Their voices rang out in unison, echoing through the office in a chilling chorus. Arthur and Ashley, still stunned by what had happened, were finally snapped back to awareness by the sound. They stared blankly at the group of men kneeling on the floor. Drake had actually shot President Holland. When Arthur had attacked him, it was mostly out of impulse—President Holland had crossed a line he couldn’t forgive. But Drake? This wasn’t impulse. Arthur had always suspected that Heaven’s Cult wielded serious power. Still, their usual approach had been to cozy up to the elite, recruiting powerful allies and leveraging their influence. It was those same connections that had helped Heaven’s Cult grow so formidable. But now, Arthur realized something he never expected: Drake had shot President Holland without a second’s hesitation. Others might not have noticed the moment it happened—but Arthur had seen everything clearly. Drake hadn’t initially planned to attack. It was only after President Holland questioned him that Drake calmly reached into an open drawer, pulled out a gun, and fired—without hesitation, without emotion. It was fluid, practiced, and terrifying. How powerful was Heaven’s Cult, if Drake could shoot a sitting Prime Minister so casually? Did he not care at all about offending Tamaria? About crossing a national line? And yet, as the echo of that shot faded, Arthur felt a strange sense of relief. The enemy of my enemy… is my ally. He had knocked out President Holland’s teeth. Drake had shot him in the leg. That formed a strange, unspoken bond between them. They were on the same side now. Drake swept his gaze over the kneeling elites, utterly unmoved by the sight of so many powerful men begging for mercy. His voice was flat and dismissive. “That’s enough. Get off Heaven Island.” At his words, armed guards appeared seemingly out of nowhere and swarmed the office, moving swiftly toward the kneeling group. Within moments, the men were dragged away like cattle. Even President Holland, bleeding and crippled, received no special treatment. The guards handled him with rough efficiency, forcing pained grunts from his lips. They weren’t taken back to their quarters. Instead, they were tossed unceremoniously onto a small yacht moored at the edge of the island. Compared to the vessel that had brought them here, this one was pitiful. That first yacht had been understated but luxurious—comfortable, elegant, almost like a vacation cruise. This one? It was only understated. The cabin had a few bare-bones rooms and nearly no facilities. Food? Just a few packs of dry rations. The contrast couldn’t have been starker. The only silver lining was that the ship was sturdy, and its captain was specially trained by Heaven Island. They wouldn’t get lost in the island’s infamous fog. But President Holland—his leg wound still untreated and bleeding freely—was another story. Whether he would survive long enough to reach shore was anyone’s guess. Back in Drake’s office. With the troublemakers gone, the vast room now held only Drake, Arthur, Ashley, and one final remnant—Solivair. He had been one of the few who had sided with President Holland. Now, his face was deathly pale—paler than a corpse left out for weeks. Sweat drenched his back, and beads of cold perspiration streamed down his forehead. His legs trembled violently, and no matter how hard he tried to steady himself, he couldn’t stop them from shaking.He wanted to leave, but without Drake’s permission, he didn’t even dare lift a foot. A suffocating silence swallowed the room. Drake said nothing. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers as he stared at Solivair, completely expressionless. Solivair reached out a hand and braced himself against the wall behind him, barely managing to stay upright. The silence dragged on—felt like hours, like centuries. Finally, Solivair broke. With a heavy thud, he dropped to his knees in front of Drake. Tears streamed down his face as he begged, “Governor, please… please spare me! I was wrong—I swear I know I was wrong! I’ll never do it again! Please, give me a chance to make things right!” He lowered his head and slammed it against the ground in a frenzied bow. Over and over. Within minutes, blood was seeping from his forehead. It dripped down his face and onto the floor, but Solivair didn’t care. He kept bowing, kept begging. He didn’t dare offer any explanations, any excuses. He had spent years inside Heaven’s Cult. He knew better than anyone: the more you said in moments like this, the worse your fate would be.