Master of Lust-Chapter 315 - -

Chapter - 315

Thousands of miles away, the world was not blue and gold. It was white and grey.

The Swiss Alps were locked in a storm. Snow lashed against the reinforced glass windows of the Warner Chateau, a fortress of stone and timber perched on a knife-edge ridge that defied both gravity and zoning laws.

Inside, the temperature was controlled to a precise sixty-eight degrees, but the air felt freezing.

Silas Warner stood by the fireplace in his study. The flames roared, consuming logs of imported oak, but they cast no warmth on the old man’s face. He was dressed in a heavy, black wool suit that looked like it belonged in a funeral parlor from the 19th century.

He was staring at a photograph on the mantle. It was Marnus, age ten, holding a cricket bat and smiling with that arrogant, gap-toothed grin that Silas had loved so much.

"He was soft," Silas whispered to the empty room. "He was loud. He was careless. But he was mine."

He turned away from the fire. His movement was stiff, jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings.

"Graves," he said.

His chief of staff materialized from the shadows near the door. Graves looked exhausted. He hadn’t slept in thirty hours. Dealing with the fallout of the Portstown disaster was a logistical nightmare that involved bribing three different governments and assassinating two journalists.

"Sir?"

"Is he here?"

"He arrived ten minutes ago, sir. He is waiting in the atrium."

"Send him in."

Graves hesitated. "Sir... are you sure? The Huntsman... he is not like the others. He is... unsettling."

"Do I look like I am in the mood for ’settling’, Graves?" Silas snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. "Send him in. And leave us."

Graves nodded, swallowed hard, and backed out of the room.

A moment later, the heavy oak doors opened again.

The man who entered did not look like a killer. He didn’t look like a soldier or a mercenary. He looked like an accountant who had gotten lost on a hiking trip. He was of average height, average build, with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a beige windbreaker and sensible shoes.

But then you looked at his eyes.

They were pale blue, almost white. And they didn’t blink. Not enough. When they did, it was slow, like a reptile shuttering its gaze. He moved with a silence that was unnatural, his footsteps making no sound on the hardwood floor.

This was The Huntsman. A man whose real name had been erased from every database on Earth twenty years ago.

"Mr. Warner," The Huntsman said. His voice was soft, devoid of inflection. It sounded like dry leaves skittering on pavement. "My condolences on your loss."

Silas didn’t offer him a drink. He didn’t offer him a seat. "You know why you are here."

"I do. The Portstown incident. The dismantling of the Western Hub. The death of the heir." The Huntsman walked to the center of the room and stood there, hands loosely clasped. "You want the man responsible."

"I want him erased," Silas said, his hands gripping the back of his leather chair until his knuckles turned white. "His name is Rick Smith. A nobody. A civilian who somehow managed to kill a team of Elite Guards, destroy a prototype VTOL, and murder my grandson with his bare hands."

The Huntsman tilted his head slightly. "A civilian. Interesting."

"He had help," Silas spat. "Corporate Oversight. Johnson’s people. They provided the gear, the intel. But the kill... the kill was him."

"Johnson protects his assets well," The Huntsman noted. "If this ’Rick Smith’ is under their umbrella, he will be hard to touch. They will have scrubbed his digital footprint. He will be a ghost."

"That is why I called you," Silas said. "You hunt ghosts."

"I do."

Silas walked to his desk and picked up a heavy, black file folder. He threw it across the room. It landed at The Huntsman’s feet.

"That is everything we have. Which is nothing. No current address. No bank records. Johnson wiped him clean before they extracted him."

The Huntsman didn’t pick up the file. He just looked at it. "If Johnson wiped him, he is hidden. Likely off-grid. An island, perhaps. Or a safe house in the mountains."

"How do you find a man who doesn’t exist?" Silas demanded.

The Huntsman smiled. It was a terrifying expression. It didn’t reach his eyes. It was just a stretching of skin over teeth.

"You don’t look for the man, Mr. Warner. You look for the ripples he leaves in the water."

The Huntsman knelt and picked up the file. He opened it, scanning the few blurry photos of Rick from the motel security footage—the only thing Graves had managed to salvage before the servers fried.

"He has a style," The Huntsman murmured. "Brutal. Direct. Improvised weapons. He likes... heavy impacts." He traced the image of Rick holding the golf club. "He is not a professional. He is an instinctive killer. That makes him dangerous. Unpredictable."

He looked up at Silas. "Johnson’s protection has holes. It always does. Financial trails. Travel manifests. A purchase made in a moment of arrogance."

Silas walked around the desk. "I don’t care how you do it. I have five hundred million dollars in a slush fund in the Caymans. It is yours. All of it. Find him. Bring him to me. Alive, if possible. If not... bring me his head."

"Five hundred million is a generous fee," The Huntsman said calmly. "But there is a complication."

"What?"

"If Corporate Oversight is involved, this is not just a hit. It is a war. If I take this contract, I am declaring war on Johnson. That carries... additional costs."

"I will pay them," Silas roared. "I will burn my entire fortune if I have to! Just kill him!"

The Huntsman nodded. He closed the file. "Very well. The contract is accepted."

He turned to leave.

"Wait," Silas said.

The Huntsman stopped.

"There were two women with him," Silas said, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "A cop. And the traitor. Nadia."

"Collateral damage," The Huntsman said dismissively. "They do not matter."

"No," Silas said. "They matter. He saved them. He risked his life to get them out. They are his weakness."

The Huntsman paused. He turned back slowly. "He... cares for them?"

"It appears so."

The Huntsman’s smile widened, just a fraction. "Ah. Then he is already dead. A man with attachments is a man with a target painted on his heart."

He tapped the file against his leg. "I will find them, Mr. Warner. I will find what he loves. I will make it bleed. And then... he will come to me."

"Go," Silas whispered.

The Huntsman left the room as silently as he had entered.

Silas Warner stood alone in the gloom of his study. He walked back to the fireplace and looked at the photo of Marnus. He reached out, his trembling fingers tracing the glass.

"Sleep well, my boy," he whispered, the tears finally spilling over his cheeks. "The hounds are loose."

He picked up the photo and threw it into the fire.

He watched the frame crack, the glass shatter, and the smiling face of his grandson curl and blacken in the heat.

"Burn it all down," Silas said to the flames. "Burn it all down."