Chapter 1: Dead and Back: The Golden Mine Dream

Night fell over Riyadh. Inside the Royal Garden Hotel, the crystal chandeliers poured down like a river of stars, their brilliance refracting off expensive velvet carpets to create an atmosphere of opulent, oppressive silence. The ballroom was packed; the whisper of silk and the clinking of glasses wove together into an invisible web. Qasim stood on the edge of the shadows, feeling his heart suddenly seize. A sharp pain shot through his chest like a bolt of lightning, and the golden dome above him twisted and shattered in an instant.

Qasim took the teacup, his fingertips cool. He stared at the ripples dancing in the liquid as images flashed through his mind. It wasn't a hallucination; it was an instinct carved into his very marrow. The money laundering trails from the Jeddah ports three years ago were just the tip of the iceberg. Omar had dared to hide that evidence for so long because he believed Qasim would never wake up—or would never dare touch the core interests of the family. But now, Qasim didn't just want to survive; he wanted to tear Omar out by the roots.

Stepping out of the ballroom, the Riyadh night wind hit him, carrying dry grit that swept away the smell of alcohol and perfume. Along the streets, palm trees cast mottled, swaying shadows under the streetlamps, looking like countless hands reaching out from the dark. Qasim climbed into the black Toyota Land Cruiser. Abdullah, the driver, had been waiting for some time. The old man’s face was a map of wrinkles and his eyes were cloudy, yet he remained obedient. Without asking a single question, he silently handed over a cup of warm mint tea.

He knelt on the scorching sand, his fingertips brushing the dark red sandstone beneath him. The rock surface was coarse, seeping a warm oil that shimmered with a black-gold luster under the blazing sun. This wasn't ordinary ore; it was Black Gold Sand, a legendary unexplored vein. A string of cold numbers flooded his mind: 24 degrees North, 45 degrees East. The coordinates were locked. Those numbers were branded onto his retinas, searing and permanent.

He pulled out his phone, dimming the screen to the lowest setting. He didn't make a call or send a message; he simply opened a map app, his finger sliding slowly over a blank area southeast of Riyadh. That was family territory, marked with a red seal designating it as a "Forbidden Zone." The coordinates from his dream were right there—24° 37' N, 46° 12' E.

Qasim closed his eyes, forcing himself into a specific state of meditation. In his previous life, he had been a geological exploration engineer, intimately familiar with the flow of underground aquifers and the distribution of mineral strata in the desert. In this life, his dreams had granted him a perception beyond that of ordinary men. He imagined the land beneath his feet, feeling the vibrations deep under the layers of sand. As he neared the coordinate point, his intuition leaped.

The car stopped. Qasim got out alone, kicked off his leather shoes, and stepped barefoot onto the dry sand. The grains gave way beneath him with a soft rustle. He walked two hundred meters east and stopped beside a massive wind-eroded rock. Following the guidance of his memory, he began to dig. The rough sand and stone tore his palms, and blood seeped out, but he didn't stop.

The dark figure didn't answer, only applying a slight pressure with its wrist. Qasim felt a sharp sting in the back of his neck, and his vision began to blur. In the final moment before his consciousness plummeted into darkness, he saw the figure turn and merge into the boundless night, leaving behind a cold set of coordinates pointing toward the most heavily guarded underground bunker in the center of Riyadh.

Dirt flew, revealing a heavily rusted, lead-sealed box. There were no markings on the case, only layers upon layers of sealing tape, clearly reinforced multiple times. Qasim carefully pried the tape away, and a stale, heavy scent hit him—a mix of old air and a specific chemical preservative.

The crisp sound of high heels echoed, accompanied by the faint scent of iris. It was Sara. Her pace was light but carried a cold rhythm, each step feeling like a needle pressing into Qasim's nerves. She let out a contemptuous sneer. "Habibi, stop playing dead. The socialites of Riyadh are all watching; don't bring shame to our family."

Inside were rolls of black crystals wrapped in oiled paper. They were a deep, ink-like color, but under the dim light, the interiors of the crystals seemed to contain rotating galaxies, flickering with tiny gold specks. This was "Black Gold Sand," a rare mineral rumored to be capable of shifting the global energy landscape and possessing strange magnetic properties.

Qasim didn't open his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curled slightly. The dream had given him the clues; reality had given him the opportunity. He sensed the flow of energy around him. Patriarch Rashid’s aura suppressed the room like a desert tiger, while Lawyer Zaid’s pen scratched cold ink across the paper—a sound like a countdown.

While pretending to be unconscious, Qasim greedily captured every word. *Exploration ledgers, family forbidden zones*—these words pricked his nerves like needles. It turned out the truth about the Black Gold Sand was locked within that cursed forbidden land. The fragments of memory regarding wealth and betrayal were finally clicking into place.

Qasim didn't look back. He knew Omar’s gaze was like a viper’s tongue—slimy and lethal. He gripped the cold access card, feeling the tiny burrs on the edge of the plastic. It was a coarse, real-world sensation, worlds apart from the dark tomb where the Black Gold Sand lay buried in his dreams.

The footage was blurry, clearly a clandestine recording. In the frame, Omar was tied to a chair, his mouth taped shut. The malice in his eyes hadn't vanished; instead, it had become distorted by extreme fear and rage. The background was a dim warehouse, with several blood-stained white lab coats hanging on the walls.

