118. The Path of Transcendence

"Where did you get the invitations?" Paqui asked.

"From a damn bastard," Dean replied vaguely.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Rust, no longer bothering to press for details, glanced at the dimming sunlight outside the car window and urged, "If we go back to get them now, we can still make it to the club’s evening party!"

...

The three men marked the location of the Red Dragon Club on the map. They drove back home to retrieve the three invitations and changed into suits suitable for a formal occasion. Dean dismantled his MP5 submachine gun into a pile of compact parts, distributing them among his companions to hide inside their suits. He even tucked an M26 grenade into his waistband just in case. Paqui managed to scrounge up a few bulletproof vests.

"We’re not going to a club to hunt someone down, so why do we need guns and these things?" Rust struggled to pull the vest over his lean frame.

"Perhaps the place is a kidnapper's den. To avoid being turned into a sieve, we must prepare to protect ourselves," Paqui said calmly, pulling the slide back to check his weapon.

"Rust, it’s not too late to turn back." Dean smoothed his collar and cuffs, lifting his chin slightly. His temperament was like a drawn sword. His left hand moved with lightning speed, loading magazines into the custom leather holster at his waist. "If you insist on joining, you could be seriously injured or even die. Do you understand?"

Rust took a deep breath, his youthful face set in steel. The life lost last night left him with no way out, though his voice trembled. "Grace has taken care of me for over a decade. This time, it’s my turn to do something for her. If I wait any longer, I’m afraid I won’t have the chance."

Dean handed him an M1911A1. "Keep this for protection."

...

By the time the three set off again, night had fallen. Beside the mist-covered artificial lake, lights flickered in the villas, residences, and commercial buildings, making the lake shimmer. But they had no heart to admire the view. To avoid leaving a trail, they parked the car a mile away from the club and walked the rest of the distance.

Outside the club, dozens of luxury cars and sports cars—Cadillacs, Lincolns, Ferraris—were already parked beneath the palm trees. Clearly, those attending the banquet tonight were either wealthy or powerful.

...

Rust was so nervous he dared not breathe. "Relax, man," Paqui said. "If the sky falls, we’ll hold it up." This reassurance seemed to work.

The process went unexpectedly smoothly. After the security guard’s eyes, hidden behind dark glasses, scanned their golden invitations embossed with a red dragon, he respectfully opened the black steel glass doors.

Past the entrance, the three navigated a dark, narrow corridor and entered an incredibly spacious, brightly lit dining hall on the ground floor. The hall was decorated in cold tones of black, white, and gray, with an atrium in the center reaching up to the third floor. Wooden dining tables were arranged with an artistic, scattered grace, adding a soft aesthetic to the vast space. The walls were raw, unpolished concrete—coarse and uneven, with no attempt to hide the plumbing or electrical conduits; the building’s structure was clearly visible. Bare lightbulbs hung from the ceiling down to the tables. There were no ornate decorations. The entire dining hall exuded a rugged, casual air.

There were about thirty or forty guests, ninety percent of whom were middle-aged or elderly white men in dignified black evening wear. They appeared full of energy, wearing polite smiles and chatting with their companions; they were clearly successful individuals who had received a fine education. Several waiters in striped vests moved among them with appetizers and fine wine; clearly, it was not yet time for the main course.

"I’ve seen him on TV," Rust whispered, pointing quickly toward a middle-aged man holding a glass of wine at a table on the left. He sported the wavy mustache of the protagonist from *Hawaii Five-O*.

"That’s the owner of Macy’s department store," Paqui said, scanning the surroundings and naming one heavy hitter after another. "The owner of Howell Real Estate, and there’s even someone from out of town, the owner of the Hilton in Los Angeles… What kind of appeal does a private club in such a remote location have to gather so many socialites? A herbal party?"

"Do you think this group of rich people had a hand in kidnapping Grace?" Rust clenched his fists, a cold light flashing in his eyes. "Or could they be the ones behind it?"

