Chapter 93 Chapter 93 Then let us hope that Vongola will take the lead...
When it's nightfall in London, it's a sunny afternoon in America.
Elio timed his call and asked Ethan about the Syndicate's progress. It wasn't that he didn't care, but he was still nervous about "talking to politicians," worried he'd accidentally sold himself out. Ethan was the only one who answered every question. Besides telling Elio that various countries were still organizing to eliminate the remaining Syndicate forces and that Ryan was still attempting a prison break, he also kindly added that it would be best for Elio to stop worrying about the follow-up and let the agents of various countries handle it.
"How's your card game going?" Ethan asked. "I remember it was a gold card."
“…still figuring it out.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help,” Ethan said, “please let me know.”
Elio raised an eyebrow, "You know you're Gold rank?"
"You told me that already."
Elio laughed. "Aren't you worried about that being a dagger card?"
"Oh," Ethan asked slyly, "so it's one about desire?"
Elio hesitated to speak, and finally muttered, "I hate you agents," and hung up the phone in embarrassment.
If he hadn't known Constantine could buy him another seven days, Elio might have actually considered asking Ethan for help. The reason was simple: he only remembered a few Gold-level warriors. Mycroft, of course, was a man Elio wouldn't ask even if he was suicidal. As for Galahad, Elio wasn't sure how he'd react, but unless a scythe was at his neck, Elio wouldn't ask for his help. All that said, Ethan was his only option. After all, he was a man of deep loyalty and loyalty, and he probably wouldn't mind exchanging bodies for a friend's life.
Thank you, brother. Elio felt helpless but also deeply moved.
The golden card, nearly finished counting down, was handed back from John, and the seven-day countdown had magically resumed. Elio breathed a sigh of relief, stroking the bright, sparkling heart on the card, his heart rising again.
"Is it really only dragon breath that can destroy it?" Elio asked unwillingly.
"At least that's what the book says," Constantine flipped open, a cloud of dust choking them both. "According to speculation, only the 'strongest and fiercest flame' can destroy this set of cards imbued with dark magic..." The text at the back was covered in stains. Constantine tentatively wiped it, but the page immediately protested under the weight. Scared, he immediately stopped and blew a soft, helpless breath at the page. "But for various reasons, 'My Lord' never made this deal with the dragon, so there's no way to verify it."
"'My Lord'?" Elio asked.
Constantine shrugged, "A player from long ago."
Elio stopped asking. He looked at the record on the page, his thoughtful gaze gradually falling on the golden ring on his finger. Suddenly, a strange idea slipped into Elio's mind: Is the flame ignited by life enough to rival the breath of a dragon?
This was beyond Elio's comprehension, so he immediately called Alvin, and the teacher and student discussed the "fire combat power". In the end, Alvin seemed to have woken up Galahad, who was sleeping next door, and asked the latter to take Elio to Italy as soon as possible.
"Why Italy?" Elio asked.
"We mentioned this last time," Galahad sighed sleepily, "This is a unique fighting style that has now been widely used throughout the world. But its earliest origin is in Italy, and it is said to have been created by the first leader of the Vongola family..."
Since they were not from the same place, they landed at Rome Fiumicino Airport on separate flights and met at a convenient coffee shop. When Elio arrived, Galahad had probably been waiting for a while, stirring the cream in his coffee cup idly.
"That was hundreds of years ago." Galahad naturally pushed the other sweet macchiato on the table to Elio. "I happen to have some connections with the current leader of the Vongola. I can introduce you to him."
Elio took a sip and inadvertently grimaced at the sweetness. Luckily, Galahad was squinting and yawning at the time, so he probably didn't see what was happening. Elio then carefully pushed the coffee cup away and asked nonchalantly, "Can he help me?"
"I don't know," said Galahad. "I only know that if he can't help you, no one can."
Sicily was as beautiful as a romantic painting, vibrant and intense in color. The brick walls Elio caressed were a gentle honey-colored, stained with the sun's glow; the waves lapping against the beach, rolling up pearly white foam, were a breathtakingly exquisite blue. Not to mention the vibrant greenery, lush flowers, exquisite and classical Baroque architecture, and the ubiquitous white statues and green-glazed ceramic bell towers.
Such beauty is enough to melt any hard-hearted person. Even Galahad revealed a rare gentle expression when he took off his sunglasses.
"Show me the card," he said.
Elio obediently handed the cards over. Like everyone else who handled them, Galahad studied them over and over for a while, then handed them back to Elio thoughtfully.
"Strange magic." Galahad put his sunglasses back on. "It's still sex, isn't it?"
A black car stopped steadily in front of them. Galahad got in first, and Elio followed him in. "Yes."
"Or seven days?"
