Unholy Player-Chapter 105: Rhys Graves

As Adyr and Victor approached the closed office door, they slowed their steps. Seated at the desk just in front of it was a middle-aged woman with neatly pinned hair and thin-framed glasses perched low on her nose. She glanced up briefly, just enough to register who had arrived, then returned to the file in front of her with calm disinterest.

"Mr. Victor, you can’t go inside," she said flatly.

Victor’s lips twitched, but he quickly composed himself and put on a charming smile. "Come on, Margaret. This one’s actually important."

She didn’t even bother looking up. "Sorry. Nothing I can do."

Victor sighed. "If I had a credit for every time you said ’sorry,’ I’d be a millionaire by now."

"You already are, Mr. Victor," she replied dryly, flipping a page.

"Alright then—richer. How about I give you a million?"

"I’d lose my job," she said, still reading.

"Two million."

Margaret paused for a second, then spoke without lifting her eyes. "One was already generous."

Victor leaned forward with a grin, placing both hands on her desk. "Seriously. Who’s behind that door that’s so important you’re keeping the Defense Minister’s son waiting?"

"Commander Rhys Graves," she said plainly.

Victor stopped. His posture straightened slightly, the grin fading as he leaned back and turned to Adyr with a sheepish look.

"I think we’ll wait until they’re done."

"Sure," Adyr replied.

He knew the name. Everyone in the city did.

Rhys Graves wasn’t just the commander of STF. He was a living legend.

A man who had risen from the streets, no family name, no connections—only skill. His reputation was built in blood and battle. Even his surname had been given by the people, not inherited.

Graves.

It spoke of the friends he’d buried and the enemies he’d left behind. He had seen so much war that no one dared guess how many deaths he had witnessed.

As Adyr and Victor turned to look for a seat, the office door behind them creaked open.

A thin man stepped out, noticeably frail compared to the other STF personnel. His uniform was plain, stripped of rank markings or visible weapons. No rifle, no sidearm. Just fabric and silence.

His hair was snow white. His eyes, smoke gray.

Rhys Graves.

Adyr studied him closely. Despite being a mutant—and not particularly old—the man’s face was lined with deep creases, not from age, but from habit. He had the expression of someone who frowned more than he smiled.

He didn’t walk like a standard soldier, upright and deliberate. Instead, he carried himself with a slight hunch, not from age, but from constant vigilance.

Not aging. Conditioning. A man who’s never let his guard down long enough to stand straight, Adyr concluded.

His right hand stayed close to his waist, never straying. Beneath the shirt—likely a concealed blade or pistol.

Always within reach. Always ready.

His steps weren’t firm or steady. They were light. Disordered. Unpatterned.

Not random. Controlled imbalance. The result of martial arts practiced for too long—something like Bagua Zhang, maybe, Adyr noted.

Adyr paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

Or drunken boxing.

There was a faint flush around the eyes, and the moment he stepped out, a subtle trace of alcohol drifted into the air.

Functional drinker. Enough to blur the edges. Not enough to dull instincts. Supports the theory, Adyr thought.

Usually, soldiers and martial artists avoided alcohol. It dulled reflexes, gave false confidence and courage, and on the battlefield, the slightest lapse could be fatal.

Adyr was no different. Even though red wine had once been his favorite, he rarely drank. He didn’t like losing control.

But in rare cases, some individuals trained their bodies with alcohol. It was a technique he had once tested in his previous life, only to realize it didn’t suit him.

A martial artist who truly understood his body could calculate the exact limit of alcohol intake—enough to remain sober, yet still suppress emotion and sharpen instinct. In theory, it wasn’t just about dulling the mind—it was about isolating reflex from emotion, letting the body react faster, cleaner.

Of course, in Adyr’s past life, it had only remained a theory. He had never met a real practitioner of drunken arts. But the theory had never been disproven, and he’d always considered it plausible.

And now, he was staring at living proof.

All these conclusions had formed in the span of a single second, as Adyr’s eyes flicked across Rhys and then calmly moved on. But it was clear: the man he’d just analyzed was anything but ordinary.

Rhys must have felt the weight of that stare. He turned his smoke-gray eyes toward Adyr and slowly approached, then asked,

"Boy, did you come here to kill?"

His voice dropped into the room like a blade. The silence was immediate, and with it came a sudden chill.

This man is another monster, Adyr thought, smiling faintly as his eyes scanned the room.

At some point, the STF personnel who had been sitting quietly just moments ago had surrounded him. Cold metal now pressed against his throat—knives, pistols, rifles.

Even Adyr was mildly impressed by their speed. It wasn’t instinctive. It was programmed. Like machines responding to a silent command.

"Hey, hey—what’s happening?" Victor asked, his voice breaking in panic. His hands were already raised, as if surrendering by instinct. Not even his father could save him from a threat like this.

Rhys ignored him completely, eyes still locked on Adyr’s.

"Sorry for the fright. My kids are just too impatient," he said, tone even.

At his words, the STF operatives lowered their weapons and slowly backed off. But not a single one let their guard down. Every muscle stayed tense, every finger ready. One wrong move, and the entire room would ignite.

"Rhys, what’s happening here?" The door opened as Henry Bates stepped out, clearly sensing the disturbance.

"Victor? Adyr? What are you doing here?" He asked, narrowing his eyes.

"What? We just came to talk. I didn’t realize that was some kind of serious crime," Victor said, his voice tight, hands still raised.

"Rhys?" Henry pressed, catching the tension in his old friend’s stance. He knew Rhys well—paranoid, always on edge—but never reckless. Not the type to provoke a scene without cause.

Without breaking eye contact, Rhys replied calmly, "This boy. Do you know who he is?"

Beneath the faint redness of Rhys’s eyes and the permanent frown carved into his face, there was something else—recognition.

And Adyr understood it immediately.

It was the recognition of one predator by another. One killer’s instinct brushing against another’s. Two shared frequencies clashing in silence.

"I’m Adyr, Mr. Rhys. One of your admirers. Nice to meet you," Adyr said with a smile, extending his hand for a shake before anyone could respond.

"You’re either stupid or just a little too confident, boy," Rhys replied with a grin, accepting the handshake. "I believe it’s the second one."

"I prefer ’confident,’ thanks," Adyr said with a quiet chuckle.

For a while, the two shook hands and locked eyes, each trying to figure out which of them had seen more blood, until Henry finally broke the silence.

"Adyr, I wanted to speak with you. Come inside," Henry said.

The exchange looked friendly on the surface, but he could feel the tension between the two and didn’t like it, so he stepped in.

"Yes, Mr. Bates. That’s why I came. Thank you," Adyr replied, finally releasing Rhys’s hand and turning toward the office.

Neither Rhys nor the STF officers took their eyes off him, not until the door shut behind him and he was out of sight.