Qasim forced down his panic and quickly closed his eyes, pretending he had yet to wake. He adjusted his breathing, keeping his heart rate at a steady, calm rhythm. Hurried footsteps approached, and Omar the butler's heavy breathing exploded in his ear, the scent of anxiety almost tangible.

The person wore a black hoodie that obscured their face, revealing only a pair of pale, bloodless hands. In those hands was an ancient-looking desert dart, its tip glowing with a ghostly blue light, pressed against the soft artery in the back of Qasim's neck.

Suddenly, there was a faint sound of paper rubbing against fabric, coming from Omar’s sleeve. Qasim’s heart hammered. The coordinates from the dream and the evidence in reality had overlapped. He had to wake up; he had to let them know that the hunter had become the prey.

"A geological engineer?" Rashid sneered, the sound short and sharp, like sandpaper on glass. "She was checking the oil strata, not his heart. Have Zaid seal the medical records. Tell the public it was a sudden myocardial infarction."

The old man nodded and started the engine. The vehicle drove deep into the night, the buildings gradually thinning out, replaced by rolling dunes. The wind howled through the gaps in the windows like a ghostly whisper.

There was no response, only the wind. Qasim silently noted that sigh in the darkness—a mixture of greed and fear. He sensed the flow of energy around him, a faint current surging beneath his skin.

The video was only ten seconds long. Omar struggled, using a trembling hand to pull a necklace from his collar—a token the family had received from Qasim’s father before he died. He slammed the token against the camera lens with a sharp crack.

"Sign the authorization." Rashid handed over a fountain pen, its metal body reflecting a cold glint under the lights. "In exchange for your access to the Forbidden Zone. This is the family's final offer."

Zaid stood by, vigilantly holding the witness documents, the ink shimmering coldly in the sunlight. He looked at Qasim, a complex expression flashing in his eyes. This heir had finally awakened.

Behind him, Omar stared intently at his back, his fingers trembling slightly inside his clothes. The evidence hidden for years had now become the sword of Damocles hanging over Qasim's head.

Omar’s voice trembled, laced with unmistakable terror. "Sheikh, his pulse stopped three times just now. Insha'Allah, have we done something wrong?"

Qasim took the pen and signed with a crisp, decisive motion. The nib hit the paper with a soft scratch. He picked up the chip-embedded access card and turned toward the exit.

"Clean up the scene," Rashid’s voice was low and commanding, leaving no room for argument, breaking the brief silence. "The party continues. As far as anyone is concerned, this never happened."

Qasim snapped his eyes open, the chaotic crowd reflected in his pupils. The light made him dizzy, but he forced himself to focus on Omar.

Omar the butler answered in a low voice, the words caught in his throat and shaking visibly. "Yes, Sheikh. But Lady Layla is requesting to check the equipment."

Qasim turned slowly, his gaze landing on the other person's hands. On those hands was a familiar ring—Zaid’s family crest.

Qasim stood up. Though his legs were still a bit shaky, his gaze was as sharp as a blade. He looked around, his voice not loud, but enough to pierce through the wind and sand.

"Abdullah," Qasim said, his voice hoarse and still carrying a trace of weakness, "go to the East Warehouse. I want to recover in solitude tonight."

The room fell dead silent. The powder compact in Sara's hand dropped to the floor, shattering with a crisp sound. The fragments flew, slicing through the silence.

"It was you?" Qasim didn't sound frightened; instead, he let out a cold laugh. "I thought you only knew how to tremble behind your paperwork."

The voice had been processed through a modulator, giving it a cold, mechanical quality that sounded neither like Omar nor Rashid.

When the shovel—a tool he had previously asked Abdullah to leave behind—scraped against metal, Qasim froze.

Qasim pointed at Omar. "The old ledgers in your sleeve... they record the money laundering trails from the Jeddah ports three years ago."

"There are no secrets in the desert, Sheikh. The wind takes the footprints, but it cannot take the gold buried beneath the sand."

Omar took a half-step back, his eyes dark and sinister, his hand clutching his lapel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

His heart skipped a beat. This was the core treasure that had guided him through life and death in his dreams.

There, he felt a heavy metallic presence, denser and colder than the loose sand surrounding it.

However, the moment he reached out to touch those crystals, his phone screen suddenly lit up.

"What you've dug up is a grave. And your corpse is already lying beneath it."

Rashid narrowed his eyes, his voice freezing. "Qasim, has your illness made you delusional?"

The final line appeared on the screen, the blood-red font jarring and menacing:

Qasim's finger froze in mid-air. He clicked the attachment. It was a video.

In the shadow of the wind-eroded rock behind him, someone had appeared without him noticing.

Rashid remained silent for a moment, then, with the weight of his authority, he slowly nodded.

The moment the lid of the box opened, Qasim's pupils contracted.

Inside was neither gold nor diamonds.

It wasn't a call, nor a text.

Subject: [Omar's Last Words]

"Too slow, Sheikh."

It was an anonymous email.

Then, the screen went black.

Qasim whipped around.

Sender: Blank.

And in Qasim's hand, the Black Gold Sand crystal was emitting a faint but lethal chill, like a heart about to explode.