Chapter Seventy-Two: The Night Banquet in Berlin

Three days later, Berlin, Germany.

Night descended like the finest black velvet, gently enveloping this city, both ancient and modern.

On the western outskirts stood an old castle, built during the medieval era of the Teutonic Knights, which had survived even the bombardments of the Second World War. Tonight, however, it blazed with light, brighter than day.

This was the nerve center of the "Phantom" organization throughout Europe—the top-secret headquarters codenamed "The Castle."

And tonight, within these walls, a private toast was taking place—one so exclusive that no monarch or billionaire in the world could hope to attend. It was a celebration for the looming launch, just twenty-four hours away, of the "Revelation" plan—a scheme set to simultaneously ignite in the seven financial capitals of the globe, with the power to "reset the world."

Within the grand banquet hall, the gilded dome was adorned with ancient biblical frescoes. The elegant strains of a live classical quartet, led by the Berlin Philharmonic’s principal musicians, drifted through the air.

Perfume and laughter mingled with the taste of fine food and wine. Clusters of guests, clad in impeccably tailored evening wear, moved gracefully through the room, crystal flutes of the finest champagne in hand, exchanging words with poise and courtesy.

These were the true "shadow rulers" of the planet: financial titans from Wall Street who directed the flow of trillions, mysterious royals from the Middle East with wealth rivaling nations, and the last scions of ancient European nobility whose influence seeped deep into political circles.

They were the "Phantoms."

...

"Klaus, my old friend, at last you’re here."

With this warm greeting, the heavy doors of the hall were pushed open.

Dressed in an exquisite black tailcoat, bearing the scholarly air of a tenured professor, Bishop Klaus Schneider of the "Disciples" entered the devil’s palace, surrounded by a respectful entourage.

Behind him followed a man and a woman.

The woman was Xiao Ran.

She had shed her usual martial attire for a simple yet supremely elegant black backless evening gown, carefully arranged by Klaus himself. Her inky hair was swept up, revealing a slender, swan-like neck. Her face bore the faintest touch of makeup, her eyes cold and distant, radiating a powerful aura that made strangers keep their distance—a mark of the elite.

Her official role was that of Klaus’s chief security assistant, hastily summoned from the Munich branch, a specialist in eight languages and close-quarters combat.

The man was Lin Feng.

He too wore a sharp tailcoat, which seemed to make him ill at ease, and white silk gloves. With utmost precision, he pushed a cart of rare rosewood laden with bottles of vintage Burgundy.

His public identity was that of Klaus’s most trusted—and sole—chief sommelier, the only one entrusted with the key to his private wine cellar.

...

In the banquet hall, Xiao Ran stood behind Bishop Klaus, her hands clasped in the textbook stance of a security professional.

Yet her gaze, sharp as the finest battlefield radar, swept across the hall with imperceptible speed, cataloguing every corner, security post, and—most importantly—the threat level of each guest, committing it all to memory.

Her mission: to locate and approach the hostage being held here—Zhao Siyuan.

At that moment, a burly, bear-like man with a face full of scars and eyes brimming with naked aggression and desire, swaggered over with a glass of whiskey in hand.

He was Boris, current Grand Master of the "Templar Knights," one of the Phantom’s three violent arms.

"Hey, Klaus, my dear ‘Professor’," Boris said, his greedy, predatory gaze raking shamelessly over Xiao Ran’s figure. In coarse Russian, he sneered to Klaus, "Where did you find such a fiery beauty from the East? Far more interesting than those wooden male bodyguards you used to have."

As he spoke, he stretched out a fat, ring-laden paw, aiming to crudely hook his finger beneath Xiao Ran’s chin.

Bishop Klaus’s brow tightened imperceptibly.

But just as Boris’s grubby fingers were about to touch Xiao Ran’s skin—

Her eyes flashed cold.

With a movement so slight it seemed just a breath to the casual observer, she withdrew half a step—enough to let Boris’s lecherous grasp fall through empty air.

Maintaining a professional, subordinate’s smile, she replied in Russian more precise than any Muscovite’s, her tone icy as the Siberian wind:

"Sir, please have some self-respect.

My duty is to ensure the Bishop’s security—

Not to satisfy your cheap curiosity."

...

Meanwhile, Lin Feng had excused himself under the pretense of fetching a 1945 Romanée-Conti from the Bishop’s private cellar for the "Godfather," successfully slipping away from the suffocating charade of the banquet hall.

He rolled his cart into the castle’s labyrinthine logistics area—a cold, metallic jungle of steel, live wires, and ever-present deadly traps.

Guided by the internal map Klaus had risked everything to provide, one marking every "security flaw," a textbook "Mission: Impossible" infiltration was underway.

...

He moved like a ghost in the shadows.

At times, he pressed against frozen walls, slipping through the gaps between patrols of Boston Dynamics’ most advanced "mechanical hounds." At others, he faced a heavy alloy door requiring both voiceprint and iris recognition. He chose no brute force; instead, he drew from his pocket a pen-sized device—the "universal key" given to him by the Disciples, a miniature holographic projector storing the chief of security’s full biological profile. A flash of light, and the barrier yielded.

At last, he reached the only shortcut to the castle’s deepest level: a narrow, precipitous central ventilation shaft, its length crisscrossed with deadly red laser grids.

Shedding his tailcoat, he revealed the tight black combat suit worn beneath. His body, supple as a world-class gymnast’s, twisted and turned through that suffocating web of death, finally dropping, silent as a shadow, at his destination.

Thirty-three floors underground.

This was the heart of the entire castle, the very core of the Phantom organization.

He stood before a massive door, forged from an unknown alloy glowing with mysterious dark-silver light, a material said to be utterly impervious to any physical or digital assault—

The main server room.

...

The hour of reckoning had arrived.

Upstairs, on the second floor, Xiao Ran had finally shaken off the infuriated Templar Grand Master using Bishop Klaus’s authority. At the end of a secluded corridor lined with medieval paintings, she found her target:

A heavily guarded, luxuriously appointed suite, marked with a gilded plaque: "Private Lounge—Do Not Disturb."

Her micro thermal imager showed only one weak, non-threatening life sign within.

—Zhao Siyuan!

But at the door stood two fully armed Templar elite guards, eyes hollow, their bearing as calm as the dead—like twin demons at the gates of hell.

Xiao Ran’s hand tightened on the lipstick-sized tranquilizer pistol concealed beneath her gown, and she advanced with graceful steps.

Thirty-three floors below.

Lin Feng stood before that alien, vibranium-like door, drawing from his pocket the tiny data chip—a "full stop" program, bearing the regret and hope of a father’s lifetime.

His gaze sharpened, as if to pierce the absolute shield before him.

The prelude to the final waltz had ended.

Now—the main theme was about to begin.