"Most rich people are morally bankrupt," Paqui said. "But he looks more like a guest. The owner of this place is more suspicious."

"Let’s move." Dean noticed a guest looking their way with a friendly smile, seemingly preparing to come over and greet them. They quickened their pace toward a secluded corner of the dining room.

While moving, he used his "God’s-eye view" to observe the surroundings. There was only one staircase leading from the first floor to the second, and the same for the second to the third. Furthermore, the building had no back exit. Additionally, bodyguards stood in every corner of the hall—all wearing black suits and dark glasses with shoulder holsters, as if trained by the same company. There were many bodyguards, but Dean found no surveillance equipment inside the building.

...

The three walked toward a room in the far corner of the hall. Long before reaching it, they discovered several men in black standing like gatekeepers, their cold, sunglass-clad faces conveying a clear "No Trespassing." The place was too large and the lighting inside too dim for Dean’s vision to penetrate, so he couldn't confirm if the target was inside.

Dean pondered for a moment and looked at the stairs in the distance. "Let’s check the second and third floors first."

The second and third floors were lined with dozens of rooms arranged like a hotel. None of the doors were locked; a gentle twist of the handle was enough to push them open. They searched dozens of rooms in succession, all decorated identically: clean, simple wooden floors with a yoga mat in the center.

On the four walls were painted a series of connected images. A long-limbed, genderless humanoid figure, dressed in what looked like cotton knee-length tights with a cloth draped over its shoulders, sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, head tilted toward a sun in the sky. Oh, it wasn't a sun, but a red star. Then, this gender-ambiguous figure, eyes still closed, began to perform a series of bizarre movements toward the red star in the sky.

...

For example, starting on all fours like a beast, the legs embracing each other, finally forming a flexible pose balancing on the chin. The murals depicted a total of seven high-difficulty poses, along with several meditation positions. This series of actions was similar to yoga, yet different and far more difficult. Dean even doubted if a normal person could perform them.

"So the second floor is a yoga studio?" Paqui was puzzled. Yoga was such an elegant and healthy activity, but could such a monotonous routine really attract so many rich people?

"Is it possible these images are just a gimmick, and they actually engage in activities after dining?" Rust proposed a theory. "Perhaps it’s a two-person activity, and the women they kidnapped, including Grace, are the partners!"

"The women might be imprisoned on the third floor. Let’s hurry and save them!" Paqui’s eyes lit up. "Rich people love this kind of chaotic, stimulating play!"

Dean remained silent, following the other two as they quickly finished searching the entire second and third floors. Regrettably, they were empty; every single room was a yoga studio.

Beads of sweat appeared on Rust’s forehead. "Where on earth is Grace?"

"We haven't checked the rooms in the main hall," Paqui said, his pupils contracting, his rough face dark as water. "Grace must be in there. Let’s break in!"

...

At that moment, an unusual sound came from the ground floor hall. The three leaned against the high-level railing and looked down. Amidst enthusiastic cheers and applause, a middle-aged man in a chef’s uniform appeared in the spotlight.

At exactly eight o'clock, the banquet officially began. The man stood at the very front of the hall, the center of all the guests’ attention. He looked to be in his forties, with a refined and handsome face. His short black hair was streaked with a large amount of silver, his eyes deep and bright, his mustache neatly trimmed. He wore a gentle, refreshing smile, radiating the mature charm of a man tempered by time; even the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and forehead seemed to tell stories.

But Dean, up on the third floor, held his breath. The man was about five-foot-eleven and well-built, but beneath the cuffs of his white chef’s jacket, his two exposed arms were unusually thick—as thick as a normal person’s calf. There was a bandage wrapped around the first knuckle of his left middle finger, and a visible callous on his right index finger.

He was the one who took Grace!

Paqui and Rust, peering over the railing, also noticed these striking features, their expressions sharpening.

"Good evening. Welcome to the Red Dragon Club. I am your old friend, Al Daris…" The man began his speech. His voice was magnetic and resonant, as if he carried his own amplifier, making everyone involuntarily lean in to listen. At the same time, the previously dim lights in the hall brightened, focusing on him and making him glow.

