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墨書 Inktalez
When the name Long Xingchen was mentioned, Freya felt a strange sense of unfamiliarity with it. For the past three and a half years, she had only referred to that man as "Captain."
Only she remembered Long Xingchen in his pure white suit, tall and striking, standing out in the crowd. Just moments before their military training ended, he had confessed his feelings to her in front of the instructor, holding a deep red rose. They had sworn eternal love to each other, promising to be together, to marry, to live together, even if it meant living as commoners.
However, when Long Xingchen showcased his leadership during the grueling military training and was quickly recognized as an indispensable leader for winning championships, he was soon recruited by a young manager into the Ice Dust Team. The manager, who presented himself as a child from a single-parent family, was actually Freya's sister from a broken home. Upon discovering their relationship, she decided to toy with the two promising newcomers. From then on, Freya's relationship with him turned into one of mere surveillance.
When Long Xingchen realized that Freya was the mastermind behind his surveillance, his personality changed overnight. He became desperate to prove himself, ready to fight against all odds—even if the world turned upside down and justice did not stand by him; he was prepared to battle against everything unfair in life.
The feeling of isolation is particularly intense when one feels helpless, even believing that those reaching out to help are stained with blood. These people were not genuinely trying to save him; they saw him merely as a tool. He forcefully pushed away those hands that represented friendliness and concern but were filled with ulterior motives. He completely overturned the rules with his own hands and became the new rule himself.
He yearned for recognition from others, striving to excel in everything until his heart was numb to worldly evaluations.
Upon hearing the command, memories flooded Freya's mind like a nuclear explosion, thoughts bursting forth rapidly. She remained silent but inwardly questioned herself, "Do I really have to go through this again?"
"I promise you this is the last time. I won't command you to do anything after this. I swear to God, my dear daughter."
Clinton gazed deeply at Freya; their relationship was incredibly complex—rooted in the fact that they were father and daughter.
"For the team, are you willing to ruin the futures of two daughters? Do you know what they will call me? Am I a spy?" The devil within Freya screamed, yet her face betrayed no excessive emotion. She continued, "Getting too close to him won't end well. There are people protecting him; I can’t help."
"That makes things difficult."
Clinton stood up from his chair and turned his back towards the window, watching the shadows of people running on the playground outside.
"Protect him? Then isolate him completely. I want you to document how he feels after being neglected; you don’t need to worry about anything else. Just focus on your studies and become my right-hand person in the future. I will be proud of you, my child." Clinton smiled.
"Is that it? Then I understand; can I leave now?"
Freya's expression was indifferent. She should have known better than to harbor any illusions about this man years ago. Now it seemed she had truly seen through him—he aimed to cultivate women who would serve as stepping stones for solidifying his power. Rather than being mere steps up, they were more akin to cannon fodder or stepping stones; once deemed useless, even a biological daughter would be swept aside like trash.
"Why are you in such a hurry, my dear daughter? Is there nothing personal you can discuss with your father besides work? How far has your relationship with Long Xingchen progressed? I would love for you to bring him over for an official meeting sometime. He’s a fine young man with great vision; I'm growing fonder of him by the day. When will you bring him here so I can share some personal insights with him?" Clinton clearly remained unaware that he had offended his own daughter.
"Ah, I've already broken up with him. Gradually, he started to notice me when you placed me beside him. So now that he has become what he is, you, I, and he each share a third of the credit for his military achievements. Are you satisfied with my answer, Coach?" Freya sneered.
Clinton quickly shook his head, revealing an expression of deep disappointment. He sighed lightly and said, "What a pity. He is truly a fine young man—young and talented, just like I was in my youth. It's just that he's too foolish, blinded by emotions. Little does he know that a true strongman must conceal his feelings and be willing to forsake even familial bonds when necessary. This shows that he is destined not to become a commanding leader."
"Enough!"
Hearing such words from her own father made Freya's heart feel as if it were bleeding. She could no longer endure it. Ever since their reunion as father and daughter, she had been used merely as a tool. Her identity was that of a spy both inside and outside, a double agent at that. On one hand, she used her beauty to frequently appear on the fields of other teams to gather information.
