Master of Lust-Chapter 329 - -

Chapter - 329

The Grand Ballroom of the Warner Chateau was a masterpiece of old-world intimidation. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from vaulted ceilings frescoed with scenes of Greek tragedies. The walls were lined with tapestries that cost more than the GDP of the countries the guests were currently discussing how to exploit.

Rick stood at the service entrance, peering through the small circular window of the swinging door. He was back in the kitchen, but his mind was in the ballroom, projected there via the HUD in his bio-mask.

"Status," Rick murmured into his throat mic.

"The wine is poured," Nadia’s voice came back, crystal clear. She was moving among the tables, a vision in the severe black-and-white uniform of a sommelier. She moved with the grace of a predator, filling the glasses of the world’s most powerful men and women with the Screaming Eagle 1992—laced, of course, with Rick’s $250,000 Grapes of Wrath nano-swarm.

"The Swan is sweating," Sharon reported. She was standing by the main doors, arms crossed, looking like a statue of disapproval. "Melt rate is accelerating. The heating vents are blasting directly onto it. We have maybe twenty minutes before the core breaches and the gas hits the fan."

"Copy," Rick said. He turned back to his station. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

The kitchen was a war zone of a different kind. Steam hissed, pans clattered, and chefs shouted in three different languages. Rick—as Henri Vancroft—was the conductor of this chaos.

He walked to the pass, plating the Amuse-bouche: a single, perfect scallop topped with caviar and a foam made of sea urchin and pretentiousness.

But his attention wasn’t on the scallop. It was on the scullery.

In the corner, submerged in steam and soap suds, was The Huntsman. The world-class assassin was washing a stock pot with the slow, methodical rhythm of a machine. He wore a hairnet. He wore rubber gloves. He looked completely harmless.

Rick walked over, holding a dirty tasting spoon. He tossed it into the sink, splashing soapy water onto The Huntsman’s beige uniform.

"Faster, dishwasher!" Rick barked, channeling the Kitchen Tyrant. "We are not paying you to meditate! Scrub!"

The Huntsman stopped scrubbing. He looked up slowly. His pale, unblinking eyes met Rick’s masked ones. For a second, the facade dropped. There was no fear in those eyes, only a cold, amused recognition.

"The pot is clean, Chef," The Huntsman said softly. "But the grease... it is stubborn. Sometimes, you have to burn it off."

"Then burn it," Rick snapped, turning away before the chill running down his spine made him shiver. He knows. He’s just waiting for the check.

Rick marched back to the prep station. He needed to deploy the asset.

He reached into his pocket—or rather, the Inventory pocket dimension mapped to his pocket—and pulled out Mickey.

The Rat King drone was a marvel of spy-tech. It looked exactly like a large, mechanical rat, complete with synthetic fur and twitching whiskers.

Rick pretended to drop a towel. As he bent to pick it up, he set Mickey on the floor near the ventilation grate under the walk-in fridge.

"Go," Rick whispered.

Mickey’s red LED eyes flashed once. It scurried forward, its carbon-fiber claws clicking softly on the tile. It squeezed through the grate and vanished into the darkness of the Chateau’s HVAC system.

Rick straightened up, wiping his hands.

[System View: Drone Feed Active]

A new window popped up in Rick’s vision. He was seeing what the rat saw: a dusty, metallic tunnel of air ducts.

"Navigate to Sub-Level 3," Rick commanded mentally. "Target: The Vault locking mechanism."

The drone scampered down the vertical shaft, its magnetic feet clinging to the metal.

Meanwhile, inside the ballroom, the trap was springing.

[System Notification: Nano-Swarm Active.]

[Audio Feed: Establishing...]

[Biometric Data: Incoming.]

Rick’s ears were suddenly filled with the sounds of the dining room. Not the ambient noise, but the specific, high-fidelity audio from the stomachs and throats of the Inner Circle.

He heard the Russian energy magnate, Volkov, swallow a sip of wine.

