Alexander Summers held the knife in his hand, stripping away the binding willow branches, his gaze inching from the blade to the hilt...
"You must strike right at the chest," Mr. Ghost Hayes whispered, "about at the chest-center acupoint."
Alexander looked over.
His deep eyes were frosty and biting, the black pupils tinged with the light of blood, like a beast, like a devil.
Mr. Ghost Hayes shuddered and lowered his head.
If they couldn't find Purple Summers, couldn't find that ghost... however formidable this knife was, it was utterly useless.
The world is vast, and even confined to Kingsley City, hiding a person in an obscure corner is far too easy.
Otherwise, Atra Blanc wouldn't have only been found by now.
The modern era indeed has advanced, with surveillance cameras everywhere, bank statements traceable in minutes, phones that can be located, and identities connected nationwide—but at the same time, the fake has been steadily on the rise.
