Chapter 58: Sunday

"I fuck your mother's last words..."

Just as Jarieden opened his mouth, a mouthful of blood spewed out.

When the three sentry towers went out of control and opened fire, he had been watching the loser's bracket resurrection match of the latest episode of *Happy Drone Shooting*.

This was a restricted-for-under-fourteen-years-old variety show launched by the mega-corp [Dustpact Generation]. Contestants were dropped onto an ecologically simulated artificial island, facing threats such as competitors, harsh ecological environments, and genetically engineered biochemical beasts. They earned points by shooting down various painted "armed drones," which they could then exchange for equipment, support, rule assistance, and prize money.

The "loser's resurrection match" featured losers from past official tournaments—most of whom had been severely injured at the time and left to fend for themselves. However, the production team offered them a chance: sign a gambling contract in exchange for medical treatment and a batch of implants, and then enter a resurrection match where the promotion slots were only one-third of those in the main tournament.

Those who promoted could survive, re-enter the main tournament to continue competing, earn prize money to pay off the debts of the gambling contract, and hope that after clearing those debts, they could return with whatever prize money remained.

As for the losers of the resurrection match, most died directly on the arena grounds. A small fraction who survived but failed to secure a promotion slot would enter the "live execution" Easter egg segment—the "execution method" was decided by barrage comments and tipping votes from the livestream room. This was also part of the signed gambling contract, completely reasonable, legal, and compliant.

Because of this, the resurrection match of *Happy Drone Shooting* was far more exciting than the main tournament, with all sorts of explosive highlights emerging endlessly. It was one of the current hit shows.

Therefore, Jarieden had been completely absorbed in it! He had zero defense! Half of his thigh was blown to pieces in an instant, followed immediately by a series of grenade explosions and sniper shots, leaving him critically wounded on the spot!

Yet at the crucial moment, the boss discovered through the internal comms channel that he was still alive, and while fighting back against this guy, signaled him to wait for his cue to open fire in a sneak attack—

Looking at Song Shi, whose expression remained unchanged and who said nothing, Jarieden's curses gradually faded away.

"You... which corporation are you from?"

He fell silent for a few seconds, barely lifting his head: "The Sharp Blade Society? The Anke Gang?"

Surveying the utter wreckage all around, Jarieden spat out another mouthful of blood, his face pale and resentful: "Tell me the reason! We already ceded a portion of our turf! Blood Surge accepted our territory! The cold chain transport was all squared away beforehand!"

"Last words... last words? So this is my last word! Where the hell did things go wrong? Tell me! What conflict of interests do we have? Or did some idiot of ours offend you?!"

"How can there be so many whys in this world? Not everything has to have a cause and effect."

Song Shi shook his head. "However, I can indeed answer your first question."

The young man pinched his throat and paused for a moment. "Now, this voice—does it remind you of anything?"

Jarieden was stunned, somewhat baffled, but the next moment, his pupils suddenly constricted: "You, you are—"

His voice cut off abruptly.

A flash of cold light swept past, and a round object tumbled and slid away.

Ripples spread across the congealed pools of blood on the ground.

At some point, a fine drizzle had begun to fall quietly.

***

*Drip.*

The weather in the Deep Moss District was always so fickle.

Before people could react to the fine drizzle from moments before, it transformed into a torrential downpour that overturned the sky. Those gentle threads of rain instantly became continuous and unceasing, ruthlessly pounding against the earth beneath the night sky.

The freezing rain swallowed the metal dust in the air, refracting even more surreal colors under the reflection of the neon landscape.

A tactical boot crushed the murky accumulated water.

As the line of sight moved upward from the tactical boot, a human silhouette emerged at the end of the street.

Draped in a black trench coat, wearing a mask, and carrying something in his hand, a figure stepped into this street at a leisurely pace.

"Stop right there."

The pattering rain beat against the avenues and alleys. In front of a bar marked "Sunday," two hulking brutes watched the figure walking toward them, exchanged glances, and one of them raised his voice.

Yet the next moment, seeing that the person showed no intention of stopping, the expressions of the two turned a fraction colder. One stepped forward to meet him, while the other reached toward his waist, gripping a pistol.

The figure stopped walking. "I want to see the Jackal."

"You? See the Jackal?"

The brute looked the figure up and down, dressed rather pretentiously. "You can't go in."

"Why not?"

"We only take regular customers here, and I don't know you."

"Then what does it take to get in?"

Growing impatient, the brute cracked his knuckles. "Didn't I just say? We only take regulars—if you insist on going in, why don't we get acquainted first?"

With a sneer, he reached out his right hand, intending to grab the other's shoulder, but a sudden flash appeared before his eyes, and the figure simply bypassed him.

"—You?!"

The brute froze, instinctively flying into a rage. Just as he was about to strike again, he suddenly noticed the look of astonishment on his companion's companion.

The next instant, his collar split in two, his clothes turning into two sprawling flaps of fabric—just then, before he could even react, something had sliced open his collar.

The brute whipped his head around to look at the figure's back. The latter paused momentarily, a gleam of cold light extending from the gap between the index and middle fingers of his right hand beneath the trench coat, before vanishing just as quickly.

That was... a scalpel?

The brute's expression turned ugly. His companion drew a pistol, while the holographic projection used as the bar's signboard vanished. Accompanied by several distinct mechanical flipping sounds, the dark barrel of an autonomous machine gun emerged, aiming directly at the front of the bar—

Just as the atmosphere grew increasingly tense, a slightly raspy voice chimed in from the security camera by the bar entrance.

"Let this friend in."

Hearing that voice, the two men at the door immediately put away their weapons, clearing a path. The autonomous machine gun above retracted with a click, and the holographic projection rose once more, showing a fluorescent dancer smiling cheerfully and swaying her skirt to a gentle tune once again.

"I have long heard of the Jackal's reputation among brokers."

The bar named "Sunday" possessed a somewhat cold primary tone. The metal pendant lights on the ceiling cast a mottled mix of dim yellow and dark gray light, forming shifting, prismatic light spots on the faces of the patrons seated in the booths and sofas.

Whether it was the bar counter, the seating, or even the wall panels and chandeliers, they all shared a single decorative style—the "Muntaff style," which had once been popular, famed for its carved panel fonts and complex textures of symmetrical graphics. However, the heyday of that style was forty years ago—by contemporary design standards, these could all be broadly categorized as "retro."

Judging from the newness of these decorations, however, they clearly hadn't been in use for decades; it was obvious that everything was simply a matter of the bar owner's personal preference.

"Yet, to have bouncers step out to block a guest... such behavior differs somewhat from the 'Jackal' I've heard described."

Watching the figure who ignored the surrounding gazes and sat down squarely before him, the man known as "Jackal" slowly raised his wine glass.

"I certainly welcome guests, on the condition that they come with good intentions."

Amber liquid swirled in the glass, and the man downed it in one gulp, then refilled it, repeating this three times.

"As for what just happened, these three cups are my apology."

The Jackal gently set down his wine glass, raised his head, and looked straight into the other's eyes. "But one thing my man said was right: we really only take regulars here. Now, it's your turn—"

The table suddenly sank.

"There are no born regulars in this world; there always has to be a process."

As the cold storage container popped open, amidst the billowing white mist of frost, three blood-stained heads lay quietly inside.

Song Shi tapped on the edge of the container:

"So, shall we talk business?"