Chapter 330: Old Morgan Finds His Grandson’s Body, K’s Signature Cleanup

In the capitalist stronghold of the United States, money could buy anything—respect, power, and even jaw-dropping efficiency.

The American workers, who were usually known for dragging their feet, suddenly moved with unprecedented speed under the lure of Morgan Financial Group’s money, scouring the seabed around New York Harbor.

Yes.

Old Morgan, who had more money than one could possibly imagine, not only chose to believe the contents of that email but also refused to limit the search to the area it mentioned.

In fact, this was the first email in all these months that dared to directly state that Little Morgan was dead. That alone made Old Morgan take it more seriously than anything else.

Over the past half-year, he had already mobilized all his resources, enlisting both the government and the public across the United States in the search. Yet, there had been no trace of Little Morgan.

Deep down, he had his own unspoken suspicions. He knew that the worst-case scenario had likely already happened. But the occasional false leads that trickled in kept giving him hope.

So now, upon receiving this first email declaring Little Morgan’s death, Old Morgan no longer held on to wishful thinking. He took it more seriously than ever, ordering a full-scale search not only of the location mentioned in the email but of the entire seabed surrounding New York Harbor.

This wasn’t just about finding the body. It was a statement—a declaration that he no longer believed his grandson was alive.

He hoped that by showing this attitude, it would reduce the number of false leads. He was tired of getting his hopes up every time a fake message arrived, only to waste manpower and resources, and end up crushed by disappointment.

To that end, Old Morgan personally came to New York Harbor to await the final results from the divers.

It was clear—though he didn’t fully believe it yet, this first message about a body had stirred something in him. At the very least… if his grandson really had met with an accident, he needed to see it for himself.

Half an hour passed.

An hour.

Two hours.

…

After two and a half hours of meticulous searching by dozens of divers, at the very spot marked in the email, an experienced diver in a black wetsuit suddenly burst from the water. He pulled off his goggles and waved excitedly, shouting,

“Here! Here!!!”

Hearing the diver’s call, the support crew on the harbor quickly tossed out a thick rope, about the width of a wrist, telling him to tie it to whatever was underwater. The others would help haul it up.

The diver grabbed the rope and dove back in. After securing it tightly, he gave it a few strong tugs to signal the team above.

“One!”

“Two!!”

“Three!!!”

…

In an instant, New York Harbor became a flurry of activity. The staff hired by Morgan Financial Group threw themselves into pulling up the mysterious object from the depths.

Old Morgan, meanwhile, sat quietly to the side, his face expressionless as he watched them work.

To him, even though he had come in person, he didn’t hold out much hope. Whatever little hope had remained had long since been worn away. Now, all he wanted was to find his grandson’s body.

As he watched the workers straining to pull the rope, a strange feeling stirred in his chest—something he couldn’t quite describe.

Because in his line of sight, he could now clearly see a large burlap sack, big enough to hold a person, slowly emerging from the water.

Though the seawater had washed over it, the sack was still covered in thick moss. Judging by its shape, it seemed to be filled with heavy stones, and there were even faint outlines that resembled a human form.

Thud—

As the sack was finally hauled onto the harbor platform, Old Morgan, perhaps driven by some instinct, stepped forward.

He swept his gaze over the crowd, then turned to his secretary and gave an unquestionable order.

“Open it.”

“Open it right now.”

The secretary nodded immediately. He pulled a sharp knife from his pocket and slowly approached the sack. With a swift motion, he made a clean cut.

As the sack opened, a hand emerged—soaked in seawater for who knew how long, still clinging to scraps of flesh, the bones dull and gray.

But the most crucial detail… was the wristwatch still strapped to the half-skeletal arm. Though corroded and rusted by the sea, Old Morgan recognized it at a glance. It was the very watch his grandson always wore.

He stood in silence for several seconds.

Then, as if he had aged ten years in an instant, Old Morgan turned to his secretary and said,

“Cut it all open.”

“I need to see if it’s really my only grandson. And more importantly…”

“I want to know who dared to do this to my grandson in the United States!”

…

At the same time, in a secluded apartment somewhere in New York.

K glanced at the latest update, noting that Old Morgan had already arrived at New York Harbor. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Then, without hesitation, he picked up his phone and dialed a number.

As soon as the call connected, K spoke.

“J.”

“I think… you should be prepared for your nightclub to catch fire, and for a few of your men to end up dead, don’t you agree?”