Chapter 5

When Connor picked up the pendant and rose to his feet, something about him felt different. There was an inexplicable shift that sent a chill through the hearts of the gang of thugs surrounding him.

"Get him, Jasper! Look at what this bastard's done to me," Michael snarled, gesturing furiously at his grotesquely swollen face.

Jasper, the tattooed leader, cast a glance at Connor, then waved his hand decisively. "Get him!"

But before anyone could move, a commanding voice rang out. "Let's see who dares lay a finger on him!"

The crowd turned as a stunningly beautiful woman approached with quick, resolute steps. Her beauty was striking, but there was a sharpness in her gaze that stopped the thugs in their tracks. Two men in black suits followed closely behind her, exuding an air of quiet menace.

It was Christina.

Even Michael, battered and bruised as he was, couldn't help but feel a jolt of heat in his chest. What a woman, he thought, his gaze lingering shamelessly on her long legs wrapped in sheer stockings.

"Handle this mess for Mr. Duke," Christina said crisply, her brows furrowed slightly as she surveyed the scene.

One of her bodyguards stepped forward. In mere moments, the gang of thugs was reduced to a heap of groaning bodies. Even Jasper, with all his bluster, was sent scrambling, clutching his face as he stumbled away in humiliation.

Christina's guards were no ordinary men; their efficiency spoke volumes.

Connor narrowed his eyes slightly. He hadn't expected Christina to step in on his behalf, though the pendant in his hand—the broken serpent now revealing a dragon—reminded him of the truth. The seal was lifted. The Dragon Sovereign had returned.

"Connor, who are these two?" Christina asked, turning to look at Michael and Sandra.

Before Connor could respond, Sandra shrieked, "So that's it, Connor! No wonder you agreed to divorce my daughter so easily. Turns out you've been keeping some vixen on the side! You shameless little—"

Her tirade was abruptly cut off by a slap. Christina had raised her hand without hesitation.

She wasn't a woman to suffer insults lightly.

Sandra stumbled back, clutching her cheek where a vivid handprint had appeared. "How dare you hit me! Do you know who I am? I'm Iris Goldwyn's mother, you wretched—"

"Kill them! Michael, avenge me!" she shrieked, directing her venom at Michael.

Michael, still bloodied and furious, charged toward Christina.

Yet before he could reach her, one of the black-suited guards sent him flying with a single kick. His body crashed into the solid wooden door behind him, leaving a deep dent.

Michael's scream of pain echoed through the room as he writhed on the floor, clutching what was surely a broken arm.

"You're vicious," Sandra spat, pointing an accusing finger at Christina and Connor. "You'll pay for this! Do you know who my daughter is? You'll regret—"

"Shut her up," Christina said, her voice calm but sharp as a blade.

The guard stepped forward, his expression mechanical, ready to carry out her command.

Connor raised a hand. "Let them go."

Christina immediately gestured for her guard to stand down.

"Just you wait!" Sandra hissed, supporting Michael as they readied to leave. But when she reached for the framed calligraphy on the ground, Connor's voice stopped her.

"Leave it."

Her face darkened. "You've already beaten Michael, and now you're taking what belongs to us?"

Connor's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Since when did my calligraphy become yours?"

Sandra froze. She had no retort.

Christina gave a subtle nod, and one of the guards retrieved the framed calligraphy from Sandra's grasp.

"You'll regret this! Both of you!" Sandra screeched. "You cheating pair of nobodies—just wait! You'll pay for crossing me!"

"Teach her a lesson," Christina commanded, her patience evidently at its limit.

Sandra's bravado crumbled instantly. Clutching her son, she made a hasty retreat, not daring to utter another word.

As the commotion settled, Christina's eyes landed on the calligraphy in her hand. Her expression shifted, a flicker of awe breaking through her composed demeanor.

"Is this... the work of Lior Everhart? An authentic piece?" she murmured.

She glanced at the calligraphy, and Christina's expression instantly changed. She gasped, "That vulgar woman actually has a genuine work by Lior Everhart!"

"That's mine." Connor reached out his hand.

"No!"

In a blink, the domineering Christina morphed into a softer, almost fragile figure, clutching the calligraphy to her chest as if it were a lifeline.

"Connor, please let me have it. My grandfather loves Lior Everhart's work. If I gift this to him, he'll be so thrilled he might even dance with joy. I'm begging you."

Christina's enchanting eyes gleamed, her gaze so heartbreakingly sincere that it would have undone any man.

Her grandfather, a man of immense status, owned only one piece by Lior Everhart. He kept it enshrined in his study, treating it like a priceless relic. Yet those infamous three characters—Stupid Old Geezer!—were far from elegant or poetic, a far cry from the calligrapher's true brilliance.

But this masterpiece before her now, Spring's Grace, was a work of undeniable refinement and grace—worthy of being the crown jewel of any collection.

"I'll buy it. Name your price," Christina coaxed, even pulling at Connor's sleeve like a playful child.

"Forget it, take it," Connor said, resigned. For Tom's sake, he would let her have it.

Christina's face lit up with joy as she hurriedly tucked the frame in her arms.

"So, what exactly do you need my help with?" Connor asked.

Christina's urgency resurfaced.

"Oh, right," she said, snapping out of her momentary daze. Her voice dropped, grave and hurried. "Yesterday, over ten employees from Drakhar Inc had lunch in the cafeteria. Not long after, they were struck with agonizing stomach pains—vomiting, convulsing—it was chaos.

"The doctors were baffled. They're calling it some kind of strange illness, but they don't have a clue how to treat it. Now, all those employees are in a coma, teetering between life and death. If they don't make it…" Christina hesitated, her eyes clouding with worry. "The fallout would be catastrophic for Drakhar Inc. A scandal like this could sink us."

Connor stayed quiet, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed her words. After a brief pause, he nodded. "All right. Take me to them."

Though his mystical powers were gone, his unparalleled mastery of medicine had not faded.

It wasn't long before they arrived at Balein Hospital, Abnerhaven's finest medical facility, built with significant backing from the Astor family.

At the entrance of the intensive care unit, two burly men in black suits stood blocking the doorway.

"Ms. Christina, Mr. Jay already brought in Abnerhaven's top doctor, Alexander Fleming. He's handled everything. There's no need for you to go inside," one of them said, stepping forward.

"Where is Dr. Fleming now?" Christina asked.

"He finished the treatment and is having tea with Mr. Jay in the lounge."

Christina turned to Connor. "Should we check it out anyway?"

Connor glanced through the small window, his gaze sharp and calculating. "Yeah. We're going in."

"Step aside!" Christina commanded, her gaze sharp.

"Ms. Christina, Mr. Jay gave strict orders. No one's allowed inside. Don't make this harder than it has to be…" The man looked genuinely uneasy.

Smack!

Without warning, Christina's hand shot out, slapping him hard across the face. Her expression didn't even flinch. "I said, get out of my way."

The two men exchanged glances, their resolve crumbling instantly. They stepped aside without another word.

Once inside, Connor observed the scene. Thirteen people lay sprawled on hospital beds, their faces twisted in pain. A faint, dark aura clung to their chests, where dozens of silver needles had been precisely inserted.

"What's going on here?" Christina demanded.

The man in the black suit quickly responded, "Dr. Fleming said they were poisoned. Those needles are detox needles. They're supposed to draw out the toxins over two hours. If anyone removes them early, the poison won't clear, and—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his face draining of color.

Connor had already stepped forward. With a calm but decisive motion, he began pulling the needles out one by one, his movements so swift and sure it left no room for protest.