"The pipeline is a distraction, Silas. We cut the supply in January. Freeze Europe out. Prices triple."

He heard the American Senator, Moretti, chewing a piece of bread.

"I can stall the sanctions committee. But it will cost you. My reelection fund is looking... anemic."

And he heard Silas Warner. The old man’s voice was raspy, wet.

"Money is paper, Senator. Power is blood. Tonight, we rewrite the map. Drink up. This vintage... it has a finish you won’t forget."

Rick frowned. There was something in Silas’s tone. A finality.

"How are they feeling?" Rick asked Nadia.

"Volkov looks pale," Nadia whispered. "He’s sweating. The gastric distress feature works fast."

Rick grinned. "Good. Let them squirm."

Back in the vents, Mickey the Rat had reached the bottom of the shaft. It scurried along the ceiling of a high-security corridor on Sub-Level 3. Below, two Elite Guards stood watch in front of a massive, circular vault door. The ’Oubliette’.

The drone found the power coupling box for the door. It was a thick bundle of shielded cables.

"Eat," Rick commanded.

Mickey opened its mechanical jaws. A tiny, high-torque plasma cutter extended from its mouth. It began to chew.

ZZZZZT.

Sparks flew in the vent.

Below, the lights in the corridor flickered. The guards looked up.

"Did you hear that?" one guard asked.

"Rats," the other muttered. "This mountain is full of them."

In the kitchen, Rick plated the main course: Venison with a huckleberry reduction.

The Huntsman walked past him, carrying a stack of clean plates. As he passed, he leaned in, his voice a whisper that was barely audible over the kitchen noise.

"The swan is melting, Mr. Smith. But the water... it flows both ways."

Rick stiffened. He grabbed the boning knife from the counter, spinning around.

But The Huntsman was already gone, disappearing into the scullery steam.

"Sharon," Rick hissed into his mic. "Code Red. The Huntsman knows about the swan. He’s making a move."

"I can’t see him," Sharon replied, her voice tight. "But I have eyes on the Guests. Something is wrong. Silas isn’t eating."

Rick looked at the drone feed. Mickey had chewed through the primary locking clamp.

"One more cable," Rick thought. "Just one more."

Suddenly, a loud, wet gurgle echoed through the audio feed in Rick’s ear.

It was Senator Moretti.

"Oh god," the Senator gasped over the mic. "My stomach. It feels like... fire."

Volkov groaned. "The wine... it is... poisoned?"

Panic rippled through the audio feed.

Rick watched the camera feed from Nadia’s glasses.

In the ballroom, Senator Moretti stood up, clutching his stomach. His face was green. "Where is the... the restroom?"

Silas Warner remained seated. He held his glass of wine up to the light. He smiled.

He tapped his glass with a spoon. Ding-ding-ding.

The room went silent.

"Please, sit down, Senator," Silas said, his voice amplified by the room’s acoustics. "You won’t make it to the restroom. And frankly, you won’t need to."

Rick froze. What is he doing?

Silas looked around the table at the most powerful men in the world, men who were currently clutching their guts and sweating profusely.

"You all came here to carve up the world," Silas said softly. "You came to take my lithium, my pipelines, my legacy. You thought I was old. Weak. You thought the Warner Empire was a carcass ready for the vultures."

Silas took a sip of his wine. He hadn’t been given the nano-swarm bottle. He was drinking the clean stuff.

"But you forgot one thing," Silas whispered. "I am not the carcass. I am the hunter."

He pressed a button under the table.

In the kitchen, heavy steel shutters slammed down over the windows and the service doors. CLANG. CLANG.

"We’re locked in!" a sous-chef screamed.

In the ballroom, the main doors slammed shut and locked with a magnetic thud.

"Rick!" Sharon yelled. "We’re sealed in! It’s a lockdown!"

Silas Warner stood up. He leaned on his cane.

"Gentlemen," Silas said to the terrified, sickened room. "And the spies listening in the kitchen... welcome to the Red Wedding."