"I asked a magician I know to extend the deadline," Elio put the card back. "But, that's about it. Seven more days."
"Will you die after seven days?"
"That's what the record says," Elio said, "but I haven't tried to keep the card until the eighth day."
Galahad, who had rolled down the car window and was enjoying the breeze, turned around and glanced at him.
"If you tried, you wouldn't be here now," the Templar pointed out sternly.
"I suppose so."
Galahad made a soft click, so soft that Elio hardly heard it.
"Then let's hope the Vongola leader can help you destroy it," he crossed his arms and turned to look out the window, "After all, when it comes to fire fighting, he's the strongest person I know."
During the journey, Galahad occasionally mentioned a few things about the "Vongola Leader," which left a deep impression on Elio. It was said that he was the descendant of the original leader, a man of extraordinary talent, capable of commanding the support of hundreds, and who had fought back and turned the tide of the enemy's siege many times.
"Anyway, when I was his age, I didn't know what I was doing," Galahad concluded.
Still young, Elio thought.
But that impression quickly passed through Elio's mind. After all, they were discussing the leader of the Vongola family, the most powerful mafia of the modern era. Elio couldn't think of any reason to ignore his abilities and discuss his age. Consequently, when the Vongola leader himself stood before him, Elio had no idea who he was.
"Is there a fire?" Elio asked quietly.
The young Asian man in a suit looked at Elio in surprise for a moment, then laughed. He rummaged through his pockets and actually pulled out a lighter, which he handed over. Elio, without a trace of hesitation, lit his cigarette in his hand and offered him another one.
In this strange atmosphere of tacit understanding, they hid in a corner of the Vongola Garden, each took a puff of their cigarette, and then slowly exhaled in relaxation.
"It's too stuffy in there," said the young Asian man.
"Yeah," Elio said.
"Were you also brought up by your elders?"
"yes."
Only then did Elio take a good look at his temporary smoking buddy. He was a bit shorter than Elio, but he didn't look short of breath. Instead, he seemed to have a special aura that supported him, making him look exceptionally tall. His slicked-back brown hair and matching eyes exuded a gentle aura, unlike his clothing, which was filled with an inaccessible sense of sophistication. His suit was clearly a casual Italian style, and he seemed to be carrying a silky black cape tucked under his arm, with a shiny chain hanging from it and a torn brown tie tucked around it.
It was obvious that the atmosphere in the banquet hall also made him feel suffocated.
"First time?" asked the Asian.
"About that," Elio replied vaguely.
If nothing unexpected happened, he probably wouldn't attend another Mafia party in his lifetime. This was no different from those inexplicable banquets hosted by the upper class. Elio had originally been patiently following Galahad, but as Galahad smiled and greeted one wrinkled face after another, Elio soon felt a little breathless and even secretly tugged at his collar several times (which was originally a well-fitting collar).
There was no other way, so he had to sneak out and wait for Galahad to send him a message to ask him to come in.
The plants in the garden cast dark green shadows, the moonlight half-hidden behind dark clouds, and only the soft chirping of insects filled the air. The quiet paths were deserted, perhaps because they were considered perfect for murder and hiding corpses, unsuitable only for those with ulterior motives. But for the assassin, everything he could see was clear.
"This isn't your first time, is it?" Elio asked.
"No," the Asian blew out a smoke ring, "but I never got used to it."
Elio nodded in agreement. He reached into his pocket and checked his phone. Seeing no news from Galahad, he put it back in his pocket and continued playing. But when his fingers accidentally brushed against the card, Elio suddenly saw a flash of gold.
Wait a minute, Elio thought.
Elio looked around and quickly confirmed that there was only this person in front of him, who was now looking at him with raised eyebrows and questioningly.
"What are you looking for?" the Asian asked sharply.
Elio silently grasped the card in his pocket and carefully examined the Asian grade. It was a rare gold grade. A subtle premonition arose.
"...Who are you?" Elio asked with a frown.
"You should tell me your name first," the young Asian said gently, "and then I'll tell you mine."
There was something solemn in his calm tone. Under the Asian man's gaze, which seemed to possess a strange power, Elio was silent for a moment, but finally he let go of the card in his pocket and, cautiously but politely, introduced himself briefly.
"Elliot Smith, freelancer," Elio said. "I don't have any fancy titles, so just call me Elio. May I ask who you are?"
He gave away almost no information, but the Asian watched him, his expression softening.
"Nice to meet you, Elio," he said. "I'm..." A string of words, probably Japanese, tumbled from the Asian's lips. Elio was bewildered, not knowing which was his first name and which was his last. Perhaps realizing this, the Asian smiled at Elio again and said considerately, "You can also call me 'Vongola.'"
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Oreo: Wait, that Vongola?
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