The heavy iron door of the cell swung open.

The warden stepped in from outside. The moment he saw the figure inside stuffing himself with food and drink, he let out a helpless sigh.

The man’s face was hard to make out. He wore a worn-out prison uniform, hair a mess, head lowered, doing nothing but eating.

And what was in front of him? Not prison slop.

There was fish. Meat. Good dishes all around.

A bottle of Maotai sat by his hand.

And even a cigar.

That spread was richer than what plenty of normal families could afford. It looked nothing like a prisoner’s life.

Especially since this was a prison for serious offenders. Everyone locked up here had at least ten lives on their hands.

But among all of them, only this one man got treated like this.

“Burp.”

The warden had barely entered when he heard a loud drunken belch. A sharp smell of liquor rushed straight at him.

“Mr. Holt, it’s time for you to leave,” the warden said.

What made it even stranger was the way he addressed him. His tone was respectful to the extreme, almost reverent.

The prisoner didn’t respond. He only lifted the liquor and took another sip. His black hair still hung low enough to hide most of his face.

The warden gave a bitter smile.

Yep. Same as always.

For three years, he had no idea how many times he had said that line. At first, this man would at least throw back a sentence or two. Later on, he just flat-out ignored him.

“Ah…”

The warden sighed again.

Had what happened back then really hurt him that deeply?

Once, he had been a legend in uniform, a man feared enough to be called a ticking time bomb. And now? He had deliberately come to prison and refused to leave.

And since he wouldn’t leave, nobody dared force him out.

His status was simply too high.

Though only a handful of people knew that.

Still, this time the warden was about eighty percent sure he could get him to walk out. A man like him rotting away here was honestly a waste beyond words.

If the world no longer had him in it, it would lose a lot of its spark.

Even the warden couldn’t bear to see him keep wasting away.

“Mr. Holt.” After a brief silence, the warden finally said, “We found Brad Langley’s younger sister.”

Just one simple sentence.

But the figure that had been calmly eating and drinking suddenly froze.

“Really?”

Two hoarse words came from his throat, rough and rusty, like a voice that hadn’t properly spoken in a long time.

Then, at last, he raised his head.

His face was lean, but every line of it was sharp, as if carved by a blade. His eyes were fierce, cold, and bright.

He was young.

Ridiculously young.

Just a man in his early twenties.

No one would believe that a warden in his forties would respectfully call someone this young “Mr. Holt.”

“It’s true,” the warden said. “Don’t you want to go back and see for yourself? Because of that incident, you’ve stayed here for three whole years. Sure, you wiped out those people overseas back then, clan and all, but you know as well as I do—the one really pulling the strings is still in Huaxia.”

He got that far, then abruptly stopped.

His expression changed.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

Only then did he remember—that matter was taboo.

Three years ago, the first time he mentioned it, this whole place had nearly been torn apart.

This man had injured over a hundred guards before finally calming down.

That scene was still burned into his memory.

But this time, to his surprise, Leander Holt didn’t explode.

He stayed calm.

No rage. No obvious change.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s all in the past.” Leander said flatly. “I’ve forgotten those things.”

“Go get my stuff.”

He set down the wine.

“Three years is enough. Time to leave.”

The young man was named Nathaniel Holt.

Style name, Leander.

People called him Leander Holt.

Or simply, Mr. Holt.

But once, he had another title too.

A title that had once thundered across the land.

War God.

These days, not many people still had both a given name and a style name. And people worthy of being called War God? Even fewer.

Nathaniel was one of that tiny number.

The warden found his reaction a little odd, but any confusion he felt was drowned out by excitement.

Mr. Holt was finally leaving.

And honestly, he was dying to see what kind of chaos would hit the outside world once this man returned.

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

The warden turned and hurried off to fetch his belongings.

“Leaving?”

A voice suddenly came from the neighboring cell.

Nathaniel glanced over.

An old man leaning against the wall had opened his eyes.

He was ugly in a way that was almost shocking. His features looked twisted, ruined, with scars from burns covering much of his face. His hair hung to his shoulders in dirty knots, like it hadn’t seen water in ages.

Nathaniel had come here by choice.