On the other hand, she recorded and observed her companions whom she could rely on. Under their noses, she collected their thoughts and endeavored to unearth what lay in their hearts. However, they were never destined to become friends; betraying one's closest confidants would only lead to outrage from most people. Yet in the Ice Dust Team, unimaginable things often occurred. Your cries of despair and weakness would not garner sympathy or help but would instead mark you as the next target of bullying, plunging you into despair.
Most elites could not withstand such humiliation and fell into mediocrity, ultimately unable to survive in the university environment, disappearing from their peers' sight. How many could endure four years like Long Xingchen? After graduation, he would be awarded a military rank and command a legion named after the Ice Dust Team—an honor typically reserved for those few recognized by the school.
Every year, only a handful of elite students received such accolades while most bore the mark of failure and followed the path of military conscription, starting as low-ranking soldiers on a steady rise through the ranks. In times of peace without war, these individuals would never experience the front lines; ten years, twenty years, or even a lifetime of youth would be wasted standing guard and repeating empty praises for their leaders.
"Freya?"
Seeing his daughter so enraged left Clinton puzzled. He believed that his daughter shared his noble bloodline and thus should think similarly to him. However, he was mistaken; a long-buried thought surfaced in his mind as he sighed internally and shook his head in lamentation: "A daughter grows up too fast."
While thinking this, he wore an inscrutable smile on his face. "You can leave now; please close the door behind you when you go and let that fool waiting outside come in."
Freya remained silent, not bothering to look back or meet her father's gaze politely; instead, she turned sharply and slammed the door behind her.
Clinton shook his head in disbelief.
"The last one, Freyr, come in. Let's have an open discussion." Clinton rolled up his sleeve and approached the closet to retrieve an opened bottle of vodka from its holder. He wasn't an alcoholic but would drink a bit before making difficult decisions or meeting important people.
He genuinely believed that a man's wisdom was intertwined with red wine and cigars wrapped in tobacco—just as women meticulously prepared themselves before going out. They might scold those men who looked back at them as lecherous but secretly felt pleased by it. Their actions all had one purpose: to attract attention. Drinking and dressing up were merely ways to bolster their confidence so that their glamorous sides could be witnessed by others.
"Uh, hello Coach, I'm coming in."
Freya stepped lightly into the office, gently closing the door behind him. Although he was unaware of the conversation that had taken place earlier between the two individuals, it was evident from their expressions that neither looked particularly pleased, as if they had been subjected to some form of humiliation.
He made an effort to present himself as a cultured Gentleman, believing that this would leave his counterpart uncertain about his true intentions.
However, his attempts seemed trivial in the eyes of his opponent. Sitting across from him was another man, whose mysterious silhouette was turned away, seated in a chair. It was impossible to discern what the man behind him was doing—perhaps lost in thought or intentionally observing him from the shadows.
His fingers gripped a glass cup filled with a red liquid, which swayed violently to the melancholic melody playing in the background. This clearly indicated that he was a gentleman of refined demeanor, accustomed to high-end clubs and mingling with the elite of society.
Confronting such a situation, Freya cursed inwardly, "This is troublesome; there are no weaknesses. What on earth is going on?"
"Hello there, my child. Seeing you confirms that you are the person I’ve been looking for," a voice called out from directly in front of him. At that moment, the chair suddenly turned around to reveal a stout man who placed his glass on the desk before him. With his hands clasped over his chest, he observed Freya with a smile reminiscent of a fox eyeing its prey.
"Good day, Coach."
Freyr hadn’t expected anything specific; he hadn’t really wanted anything either. He knew that whatever he asked for would likely earn him a reprimand. In his memories, his coach always embodied a certain harshness—quick to criticize his positioning and character, often declaring that he had no talent or ability since birth and telling him to take his luggage and leave.
Yet before him sat this rotund man with an expression of skepticism, resembling a plump and honest individual. It was hard to imagine such a person uttering any particularly harsh insults.
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