Chapter 75: The Lockdown
The night was still—unnaturally so.
Ten Sage-ranked assassins moved with methodical precision, split into five units of two, each pair flanking a side of the compound. Their approach was silent, their movements calculated. No aura leaked. No trace left behind. They were veterans of dozens of missions, ghosts in the awakened underworld.
Their orders were simple: get Philip Egboluche to sign over his company… and erase him.
But this time, there was caution in their steps. The earlier team hadn't returned—not even a whisper. And that silence was heavier than failure.
With the compound surrounded and clear signals exchanged through silent glyphs, the ten vaulted over the fences, slipping into the perimeter. No alarms. No traps.
So far, too easy.
Two by two, they closed in and gathered silently at the first-floor balcony, right outside what intel claimed was Philip's bedroom.
They waited. Breath controlled. Auras suppressed.
Then it hit them.
A pressure.
No sound. No energy burst.
Just... a gaze.
It was as if something beyond the veil had turned its attention toward them—a predator with impossible depth. Cold. Ancient. Knowing. Their breath caught. Knees trembled. For a moment, they weren't assassins.
They were prey.
One of them remembered the first time he saved a normal human from a nightmare-beast—a moment of bravery in a flooded slum in Port Harcourt. The terrified eyes of the civilian. The shivering. The helplessness.
That was how he felt now.
Meanwhile, deep in the basement, Philip sat on a chair carved from black mana crystal, leaning forward with a thoughtful expression. Before him, five Siege-ranked experts sat slumped—each tied to enchanted chairs, their mana sealed by soul-binding glyphs.
He had been interrogating them one by one, separating their consciousness from their speech centers to ensure honesty. The results had confirmed his suspicion: The Triad had sent them.
But why?
He had no direct business with them—at least not before his return.
Was it the biotech stake? Something else? Or did they just think I was weak?
Then, he sensed it.
Ten new intrusions.
He paused mid-question, his golden eyes narrowing as he expanded his soul sense outward—further, wider. Beyond the walls, over rooftops and gutters, through trees and streetlights. Two streets over, he paused.
There, standing calmly atop a rooftop, cloaked in layers of folded light and compressed mana—a Grandmaster. Watching.
Interesting.
Philip smiled faintly.
He let the ten Sages draw close—let them reach the balcony.
And then, with a breath:
Soul Lock.
It was a technique of the deeper arts. He had just learned it . A binding of a person's essence to the stillness of the moment. Not death. Not sleep.
Just helpless awareness.
Their bodies froze as if time had stopped, but their minds were trapped—awake, alert, panicked. Locked in the terror of their own stillness.
Then, like puppets tugged by invisible strings, Philip controlled them.
He guided them, gently, into the house.
Their boots tapped silently across the marble floors. He closed the balcony doors behind them—click.
Then the living room door—locked.
Lights dimmed.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Philip stood at the foot of the staircase now, his bare feet touching the cold tile, golden eyes reflecting candlelight. He looked at the ten frozen invaders with the same gaze a scientist might give a new specimen.
"I wonder…" he murmured, "how far you'll go before you break."
Upstairs, the Grandmaster narrowed his eyes.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.