"As per tradition, before the banquet begins, let’s take a moment to remember an old friend we recently lost." The chef suddenly raised his voice, his face showing sorrow and reverence. The guests followed suit, solemn and silent.

"Layton Stone, the darling of the Red Dragon. Time could not take away his handsomeness and wisdom. He could always offer bold and profound suggestions at our gatherings, illuminating our path forward."

"To us, he was both a teacher and a friend. He was a vital supporter of this club, and his passing is a tremendous loss for us all."

"Now, let’s pray for him in silence. May he see the Red Dragon in his next cycle."

A mournful and solemn sound echoed through the hall. The chef and the guests placed their hands over their abdomens, bowing their heads in silence. Dean, watching from above, felt the hair on his arms stand up.

Thirty seconds later, the silence ended. Al lifted his head and grinned brightly. "The departed are gone."

"Now, I have good news to share: today, new friends have joined us!"

A stylishly dressed middle-aged white couple stepped out from the crowd, nodding and smiling at those around them. Their eyes sparkled with joy and excitement, and the crowd responded with warm applause. Dean’s pupils constricted—these two appeared to be a rock star who had retired last year and his fifth wife. Did this club really specialize in recruiting celebrities?

"You’ve all met, I assume," Al said, looking at the two newcomers. "To welcome our new friends, I will introduce the club’s purpose once more."

"Do you two know why everyone is gathered here?"

The new couple looked at each other and said with a smile, "To taste your world-class cooking."

"That is merely an incidental pleasure." The chef shook his head, his expression turning dignified and serious. He raised his voice. "Our sole purpose here is to seek the path to the other shore, to transcendence."

"In this club, the path we follow is called the 'Red Dragon'."

"What is the Red Dragon?"

The chef’s resonant voice carried through the hall, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like electricity.

"Every person must repeatedly experience the process of birth and death, bidding farewell to the old life and beginning the next."

"Over and over again."

"Life and death are an endless cycle."

"We are forever trapped within it, unable to break free."

"But few know that after every death, a portion of our soul and life force is drawn into the deep reaches of the universe, into a star called the 'Red Dragon'."

Dean, listening from above, blinked in surprise. Linking this to the murals he had seen, he felt more and more that this "Red Dragon" was the red celestial body he saw during his daily equilibrium meditation.

"Everyone corresponds to a Red Dragon."

"The Red Dragon represents our countless past cycles of life and death, the accumulation of life and soul over countless generations. It contains eternal power and infinite wisdom."

"Anyone who can see their own Red Dragon can receive the legacy left by their past selves, using it to break through the limits of body and spirit, and step into a higher state of life in this lifetime."

"The Red Dragon is the key for ordinary people to evolve; it is the ship to the other shore!"

The people in the hall seemed brainwashed, their expressions dazed and enchanted.

"But the Red Dragon is hard to find; most people never see it once in their entire lives."

"The 'most' here refers precisely to you."

...

A holy radiance appeared on the chef’s handsome face, and his voice became as majestic as a priest’s.

"Everyone present here possesses significant social status, endless wealth, and considerable power."

"You easily bring heavenly bliss to ordinary people, or cast them into hell, destroying their homes and lives, manipulating their fate."

"This charlatan is wearing the wrong clothes," Paqui whispered from the third floor, gagging with disgust. "He shouldn't be wearing white; he should be wearing black. He is insulting the profession of a chef."

"You find it disgusting," Dean shook his head, his eyes filled with murderous intent. "But those guests seem to enjoy it."

Most of the crowd nodded happily at his words, clearly in deep agreement. Rust was silent, but his brow furrowed tighter.

Al continued, "But so what? The essence of your lives is no higher than that of ordinary people. On the contrary, because you are overly obsessed with wealth, power, and vanity, you are drifting further and further away from the state of transcendence, and you will never find the Red Dragon."

"You will all fall ill, and one day, decades from now, you will lie in a morgue, buried in a coffin, forgetting everything, and beginning the next cycle."

