Chapter 57: The Inevitable Ending

Time.

Three o'clock and three minutes in the afternoon.

Inside a speakeasy in the West District.

This place originally belonged to the Cabreria family. Later, after Palen surrendered everything, it naturally became property of the Poleta family according to the contract.

However, the manager remained the same—still a member of the Cabreria family.

Yet, compared to the ambitious Gary, the manager here, Scar Hunter, was clearly a small-minded opportunist content with modest gains.

He had never been highly regarded under Joan anyway, so switching allegiance to Ethan's domain made little difference to him.

Loyalty was the cheapest commodity in the black mud.

Moreover, amidst the bootlegging boom, the Poleta family were the true masters of the tide.

Leveraging the Poleta family's vast bootleg network, Scar Hunter had earned more money this past month than he likely would have in the previous two years.

Therefore, he was head over heels in love with Ethan.

Initially, he had a few complaints when he was annexed, but now he wished he could go to the Poleta family estate and lick Ethan's shoes.

Unfortunately, such an opportunity was beyond his reach.

So he was scrambling to make money while greasing palms, hoping to secure a seat at next month's Poleta family meeting, even if it meant standing in a corner.

Three o'clock and five minutes.

The speakeasy was not yet at its busiest hour of the day; people usually frequented the place after finishing their shifts in the evening.

Thus, Scar Hunter was drinking by himself at this moment.

It was about to snow; he needed to rush out and procure another batch of goods. The cold would only make people crave alcohol even more.

Perhaps he should raise the prices. Hmm... better yet, double them again.

Scar Hunter thought to himself, a greedy gleam in his eyes, just as he was about to call his subordinates to open another bottle of liquor.

The tavern door suddenly swung open.

The ringing of the bell caught Scar Hunter's attention. He turned his head and saw a somewhat familiar face.

What was this guy's name again...

Barry?

"Hey..." He barely managed to call out.

The man who seemed to be called Barry had already drawn a gun from his trench coat and aimed it right at him: "Hunter, Gary sends his regards!"

"Bang—"

A bullet instantly pierced his forehead, immediately followed by even more violent gunfire echoing through the underground bar.

At the very same time, across the former territories of the Cabreria family, similar raids were unfolding relentlessly.

Perhaps tonight's snow would be the color of blood.

————————

Time.

Half-past three in the afternoon.

The reception venue at Winster University.

Half an hour had already passed since Ethan stepped into the art studio.

Outside, as people nibbled on hors d'oeuvres and chatted, they still couldn't help casting glances toward the distant classroom facing the sea.

Could that young man really pass Popol's test?

It was probably going to be very difficult.

After all, the topic Popol set was simply too obscure.

Time.

What kind of a prompt was that?

Yet, it was entirely consistent with his usual style.

Which was to ensure that no one could ever guess his answers.

"Dean, do you have any leads?"

In a corner of the crowd, several professors from the Winster School of Art gathered around El, asking in hushed tones.

El tried his best to maintain his expression, but the profound bitterness welling up from within could not be concealed.

He was practically on the verge of tears.

He had originally thought bringing in Ethan was a brilliant move; he could leverage this mafia scion's financial backing to elevate the art department, and perhaps even set his sights on the presidential throne himself someday.

However...

The backlash had arrived with astonishing swiftness.

Ramon was indeed a formidable adversary; with just a casual stroke, he had essentially cut off all of El's paths.

Time...

What kind of blossoms could one possibly paint out of time?

El was not an absolute fool; his own artistic accomplishments were respectable, or he wouldn't have secured the position of Dean of the School of Art in the first place.

Yet he truly had no inkling of a solution.

And Ethan?

Although that fellow seemed to possess some talent—Professor Hughes of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts had even praised him to the heavens—who knew if that recommendation letter had simply been bought with money?

"Have faith in Ethan; he... is a genius."

Though he said this aloud, El was already plotting his exit strategy internally. He neither wanted nor was able to resign; how could he possibly salvage this?

The President?

Roland was chatting and laughing with Popol, appearing completely unconcerned about the whole affair.

Ramon...

Ramon was already walking toward him.

"El, I was wondering why I couldn't find you. So you were hiding here. What's the matter, are you already too scared and thinking of running away?"

"Who's running away? Ramon, watch your tongue. This isn't your office." El forced a facade of composure.

"El, actually, if you're truly terrified, you can just bow your head, admit your mistake to me, and beg. Maybe I'll consider letting you off."

Ramon walked up close, speaking in a voice meant only for the two of them.

Admit his mistake...

For a fraction of a second, El actually considered it. But looking at his subordinates nearby, along with the surrounding celebrities and students, he simply couldn't swallow his pride.

To admit fault would utterly ruin his reputation, leaving him unable to ever lift his head up on campus again. How would that be any different from resigning?

"Ethan will win. He is a genius." He could only put up a stubborn front, hypnotizing himself with such rhetoric.

"A genius, you say?" Ramon muttered as if tasting the word on his tongue, then cast his gaze toward the distant classroom.

Regardless of whether he was a genius or not, he was bound to lose today.

A memory flashed through Ramon's mind from a late-night phone call several days ago.

"Dean Ramon?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Lewis, Dean Ramon. It's been a long time. I haven't seen you at the Little Boy Bar lately, and I've quite missed you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about..."

"Tsk tsk tsk, Dean Ramon, it seems your memory is failing you. Let me help you jog it. What was the name of that dead little boy again? Toby? Oh, his death was truly tragic, all that blood..."

"Enough, Lewis. If you think you can hold this over me for the rest of my life, let me tell you, it's impossible. Don't push me..."

"I think you've misunderstood, Dean. I'm here tonight to discuss a business proposition with you."

"Business?"

"Does your school happen to have a transfer student recently named Ethan Poleta?"

Indeed, it was a very good business proposition.

Through a student, he might finally accomplish something he had long been unable to achieve.

Actually, all he needed to do in this transaction was simple: keep Ethan right there at today's appointed time for two hours.

As for the rest, he didn't know the specific details.

But after two hours, whether Ethan had painted a masterpiece or not, he would be finished.

The artwork of an evil criminal—no matter how good it was, what use would it have?

Besides, he didn't believe Ethan could paint anything worthwhile anyway.

Time—what kind of damned prompt was that?

Artists were truly the most disgusting creatures in the world.

"Ah, Mr. Popol, my respects. I am a great admirer of your work."

Watching Popol slowly approach, Ramon raised his beverage glass.