Chapter 73: The Phantom on the Throne

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Subterranean Level Thirty-Three.

Lin Feng drew a deep breath and, with steady hands, inserted the data chip—bearing the weight of Zhao Zhenhua’s lifelong regret, the “Terminus”—into the specially modified quantum decoder strapped to his wrist.

A ghostly blue indicator light flickered on in silence.

He was preparing to press the decoder’s probe against the icy door before him, forged from “Vibranium”—a metal that seemed to hail from an alien civilization.

Banquet Hall, Second Floor.

Xiao Ran’s breathing was as still and even as a lifeless pond. Concealed in her palm, already slipped down from her evening gown’s sleeve in utter silence, was a miniature pneumatic pistol disguised as a limited-edition lipstick, loaded with a single tranquilizer dart.

She was poised to strike, timing her attack for the split second when the two “Templar Knights” standing guard—statuesque and unmoving—turned to switch their posts.

Yet just as both she and Lin Feng were about to act—

A shrill, piercing alarm—loud enough to shatter eardrums—erupted throughout the ancient castle, without warning.

In the next moment—

A barrage of deafening explosions, so forceful they made the ground tremble, thundered from every direction.

In both the underground corridor where Lin Feng stood and the hallway where Xiao Ran waited, every exit, every window, even the ventilation shafts above and below, were instantly sealed off by thick titanium alloy gates, each pulsing with ominous crimson warning lights.

Trapped—prey in a jar.

…

Bathed in the infernal glow of scarlet alarms, an atmosphere both hellish and surreal prevailed.

Before Lin Feng.

Before Xiao Ran.

And in the grand hall, before every panic-stricken “Ghost” executive.

In the air, invisible dust motes began to swirl and converge—moving with impossible, physics-defying speed—coalescing and reshaping before their eyes.

A tall, rigid figure materialized: straight as a javelin, clad in an immaculate East German marshal’s uniform, epaulets gleaming with the insignia of the People’s National Army—his eyes, cold and fathomless as the Siberian permafrost. An aged man’s holographic image, yet imbued with a presence as palpable as any living soul, slowly took shape, spectral and commanding.

He seemed the very spirit of the castle—the embodiment of all its order and intrigue, the origin of every plot.

He was the “Godfather”—the legendary, supreme leader of the “Ghost” organization, existing only in whispered tales.

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“…Welcome to my castle, guests from the East.”

The Godfather’s voice was calm and ancient, yet carried an authority beyond dispute—as though issuing from another dimension.

His hologram, driven by independent AI, seemed to peer directly through time and space, fixing both Lin Feng, thirty-three floors below, and Xiao Ran, standing in the second-floor corridor.

Then, his icy, emotionless gaze shifted toward the center of the banquet hall, settling on Bishop Klaus Schneider—whose face had turned ghostly pale at the sound of the alarm.

“…And you, my dear Klaus.”

“You have disappointed me… utterly.”

…

With that single phrase, he pronounced the death sentence for all.

Bishop Klaus, meeting the Godfather’s all-seeing eyes, trembled violently. At last, defeated, he closed his eyes and abandoned any plea for mercy.

The Godfather’s projection, as weightless as a true specter, began to pace, drifting near Lin Feng and Xiao Ran.

Like a collector admiring his treasures, he studied these two “intruders”—the first ever to disrupt his flawless plans—with genuine curiosity.

“I have studied your country. Remarkable,” he began, his words slicing through the stifling silence. “Discipline, order, sacrifice… you possess many virtues this decadent, corrupted world—ruined by so-called ‘freedom’—has long since abandoned.”

“But it is not enough.”

He shook his head, a peculiar, almost sorrowful pity glimmering in his glacial eyes.

“This world is sick—terminally ill.”

“Population explodes meaninglessly; resources are devoured in a frenzy; faith has collapsed under the weight of consumerist shallow pleasures. Humanity, like cancer cells multiplying in a petri dish, is killing its own mother.”

“And so,” his tone shifted, tinged with fanaticism, “the world requires a surgery—a great, glorious, and utterly necessary ‘cleansing’.”

He spread his arms, a savior-preacher delivering his doctrine.

“The ‘Apocalypse’ is the most precise, the most merciful scalpel!”

“It will excise, swiftly and cleanly, those bloated, rotten financial ‘tumors’—and with them, the billions who leech from these tumors, now useless to the progress of civilization!”

“And then,” his eyes blazed with unprecedented brilliance, “upon this pure, cleansed wasteland, we survivors—those who truly understand order and reason—will build, with our own hands, a new world for human civilization:”

“A world without waste, without decay, without the stupidity of populist mobs—a world of absolute reason…”

“—A new age for mankind!”

…

The Godfather finished his apocalyptic manifesto—a speech wild enough to send the world mad.

He waited in silence for his guests’ response, eager for shock, for fear, for even the faintest flicker of doubt.

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But he was disappointed.

Lin Feng and Xiao Ran, having heard his world-ending proclamation, displayed not the slightest change of expression.

Their eyes were cold—regarding him as one might an incurable madman already diagnosed and beyond hope.

“…Lunatic,” Xiao Ran said, her tone icy.

“No,” Lin Feng corrected, shrugging. “A textbook case of antisocial and anti-human personality disorder, with delusions of grandeur. I’d recommend electroshock therapy.”

The Godfather laughed—an eerie, approving chuckle, like that of a night owl who has heard something particularly amusing.

“Excellent eyes. Admirable will.”

“Well then…”

His voice turned instantly cold and merciless, like a judge delivering the final verdict.

“…To my two guests from the East, and to my poor, foolish traitor bishop—so hopelessly bound by the paltry bonds of ‘family’…”

“—The game begins.”

“My Templar Knights have waited long enough. They can hardly restrain themselves from tasting your ‘noble’ blood.”

He gave a slight bow, the elegant farewell of an old Prussian noble.

“—I wish you an enjoyable hunt in my castle…”

“…Enjoy the chase.”

As his words faded, the Godfather’s majestic hologram dissolved into the crimson haze of warning lights, dispersing like smoke in the wind.

In its stead—

From every direction of the castle, came the relentless, synchronized pounding of metal boots—the death knell of fate.

And then, from the castle’s central AI security system, the cold, mechanical voice, devoid of all emotion, echoed forth:

“…Purification protocol initiated…”

“…Intruders detected…”

“…Directive: Terminate… without… exception…”