This old man had not.

He was a real prisoner.

And also one of the very few people in this prison Nathaniel could call a friend.

“Yeah,” Nathaniel replied. “My brother died because of my mess back then. Since he still has a sister out there, no matter what, I have to take care of her for him.”

“Good. Good that you’re going out.” The old man dragged out his words with a strange old-fashioned rhythm, like he had stepped out of another era. “You’re still young. The world outside suits you better.”

“Ugly Old Master,” Nathaniel said softly, “thank you. If not for you these past three years, I’d already be a cripple.”

If the warden had been standing here, he would have been stunned.

Mr. Holt was calling this old freak “Old Master.”

The old man snorted.

“You gave me good wine and good meat. I helped you heal your injuries. Fair trade. No need to thank me.”

He paused, then continued, “Besides, you’re the only one in this place who still has a shot at getting out. Only you can inherit the medical arts I spent my whole life studying.”

“I’ve got three days left at most,” he said calmly. “Being able to watch you walk out before I die... that’s enough. No regrets.”

Nathaniel fell silent.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

The Ugly Old Master had shown him real kindness. That much was true.

But some debts couldn’t just be erased.

Back in the day, this old man had gone mad for medicine. Babies, drifters, boys and girls barely into youth—he had used them all as test subjects.

How many had died by his hand?

Maybe not even he remembered anymore.

He had devoted his whole life to medicine so obsessively that he became a monster. Even his own ruined face had come from testing drugs on himself.

If Nathaniel helped him escape, how could he answer to the dead?

The only thing he could do was ask the people here to leave him a whole corpse, find him a decent place to be buried, and maybe offer incense for him during the festivals.

More importantly, the old man wanted to die.

Even if Nathaniel tried to help, he would never leave.

“Ugly Old Master... farewell.”

Nathaniel bent deeply at the waist.

At the same time, the warden returned with his belongings and respectfully invited him out.

Since he had already decided to go, there was nothing worth clinging to.

Nathaniel turned and strode away without looking back.

“Kid,” the old man’s voice came from behind him, low and dragging, “don’t spend your whole life running from certain questions the way I did. If you keep dodging them, then even when death is at your door, you still won’t be able to face them.”

Nathaniel slowed for half a beat.

But he didn’t turn around.

He kept walking.

The main gate of Kyne City Prison opened.

Sunlight speared into the gloomy corners.

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes on instinct. It took him a good while to adjust to the brightness.

“Mr. Holt, don’t look back. Bad luck,” the warden said as he handed over a backpack. “Your things are all inside.”

“Heh…”

A lazy, unruly smile curled at Nathaniel’s lips.

He opened the bag and checked.

A dagger.

A phone.

A little cash.

An ID card.

Nothing missing.

There was even one extra thing inside—

a small jug of strong shao daozi liquor, his favorite.

In these three years, Nathaniel’s temperament had changed completely.

He was no longer that dazzling, sharp-edged young man from before, all fire and swagger.

And he no longer cared much for little taboos like that.

So he calmly turned back anyway.

“Mr. Rixon, thanks for the liquor,” Nathaniel said with a grin. “Now that I’m leaving, you’re getting transferred too, right? You came here on purpose all these years just to keep an eye on me. Must’ve been rough on you.”

“Not at all,” Emanuel Rixon replied with a smile. “You were the old chief’s favorite soldier. Now that he’s gone, looking after you is only right. My number’s already saved in the phone inside the bag. If anything comes up, call me.”

“Alright.”

Nathaniel nodded.

“Mr. Holt… there’s something I want to ask.” Emanuel hesitated, clearly choosing his words carefully. “What happened three years ago... have you really let it go?”

Nathaniel looked at him and smiled instead.

“What do you think?”

Before Emanuel could answer, Nathaniel had already turned away, leaving behind only his retreating figure as he walked off slowly.

Under the slanting evening sun, his shadow stretched long, very long.

From this day on,

the tiger had left the cage.

What kind of storm would this world face next?

Emanuel Rixon stood there, watching Leander Holt’s back grow farther and farther away.

Then he raised a crisp military salute.

A final send-off—

for that human time bomb.