Don Vincent

Somewhere on the western territories of Novaria, deep within a rainforest, a group of armed soldiers were guarding an open drug laboratory.

The workers had their wrists cuffed with long chains, their clothing was tattered and shredded, and their cheeks were concave from evident malnutrition.

On the other hand, the guards looked quite formidable, wearing tactical gear that covered their entire bodies and faces, leaving only a glimpse of their eerie, white eyes.

As the enslaved workers loaded the drug packages into a small plane, a tall, burly man with an imposing aura stood outside, watching the process while smoking a cigar.

The man, who had a bald head and a mustache, was wearing an expensive-looking suit that contrasted with the rest of the attires of the people around him.

"Don Vincent, the loading is finished," said one of the armed soldiers.

The bald man took a puff of his cigar and frowned. "About time… I got shit to do," he said.