Al shook his head and sighed, his eyes suddenly brightening. "But some ordinary people—poor, low-status, struggling daily to survive—possess intense spirit and obsession. Their love and hatred are purer."

"In a sense, they are more gifted than you."

"Perhaps on some ordinary morning, they wake from a dream and see the Red Dragon."

Al’s voice softened, becoming full of passion and seduction. "And the existence of our club is to provide everyone with such a shortcut: through eating, meditation, and digestion, to share the talents of these lucky ordinary people and gain enlightenment."

*Eating and digestion?*

The twenty or so suave gentlemen and smiling ladies in the hall underwent a subtle change in expression. Their cheeks flushed, and their eyes glittered with longing and fanaticism.

What kind of evil brainwashing organization was this?

Dean and Paqui’s faces darkened, while Rust, standing beside them, stared down with a deathly pale face, goosebumps rising on the back of his neck.

"The eating is completed within this hall. We chew on extreme emotions and merge with them. Perhaps the process might make newcomers feel slightly uncomfortable."

Al’s words made the two newcomers look nervous, but the other participants exchanged excited glances.

"But everyone will go through this process," Al said sternly. "You need not reproach or blame yourselves. There should be no boundaries in the exploration of the soul and evolution, nor should it be limited by worldly morals and laws."

"Once you reach transcendence, all troubles are forgotten. Every attempt is worthy of encouragement and reward."

Al shouted a slogan, then looked up at the corridors and rooms encircling the second and third floors.

"And digestion happens in the meditation rooms upstairs. Follow the guidance of the murals and throw yourself into it wholeheartedly; you will become purer and draw closer to the Red Dragon."

"I’ve said enough. Let us enter the theme of tonight. Now, I have the honor to present the sacrifice to you all. We will enjoy a delicacy that ninety-nine percent of mortals in America, and indeed the world, have never tasted."

Al clapped his hands lightly. Two men in black entered through the entrance, locking the door with several heavy padlocks, trapping everyone inside the hall. At the same time, a young man in a white chef’s uniform pushed a long, rectangular dining cart as heavy as a coffin to the center of the hall and stood quietly with his hands behind his back.

A massive stainless steel cloche covered it, making it impossible to see what was inside.

"I have personally selected it with great care. It is truly rare in this world. To keep it in its most perfect state, I have put in much effort and have not performed any superfluous processing."

Al’s gaze swept over the crowd. He raised his right hand to his chest, slowly gripping the air, and emphasized every word. "I have one request, especially for our two new friends to remember: when tasting, do not be swayed by mere appetite. Do not simply eat and obsess over texture—salt, sugar, starch, fat, or protein. That is a waste and a desecration."

"We must experience and absorb the wonderful things within the ingredients, the ideas and personalities known as the essence."

"In past gatherings, we have been fortunate to taste the evil, hatred, and pain of human nature. After digesting it, we can better use that wisdom to deal with our enemies."

"Today, we are tasting love in human nature…"

The chef shook his head, his eyes shining with awe. "This sacrifice gave everything for her son and volunteered to dedicate herself to our great ritual of transcendence."

Al walked toward the tray, opening his arms as if to embrace his companions, then lifted his chin slightly. His face glowed with a sacred light, his tone as passionate and rhythmic as a poem.

"It teaches us to give selflessly and sacrifice ourselves for our bloodline and descendants, teaching us to become purer and move closer to the great Red Dragon."

"Therefore, it is called Eternal Love—"

Al lifted the cloche.

In an instant, countless eyes converged on it.

...

"No!"

A heartbreaking wail came from the top of the hall.

The chef looked up and saw three strangers. One of them had completely collapsed, wailing hysterically. The other two, Asians, looked down at him coldly.

He smiled, soothing the restless guests. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have uninvited guests tonight."

"But don't be nervous. This is a good thing. Our menu is about to have a few more desserts."

He clapped his hands, and a group of bodyguards in black suits raced toward the third floor.