A gentle night breeze swept through the endless expanse of purple lavender, fluttering the blossoms across the park against a vast, twilight sky illuminated by a blanket of brilliant, diamond-like stars.
Tum stood amidst the swaying floral ocean, while directly behind him, Phueak clad in a deep velvet purple cloak resembling a secretive sorcerer stood fidgeting nervously with an awkward smile. Beside him, Ohme drained the remaining drop of the lavender mead,
Amethyst Twilight
, straight from his glass.
“Why... why did you have to fake your own deaths?”
Tum spun around, his eyes brimming with a chaotic turmoil of feelings. Ohme caught himself mid-motion, his glass faltering slightly before he averted his gaze toward Phueak with a look of utter helplessness.
“Honestly... we didn't mean to...” Ohme uttered softly.
“Do you have any idea... how brokenhearted I was?!” Tum could barely hold back his tears, his voice trembling and cracking on the verge of a sob.
Ohme and Phueak lowered their eyes, consumed by profound guilt for having kept the lie hidden from him all this time.
“We are truly sorry, Tum... but we really had no other choice,” Ohme whispered, unable to even meet his friend's gaze.
Tum shook his head slowly, struggling to process it all. “I don't understand... Then whose bodies were sent back to Thailand back then?”
Phueak blinked rapidly, answering in a meek, hesitant mutter, “Err... definitely not ours, sir...”
Tum folded his arms, his brows knitting tightly into a hard scowl. “Don't tell me... that this whole ordeal was Mr. Chatch’s master plan all along?”
Ohme let out a long sigh, shifting his gaze toward the lavender field with an uncomfortable stiffness before finally laying bare the entire truth.
Back then... Mr. Chatch simply said: 'If the two of you don't die... the story cannot move forward.'
The moment Lu Rong departed from the establishment, Chatchawin stepped inside.
“Woah, Mr. Chatch!” Ohme waved an informal greeting, while Chatchawin swept his gaze over the theatrical attire worn by both Ohme and Phueak, his lips curving into a faint smile.
“The outfits suit you both quite well.”
“Stunning like celestial immortals, wouldn't you say, sir?” Phueak boasted, grandly fanning himself with a hand fan. Chatchawin lowered himself into a chair, casting a fleeting glance out the window.
“It appears... Mr. Lu Rong is beginning to falter slightly,” Chatchawin remarked.
“He’s just putting on a brave face, sir,” Ohme reported, covering one eye with his finger. “From what I saw, he couldn't completely hide the terror buried deep in his heart.”
Chatchawin offered a quiet nod. “And what about the two of you...? Having been on this operation for a while now, are you getting accustomed to it?”
“Getting the hang of it, sir! Honestly, it’s quite fun. Every single day we get to dress up in all sorts of wild, eccentric costumes,” Phueak replied, admiringly running his fingers over the rich fabric of his robes.
Chatchawin’s smile widened slightly, a profound, calculating spark igniting in his eyes. “Then... shall we raise the stakes and up the fun a little more?”
Ohme and Phueak blinked in unison, staring at him in utter bewilderment. “Raise the stakes... as in intensifying the dramatic performance, sir?” Ohme probed.
“Precisely... Make it intense, suspenseful, and far too unpredictable for anyone to foresee,” Chatchawin replied cryptically.
Phueak’s brows furrowed as he leaned in closer, unable to contain his curiosity. “What kind of disguises do we need to pull off this time? Don't tell me that 'raising the stakes' means playing big-shot cabinet ministers or multi-billionaires?”
Chatchawin shook his head slowly. “Something far beyond that...”
“And what on earth could possibly be beyond that?!” Phueak pressed, holding his breath in suspense.
Chatchawin locked eyes with them, his expression completely tranquil. “Dead men.”
“DEAD MEN?!”
Ohme and Phueak blurted out simultaneously, whirling around to look at each other in horror.
“Why do we have to die, sir?!” Ohme demanded. Chatchawin’s lips curved into a subtle smirk, his face remaining entirely unreadable.
“Because if the two of you don't die... the story cannot move forward. Once you are officially dead, our faction will be able to maneuver at breakneck speed, while simultaneously provoking the opposing side to escalate their ruthless brutality. After that... how the narrative unfolds will depend entirely on the game you design yourselves.”
“But if we are dead... how do we continue playing the game? Do we head back to Thailand to restart?” Phueak inquired, utterly stumped.
“Not at all. You will remain here to continue your operation,” Chatchawin responded with a straight face.
“How are we supposed to carry out an operation?! Do you want us to play ghosts and haunt them to death?!” Ohme mimicked a grotesque, tongue-wagging phantom.
Chatchawin raised an eyebrow slightly before letting out a soft, rare chuckle. “Whatever strategy you choose to engineer from that point on is entirely up to you.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Chatch... Asking me to design a strategy? That's bound to be a disaster! How could the two of us possess the intellect for such complex masterminding?” Ohme let out a dry laugh.
Chatchawin’s smile remained intact as he rested his chin on his hand, observing Ohme with a gaze that seemed to penetrate right through his thoughts. “You never know... Once you have crossed the threshold of death, your perspective might undergo a profound transformation.”
Ohme blinked rapidly, still thoroughly bewildered. “I think it’s best if you stick to masterminding the strategy as usual, Mr. Chatchawin, and we just follow orders like before. But wait... regarding this 'death' of ours, how exactly are we supposed to die?”
Chatchawin smiled faintly. “That... is something even I do not know.”
“HUH?! You expect us to die without even knowing how we are going to die?! How is that even possible?!” Phueak interjected in disbelief.
Chatchawin’s smile lingered, a glint of enigmatic cunning in his eyes.
“Because the ones who will bring about your death... are our enemies.”
Chatchawin’s haunting words echoed as Ohme and Phueak exchanged dread-filled glances once more. Leaving their fate in the hands of the enemy made it impossible to anticipate or prepare a defense. How were they supposed to navigate such a trap?
“Though... it wasn't as utterly terrifying as it sounded...” Ohme explained to Tum, recalling the fateful day. “Because Mr. Chatch had actually set up an escape contingency for us long before it happened.”
Ohme’s mind drifted back to the day of their impending doom. They had learned of the enemy's scheme: the opposition was luring them out under the guise of an off-site catering gig. The hit squad was disguised as their transport drivers, backed by a tailing vehicle following closely behind.
Ohme and Phueak efficiently hoisted trays of gourmet food, raw ingredients, and catering equipment onto the back of a pickup truck.
“All set, boss! Every single item on the checklist is accounted for!” Phueak hollered out.
Ohme gave a quiet nod before slinging a heavy tactical backpack over his shoulder—their vital survival kit containing the gear meant to preserve their lives through the upcoming assassination attempt.
The two young men climbed into the front cab, sitting beside a middle-aged Chinese driver who was, in reality, a hitman dispatched for the hit.
“Mister... we can head out now,” Ohme ordered tersely.
The driver gave a subtle nod, but his eyes darted to the side mirror, sending a covert signal to the trailing vehicle parked in the shadows.
Meanwhile, Ohme and Phueak exchanged a silent, knowing look—fully aware that these men were driving them straight toward their appointed death.