Chapter 436

“My butcher’s knife—where’s my butcher’s knife? I was just holding it; how did it fly out of my hand like that?” The man scratched his head, bewildered. He’d been slaughtering pigs for years, his grip on the knife always steady. But today, for some reason, just as he was about to chop through the bone, the blade had flown from his hand, whistling through the air and vanishing in an instant.

“Is this it?” Orson asked curtly, irritated.

He held out his phone, and the butcher, still staring in shock, saw the knife embedded squarely in the center of the phone’s screen.

The butcher’s eyes widened. Seeing Orson’s polished appearance, he immediately knew the phone wasn’t cheap, and that his knife had just ruined it. He was in serious trouble.

“Y-yeah, that’s my knife… Did I break your phone? How much is it! I’ll pay for it! I’ll pay for it!” The butcher stammered, panic creeping into his voice.

He fumbled for his own phone, clearly nervous, but Orson waved him off. After pulling the knife free from the shattered screen, Orson looked down at the now blacked-out phone, then handed the knife back to the butcher.

“No need,” Orson said flatly. “I was thinking of getting a new phone anyway. Just keep your knife steady next time, or someone’s going to lose more than just their phone.”

The butcher grabbed the knife back, visibly relieved. His face contorted with gratitude, and he bowed repeatedly, his voice shaking.

“You’re… you’re truly a great man. I’m so sorry, thank you, thank you!” He kept muttering as he hurried away, as if afraid Orson might change his mind.

Orson watched him go, then turned to Evander, locking eyes.

“I’ll go light another candle for my ancestors,” Orson said, his voice calmer now, but the weight of the near-miss still hung in the air.

He made his way toward Odalys’ company building. Once inside, he washed his hands and picked up a candle. Lighting it, he stood still for a moment, bowing several times in reverence. As he placed the candle in its holder, it stood firm, perfectly balanced. Orson’s throat tightened as he stared at the steady flame.

“Thank you… to my ancestors… and thank you, Odalys,” he murmured hoarsely, his voice filled with a mix of awe and gratitude. Evander stood behind him, silently observing, offering no comment.

After a few moments, Orson didn’t linger. He turned on his heel, walking briskly out of the building and heading straight for his car.

Inside the company, Dorian finished arranging the paper money and then turned to Evander, asking quietly, “Evander, do you think Orson is just lucky?”

“Luck?” Evander’s tone was heavy. “No, it’s more than that. If that butcher’s knife had hit him directly, it would have sliced through his wrist, maybe even his chest. When the knife flew, it had a lot of force behind it. And that butcher’s knife is sharper than your average blade. It’s designed to cut through thick bone, so once it landed, it would have dropped right into his chest.”

Evander paused for a moment, clearly shaken by the close call.

“Orson’s lucky, yes, but there’s something more at play here.”

Dorian nodded slowly, clearly impressed by Evander’s assessment. “Seems like Odalys is always looking out for him,” he remarked with a sigh, a bit of awe in his voice. After his close call with a phishing scam, and seeing how Odalys had helped him personally, Dorian had become one of her most devoted supporters. Now, every day he helped Evander manage things at the company, even folding paper money for the rituals.

“She is,” Evander muttered, a hint of sadness in his voice. “A kind soul. But it’s a shame the Bennett family doesn’t know how to appreciate her.”

Dorian fell silent, his anger toward the Bennett family palpable. Even as an outsider, he could see how wrongly they had treated Odalys. It made him burn with indignation.

“I hope this all ends soon,” Evander added, looking out the window with a quiet sigh.

Outside, the sun shone brightly, casting a warm glow across the landscape as if trying to chase away the lingering darkness.

In Crownridge, Odalys sat in the driver’s seat of her car, her fingers wrapped tightly around her phone. She sat there for a long moment before finally hanging up the call. Her eyes were cold, her thoughts distant. As she turned her head toward the sunlight streaming through the window, the light refracted in a perfect circle, casting a soft halo across her face.

“Percival,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. She seemed lost in thought, as if waiting for something—or perhaps sensing something was about to happen. For the first time in a long while, uncertainty crept into her heart. A strange unease filled her chest, something she couldn’t quite explain. She exhaled slowly, almost in discomfort, as though a heavy weight was pressing on her. Percival’s hurried departure that morning still echoed in her mind, his words ringing in her ears: “I’m going to the Simpson villa. Wait for me to come back.”

Her eyes closed briefly as she exhaled, trying to shake the strange feeling clinging to her. And then, just as her breath slowed, she caught sight of something unexpected: a familiar figure, head down, passing by her car, nearly brushing against it.

“That old man…” Odalys murmured, her voice tinged with surprise. She had given Percival explicit instructions to let Callum be “careless” and remove the guards watching over that elderly man. As a result, the door to his hidden basement had been opened, and last night, that old man had escaped.

Ever since the elderly man’s death, Odalys’ sense of unease had only deepened. His passing had felt like a signal, a harbinger that things were far from over. The mysterious elderly tailor carried with him an aura of something dark, something foreboding. Despite his age, he moved quickly, his steps brisk and purposeful. Odalys remembered his forehead, darkened with the weight of misfortune. Although he had pretended to mourn the death of his son, she had seen through his act.

She’d told Percival about this man before—this grandfatherly figure who seemed to have no heirs, yet somehow, his bloodline was not so easily severed. He had been absent from Crownridge for years, after shutting down his century-old tailor shop. But upon the death of Percival’s father, he had returned to his mountain village. And as though tragedy were following him, his wife, daughter-in-law, and grandson had all met untimely, violent ends. There was something strange about all of it.

A few days ago, in Film Capital, she had encountered a general who had died in battle centuries ago—his entire family slain under a false accusation. The feeling she had sensed in his presence had been eerily familiar. It was the same ominous aura that hung over the elderly tailor.

“So, who are you really?” Odalys thought darkly, her voice cold as she muttered the question aloud. As she spoke, the signet ring on her hand grew suddenly warm, almost painfully so. She glanced down at it, her brows furrowing in confusion.

With a quiet breath, she started the engine and followed the old man’s rapid steps from a distance, keeping her distance as he moved quickly ahead. He glanced over his shoulder cautiously, scanning for any signs of danger, before turning a corner and disappearing from view. The mystery deepened.