Chapter 294
Chapter 294
This decision was insane and confident.
This wasn't a business counterattack—it was a high-stakes gamble, betting the entire group's reputation against the world's hackers.
"Everyone clear?"
"Yes!"
The panic in their eyes transformed into fervor. Fear vanished, replaced by the fighting spirit of soldiers with their backs against the wall.
This was Margaret. She never explained herself—only declared through razor-sharp action that the battle had just begun.
...
Daisy's funeral was simple and solemn.
Margaret stood alone before the headstone.
Fine rain fell from the gray sky, dampening her hair.
She placed down a bouquet of white calla lilies.
"Aunt Daisy," she said softly, "I don't know who I am anymore. But I'll figure it out. And then I'll make everyone who hurt us pay."
She didn't cry.
Grief was too much of a luxury—she couldn't afford it right now.
She would forge all her sorrow into fuel for revenge.
...
By the time she returned to the office, evening had fallen.
Her series of counterattack orders had sent shockwaves across the globe.
Margaret New Energy Group's stock price experienced a miraculous recovery after a deep V-shaped rebound.
Wall Street's latest assessment: "Rising from the ashes."
Margaret stared at the jumping data on her screen, her gaze unfocused.
Suddenly, every screen in the office—computers, TVs, phones—flickered simultaneously, turning pure black.
A dark red flame emblem materialized in the center of each screen.
The Shadow's logo.
The next second, this image appeared synchronously on every iconic billboard worldwide.
All television stations were forcibly hijacked to broadcast this feed.
Every connected phone received an uncloseable pop-up.
A mandatory global livestream.
An encrypted, synthesized voice echoed through billions of screens worldwide:
"To this world sliding into mediocrity."
The voice was ice-cold and commanding.
"The genius you worship, the business queen you idolize—Margaret Kennedy—she is no ordinary mortal."
The feed switched.
The white laboratory appeared again. The camera pushed toward the life-support pod, freezing on the face of the sleeping woman who looked exactly like Margaret.
"She is my greatest masterpiece. A work of art with consciousness that accidentally found its way into the wild."
The voice paused, giving the world time to process.
"Now, it's time for the artwork to return to its creator."
"Margaret, your family is waiting."
The broadcast ended. All screens returned to normal.
But the world had erupted.
Margaret's office phone exploded with calls.
Richard, world leaders, assistants... countless calls flooded in simultaneously.
She didn't answer a single one.
She simply stared at the darkened computer screen, at the reflection staring back.
That face is identical to the one in the life-support pod.
Masterpiece? Artwork? Family?
Absolute humiliation and rage erupted from the depths of her heart.
She looked at herself in the screen, her lips curving into an icy smile.
"Masterpiece?"
She whispered to her reflection:
"Then let me show you how your 'masterpiece' tears you to pieces with her own hands."
Phones rang across the globe.
Margaret sat in darkness, staring at the face on screen that had been called a "masterpiece."
She wasn't an independent person—she was an "object."
This realization cut deeper than Daisy's death, deeper than any business siege, filling her with bone-deep cold and humiliation.
Her personal phone lit up persistently.
Caller ID: Fiona.
Her only friend.
Margaret hesitated for a long moment, finally answering just as the call was about to disconnect.
"Hello." Her voice was hoarse.
The sound of ice clinking against glass came through the phone.
After a moment, Fiona's slightly tipsy voice emerged:
"Saw the global broadcast. Congrats on officially confirming your species as 'extraterrestrial visitor.' How's it feel?"
Margaret remained silent.
"Won't even acknowledge a joke." Fiona clicked her tongue. "I just calculated your value as an artwork—you might be the most expensive single item on the planet right now. Better bring extra bodyguards when you go out. Don't want any museums stealing you."
Margaret closed her eyes, her knuckles tightening.
"Fiona, I'm not in the mood..."
Fiona cut her off, her drunkenness instantly vanishing as her voice turned sharp and clear. "Right now you're probably wondering if you're even human, what the meaning of your existence is, whether you're just a shadow, right?"
Margaret's breath caught.
"Listen, Margaret."
Fiona's voice drove through her chaotic thoughts. "I don't care if you were made in a lab or born naturally. All I know is that fifteen years ago, when I was cornered in an alley, some girl grabbed a stick and cracked the ringleader's skull open."
"All I know is when my dad's company went bankrupt, someone slipped me a card with my birthday as the password."
"That person was called Margaret Kennedy. She cries, she laughs, she makes sweet and sour pork, she'll curse me for being a spendthrift while buying me purses. She's a living, breathing human being."
Fiona paused, returning to her casual tone. "So stop overthinking. You lived your own life. Now go rip the head off that bastard who calls himself your 'creator'—that's what you should be doing."
The call ended.
Silence returned to the office.
Margaret slowly opened her eyes, looking at her reflection in the screen.
Yes.
Her life was something she had lived through pain, struggle, joy, and resistance—with her own hands.
"My life is defined by me."
She spoke softly to her reflection.
Then she pulled open the door to the strategy conference room. Her core team members were all outside, their faces written with terror and bewilderment.
"Ms. Kennedy..."
"Send word," Margaret's gaze swept over them all, "all positions resume normal operations."
...
Riverbend City's old town, misty with rain.
A wooden boat pulled up to the riverside dock. Richard, holding an umbrella, walked along narrow stone alleys into the depths of an old residence.
The house appeared decades old, with no nameplate on the doorframe—only the faint scent of herbs mixed with aged wood drifting from within.
A white-haired, white-bearded old man was hanging herbs to dry. Seeing Richard, he merely lifted his eyelids.
Richard approached the stone table and gently placed down the bloodstained pendant.
The old man froze.
He picked up the pendant, running his fingers over the emblem and bloodstains as buried memories churned in his clouded eyes.
"This is... his."
"Ebon Stark," Richard spoke the name.
The old man's body stiffened as he jerked his head up. "How do you know that name?"
"I don't just know him—I know he's not dead."
The old man slumped back into his chair with a long sigh.
"It's a curse... He was the Stark family's once-in-a-century genius, and also our gravedigger. He was obsessed with life, thought mortal genes were imperfect, wanted to create 'gods.'"
"When the family discovered his forbidden research and moved to destroy his materials and imprison him, he set a fire." Fear flickered in the old man's eyes. "That fire burned down half the Stark family ancestral home, destroying all the evidence. We all thought he died, too."
"Ebon Stark... The Shadow's emperor."
"He's insane!" The old man shot up in agitation. "He thinks he's the creator, that all life is just material for him to modify! He stopped being human long ago!"