces of the Middle Eastern bigwigs, Santiago finally started to chill.
Still, he wanted an extra layer of insurance.
"Gentlemen, I'll go freshen up," Santiago announced, heading for the restroom with his bodyguards. The captain stood guard at the door—he knew better than to follow his boss all the way into the stall. Two minutes later, the sharply dressed old man reappeared, wearing a confident, easy smile as he rejoined the party and started raving about how amazing Kejinla's business was.
But in that same restroom, a minute later, a janitor in Burj Khalifa staff uniform shuffled out, head down and tools in hand. He strolled casually through the corridor, collar popped to hide his mumbling mouth. Soon, he slipped into the observation lounge on the 124th floor, blending with the crowd—finally letting out a huge sigh of relief.
What just happened? Like you even have to ask!
Of course the Four Guardians are actually five.
And naturally, before Numbers One through Four, there's a secret Number Zero.
Number Zero was the shadow warrior Santiago hired for a fortune—a master of mimicry and disguise. Right now, he was out there as Santiago's stand-in, schmoozing with Middle Eastern big shots, ready to take a bullet or close a deal. That's what a double is for!
Through the huge glass wall, gazing down at the glittering lights of Dubai, Santiago finally felt totally at ease. For a second, he was full of swagger: Me, Santiago, I've seen it all—brains and brawn, pleasure and pain, strategy and muscle. I want the big bucks, but not a single hair off my head!
Now, who cares what kind of ruckus is going on? Who could possibly mess with me?
Wham! A firm hand slapped his shoulder, making Santiago jump out of his skin.
He spun around to see a local tycoon in sunglasses standing beside him, a bit out of breath but grinning wide, teeth gleaming. "Hey, buddy, mind telling me what time it is?"
Santiago eyed the guy warily, a bad feeling creeping up his spine. He glanced around for an escape route and answered absently, "It's exactly seven o'clock."
"Seven already? Time flies! Thought I had plenty, but a bunch of random stuff ate up a few minutes. No worries, I made it just in time." The local tycoon stared at him, and through his sunglasses, the old janitor was outlined in red. The lines flashed, and—beep—a mark was set.
Something was seriously off. Santiago's internal alarms blared. "Sir, you enjoy the view, I'm off to clean up," he stammered, turning to leave fast. The odd tycoon didn't follow. At the corridor corner, Santiago peeked back—the guy was still watching him, smiling even brighter.
The bad vibe was overwhelming. Santiago ditched all pretense and bolted.
The local tycoon didn't chase. His job was to mark the target—everything else was someone else's problem.
"BIG-BOSS, my job's done." Agent Durex turned to the window, relaxed. "So, what kind of fireworks are you planning tonight?"
"No fireworks for me tonight."
"No fireworks? That's not like you. And what's with all the static on your end?"
"Don't get flashy. Too much spectacle, too much attention—bad for business. Last time in London, smoke everywhere, half the street trashed—yeah, I felt kinda bad about that. So tonight, I'm not messing with the Middle Eastern big shots. I'm keeping it quick and clean."
"Quick... quick what?" Agent Durex fiddled with his earpiece, baffled. "Are we getting interference? Why's your static getting louder?"
"Hahaha, just watch—I'm calling it now, not a single innocent bystander gets hurt tonight!"
Far off the Dubai coast, a luxury yacht was gliding along, blissfully ignorant of the chaos brewing. The tycoons and beauties onboard were ready for a wild night—until they froze, staring at the raging sea and praying to Allah. But before their prayers got answered, a blazing stream of fire shot past the yacht like an angry dragon.
BOOM! The shockwave hit like thunder, blasting winds that left everyone dizzy. The wild turbulence tossed the yacht around like a toy boat, nearly flipping it. The salty air reeked of scorched earth and sulfur. One tycoon went pale, trying to glimpse the fiery streak, but couldn't bear to look at that wild, rebellious figure.
Howling wind roared as Rebel Rider's hellfire spread. Jill Young floored the throttle, tearing across the sea at breakneck speed. The heavy, monstrous Rebel Rider tore through waves like a nightmare come to life, smashing and flattening everything in its path.
Water blasted aside like high-pressure jets, instantly ignited by hellfire—before it even hit the surface, it was glowing red-hot. Flaming rain streaked down, painting the ocean with a blazing trail of fire.
Speed—0.99 Mach!
The coastline loomed ahead. Squeee—an overclocked whine rang out, and light from Jill's Power Veins glowed through her leggings. Twin Dragon Force streams coiled around her legs like compressed springs. At top speed, Jill pulled back Rebel Rider and stomped down on the sea.
Within a twenty-meter radius, the ocean surface caved in.
Next instant—an earsplitting crash, water erupting everywhere, and Jill Young shot skyward at blistering speed.