When the eighth super soldier entered the ring, the Manager engaged him in hand-to-hand combat. The Manager unleashed a flurry of berserk, frenzied punches—one after another like a raging storm. In the end, he broke through the super soldier’s guard and smashed his jaw with a brutal punch. Stepping forward, closing the gap, the Manager raised both elbows and launched a relentless barrage. Chest, abdomen, shoulder, neck, throat, temple—each spot was struck in a blur, and the super soldier’s body echoed with the crackle of firecrackers.
The Manager exhaled deeply and stepped back, while the super soldier silently collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
Raising his right hand, index finger and thumb extended, the Manager said to Donald Zade, "Not sure if you get this gesture—it means eight." Using the 'eight' sign as a mock gun, the Manager aimed at Donald Zade’s head: "That’s eight now, thirty-six million dollars. Come on, send in the next one!" As he finished, he cocked his finger-gun and mimed firing a shot.
Donald Zade stared coldly at the Manager. His rage suddenly faded into silence. He realized this Manager wasn’t just experienced—his physical prowess actually surpassed that of the super soldiers. A regular human stronger than a super soldier? Stronger than the effects of his meticulously researched drugs? To him, that was impossible. So, he got an idea.
"Alright, I admit you’re stronger than I expected. You can stop fighting now. Bloody Queen and her Manager, please take a break; the other fighters will continue as usual." Donald Zade straightened his bow tie and nodded to the bigwigs: "Please, everyone, take a short break. I’ll excuse myself for a moment, apologies." Then, he looked at Phantom Mask: "Come on, Mr. Phantom Mask, I think it’s time we had a talk."
Phantom Mask, who’d been calmly seated the whole time, finally stood up: "Alright, I agree, we should talk."
Five minutes later, the Manager and Bloody Queen went to the lounge, while Phantom Mask was led to a luxurious room. Inside, Donald Zade stood by a wine cabinet, reaching for a bottle of red. He glanced at the vintage, speaking carelessly without turning his head: "I have to admit, you’ve surprised me a little." He took out a crystal glass, popped the cork, and poured the wine: "I used to think you were just a maggot surviving in the gutter, but today I see you’ve sprouted wings and started flying—turned into a fly."
"Clinging, clinging, always clinging—you’re everywhere." Donald Zade raised his glass: "So, you want to cling to me? Fine, I’m right here. Let’s talk."
Phantom Mask glanced around; the corners of the room were packed with black-clad heavies, each one staring intently, ready to open fire at the slightest provocation. But Phantom Mask stayed perfectly calm: "You call me a fly, always clinging to you—well, that just means you’re a big pile of crap."
"You!" Donald Zade’s face flashed with anger, then he shook his head and sighed: "Pitiful mortals, never learn grace and elegance."
"Heh, that's funny—like you weren't the one yelling just a minute ago." Phantom Mask gave him no respect at all.
Crack—the crystal glass shattered in Donald Zade’s grip. He roared, "Enough! I’m not here to argue. Let’s get down to business! Your fighter and that Manager must’ve used super serum. Hand over your data!"
Phantom Mask stopped looking around and focused on Donald Zade, sizing him up and down: "Your words surprise me."
"Surprise?" Donald Zade tossed the broken glass aside, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his hands. "Don’t be naive—do you think I don’t know who you are? I admit your mother was a genius. She must’ve left you some data in a way I don’t know—Jonathan."
His identity exposed in a single sentence, but Phantom Mask didn’t flinch. He just clicked his tongue and sighed: "No, I’m surprised by something else. I always thought you were a bone-deep arrogant idiot, always calling people 'mortals'—classic try-hard syndrome. But seeing you today, I realized you’re not even that—you’re worse."
"Your so-called poise and elegance are just an act. You only show it when you’re completely in control. The moment things don’t go your way, you go full hysterics. Looks like your position in the Zade Family isn’t so great—probably not even in the running for heir. Whenever the higher-ups have an idea, you’re quick to run errands, personally chasing people down at churches. Now you’re desperate to roll out these super soldiers, probably just a last-ditch gamble. If this fails, you’re finished, so you’re anxious now. And from the look of things," Phantom Mask shook his head, "your odds aren’t good."
"Shut up!" As if hit where it hurt, Donald Zade’s breathing grew rapid. "What would a mutt like you know? Just because you’ve got a bit of tech, you think you can talk to me like this? If you want to know about your lowborn mother, you’ll have to beg me!" He took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down, and managed a strained smile: "Jonathan, be rational, be mature. We need to work together."
"Work together? Sure, but how do I know you’re telling the truth?" Phantom Mask found a sofa and sat down. "Prove it. Show me you actually know what I want to know."
Donald Zade eyed Phantom Mask up and down. Something about Phantom Mask’s demeanor was off compared to what he expected. Last time at the church, Jonathan seemed like a wounded beast, giving Donald a sense of superiority. But today, Phantom Mask was way too calm, unfazed. That made Donald uncomfortable.
But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. Donald Zade nodded: "Alright, I’ll start with something. You asked that priest what 'Tiberia' was. I’ll tell you: Tiberia is a biochemical laboratory, and I’m in charge of it now."
This chapter isn’t over yet~.~ Click next page to keep reading!
"What?" Phantom Mask suddenly sat up straight. Even with the mask, you could tell his eyes were wide. "Tiberia is your lab?"
"Yes." That’s right—this was the shock, the disbelief, the look that bastard should have. Donald Zade smiled and continued, "And your mother, codename Sophia, was once the chief researcher at Tiberia Lab. The super serum? That was her invention."
"Oh." Phantom Mask slumped back into his seat.
What’s going on—why did he go blank again, looking distracted? Donald Zade figured he needed to drop a bombshell: "Let me tell you, she’s Chinese. Her real name is Susan Soo."
This time, Phantom Mask reacted big—bigger than expected. "What did you say?" He slowly stood up, eyes wide in shock, voice trembling, and moved toward Donald Zade: "Say it again. What’s her name?"
"Hahaha, perfect! That’s the look I wanted!" Donald Zade laughed maniacally. "Her name is Susan Soo—a slave, an experiment! You haven’t met her, have you? Today I’ll be generous and let you see her." With a snap of his fingers, a giant screen lit up, displaying a photo of a young woman, elegant and scholarly.
Seeing the photo, Phantom Mask was thunderstruck, staring at the woman, forgetting even to breathe.
"Well? That’s your mother." Donald Zade patted Phantom Mask’s shoulder, his voice soft and venomous: "Now you know I’m not lying. Hand over your tech, and I’ll tell you more. Like, why she died so young, and who killed her…"
Phantom Mask slowly turned to look at Donald Zade, his eyes full of complicated emotions. He spoke softly: "I never imagined... Jonathan is actually my cousin."
"Huh?" Donald Zade’s expression changed—something had slipped beyond his control.