Chapter 89
Kane's POV
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Frank," he answered breathlessly. "Frank Price. I'm Frank Price... my son... my son has come home..."
"Frank Price." I repeated the name, but it meant nothing to me.
Blaze sighed in my mind: "This old man's another tragic soul. His son was probably conscripted by Blood River, fate unknown, and then he went mad. Kane, we should go. We won't get anything useful from him."
But I didn't move.
Looking at Frank Price's weathered face, at that desperate longing in his eyes, I suddenly felt reluctant to leave.
"You said you could prove it?" I asked. "Prove I'm your son?"
Frank's eyes lit up instantly. "Yes! Yes! I can prove it!"
He released me, staggering back several steps before falling to the ground.
"What are you doing?" I asked warily.
He didn't answer, just lay there and began gasping violently. His body started trembling, muscles spasming, bones making cracking sounds.
I realized what he was doing—he was going to shift.
"Blaze..." I said quietly.
"I see it," Blaze's voice turned grave.
Frank's transformation was excruciatingly slow and painful. He was too old, his body no longer able to bear such change. His skin began to tear, black fur sprouting from the wounds, blood mixing with sweat and pooling on the ground. His face twisted and deformed, jawbone protruding, fangs growing from his gums.
The whole process lasted at least five minutes, during which he kept making sounds of agony.
Finally, an old wolf lay on the ground.
His fur was entirely black, except for the hair around his eyes and muzzle which had turned white. His body was emaciated, ribs clearly visible, limbs trembling and barely able to support his own weight.
But even so, I could tell he must have been strong in his youth—those broad shoulders, powerful hindquarters, and those sharp claws.
More importantly, his appearance.
"Blaze..." I murmured.
"I know," Blaze's voice carried shock. "His wolf... looks like me."
It really did. That black fur, those deep blue eyes, those long limbs and streamlined body—if not for him being so old and thin, he'd be Blaze's mirror image.
Dorothy peeked inside, seeing this scene with obvious shock: "His wolf... looks like yours."
I didn't answer. I just stared at the old wolf on the ground, complex emotions rising in my chest.
"Coincidence?" I asked Blaze silently.
Blaze was quiet for a moment, then said slowly: "Impossible. Absolutely impossible. He's old enough to be your grandfather. The son he's talking about definitely isn't you."
I knew Blaze was right. This was just a mad old man's delusion. I couldn't be his son. But why... why did I feel this inexplicable sense of familiarity when looking at him?
The old wolf began shifting back to human form. This process was equally slow and painful. When he finally returned to human shape, he collapsed exhausted on the ground, gasping for breath.
I walked over, helped him up, and let him lean against a broken wooden chair.
"Your son..." I hesitated, then asked anyway. "What's his name?"
Frank opened his mouth but made no sound. His lips trembled, his eyes grew confused, as if struggling to remember something.
A long moment passed, but he still couldn't speak a name.
"This old guy's really lost it," Blaze grumbled in my mind. "Can't even remember his own son's name. Is there any point asking him about Chloe Flores?"
I also felt hope was slim, but since I'd come this far, I had to try.
"Do you know Chloe Flores?" I asked.
Frank suddenly shuddered.
"Chloe..." he murmured, eyes widening. "Chloe... and Ivan..."
He began repeating the two names, his voice growing more agitated: "Chloe... Ivan... Chloe... Ivan..."
My heartbeat suddenly quickened.
"Ivan?" I pressed. "Who's Ivan?"
But Frank didn't answer my question. He just kept repeating those two names over and over, his eyes shifting from confusion to clarity, as if suddenly remembering something important.
I stared at him, a strong premonition rising in my chest—the name Ivan was somehow intricately connected to me.
"Tell me," I gripped Frank's shoulders. "Tell me the story of Chloe and Ivan."
Light flickered in Frank's eyes—the light of memory.
He raised his head, looking through the damaged roof toward the night sky, as if returning to a time long, long ago, when this land was still full of life.
"I will tell you a story..." he began slowly, his voice becoming strangely clear. "The story of Chloe and Ivan..."