After finally escaping the clothing store and the barrage of predatory gazes, I stepped out into the massive, echoing atrium of Brent Cross.
"There are so many people here," I muttered to myself, taking in the bustling crowds. "Most of them actually have a smile on their face..."
My gaze lingered on a few kids excitedly pulling their parents toward a display window. "...Huh. I'm already missing Astra."
Shaking off the unexpected wave of sentimentality, I glanced around the mall. "Are those watches? Might as well complete the outfit."
I spotted an immaculate storefront proudly displaying the Rolex crown.
Judging by the heavy glass, the plush interior, and the sheer luxury of the displays, it was clearly a highly prestigious brand.
'Hmm... I still have around twenty thousand pounds left over and I won't be in England for long anyway.'
I walked inside and, after browsing the displays, settled on a sleek, silver Rolex Datejust. It set me back about three thousand pounds, but it was exactly the kind of subtle power-statement I needed.
Plus, it was a relief to deal with the staff here; they were highly trained professionals who maintained their composure and didn't act inappropriately regarding my appearance.
With the heavy watch now resting comfortably on my wrist, I left the mall to roam the surrounding area and grab a bite.
The rich smells of a nearby food market caught my attention. I ended up trying some classic London street food.
A steaming hot salt beef bagel layered with sharp mustard and thick, tangy pickles, followed by a paper cone of perfectly crispy fish and chips drenched in malt vinegar.
After finishing it and wiping my hands clean, I cracked my neck.
"Now that the shopping and eating are done, it's time to look for some actual fun. First thing's first: I need a ride."
I scanned the busy street and approached a traditional black cab idling by the curb. I casually pulled out a crisp twenty-pound note and flashed it through the open passenger window.
"Hey, man," I said smoothly. "I need to rent a car."
The cab driver blinked, momentarily stunned as he looked up at my towering, heavily muscled frame.
Then, his eyes locked onto the cash. His hand shot out, snatching the bill.
"Sir, if you need to get somewhere, you can just use my cab," the driver offered eagerly, trying his luck. "I won't charge you much."
I rested my arm on the window frame, leaning over him. "I think I was pretty clear about renting a car. Not a cab."
And that was enough to intimidate the man as he swallowed hard. "...Right then. Sit in the back, mate. I'll take you there."
A short drive later, he dropped me off at a high-end rental lot. They had dozens of models, ranging from everyday sedans to luxury imports.
I bypassed the boring commuter cars entirely and signed the paperwork for a pristine, jet-black Mercedes W140 S-Class.
Naturally, the paperwork required a slight touch of mind-altering magic, seeing as I didn't possess a single valid document for this adult body of mine.
The massive, imposing luxury sedan cost me a thousand pounds to rent for the day, but with its heavy build and executive styling, it was a perfect ride.
Sliding into the plush leather driver's seat, I shut the heavy door.
'System, time to earn your keep.'
[I am already managing the global Arcane Network at all times, Host. Please do not speak as if I am simply lounging around doing nothing, unlike some people.]
'Hey, don't make it sound like that,' I shot back, gripping the leather steering wheel. 'Now, tell me how to actually drive this thing. This is the first time I've ever gotten my hands on one.'
[...]
[Host, while I possess the complete schematics for this vehicle, you could have easily asked the rental agent for a demonstration.]
'I absolutely could not do that,' I argued defensively. 'It is incredibly suspicious to rent a thousand-pound luxury car and then ask the dealer which pedal makes it go forward.'
After a few more moments of persuading the stubborn System, who seemed highly offended at being reduced to a driving instructor, it finally narrated the exact functions of the dashboard, the gear shift, and the pedals.
With a smooth, powerful purr of the V8 engine, I pulled the heavy Mercedes out of the lot.
Once I actually had my hands on the wheel, the mechanics were laughably easy to master. My abnormal reflexes and spatial awareness made handling the massive sedan feel like child's play.
Brimming with absolute confidence, I quickly picked up speed, seamlessly weaving through the dense London traffic and gleefully breaking dozens of traffic laws that I theoretically knew existed, but was entirely blank on the actual specifics of.
After having my fill of fun testing out the new toy, I navigated toward my first real destination.
While filling out the rental paperwork, the dealer had casually let slip that a pub called The French House in Soho served as the unofficial headquarters for London's bohemian underworld.
By the way, system got moody again when I asked him to mark the route for me.
...
The interior of The French House was small, dark, and pleasantly woody. The walls were plastered with framed, black-and-white photographs of famous bohemians, artists, and notorious figures from decades past.
I ordered a beer, which the bartender slid across the counter in a half-pint glass.
He proudly informed me it was a strict house tradition, serving only half-pints forced patrons to return to the bar more often, keeping both the conversation and the liquor flowing.
I found a quiet corner, nursed my drink, and simply listened. With my enhanced hearing, it didn't take long to sift through the overlapping chatter. It was the perfect place to find a 'Typist' which I learnt is underworld slang for a top-tier document forger.
After my third refill, I made my move. Instead of returning to my corner, I walked directly over to a dimly lit booth and slid casually into the empty seat next to the group I had been listening in on.
The conversation at the table died instantly. Three hardened, rough-looking men stared at me, their muscles tensing as they waited for me to speak.
"Relax," I said smoothly, taking a slow sip of my beer. "I won't take up much of your time. I need a clean identity forged, complete with a genuine UK passport."
I reached into my overcoat, pulled out a folded slip of paper along with a thick, banded stack of fifty-pound notes, roughly five thousand pounds in total, and pressed them flat against the sticky wooden table.
"Here are the details you need to know, along with the full payment upfront. I want the documents delivered to the front desk of The Savoy by tomorrow morning."
The man standing just to my right shifted his weight, his hand dropping subtly toward his jacket pocket. I already knew he was reaching for a knife the second his eyes locked onto the cash.
"And just so we are absolutely clear on what will happen if you try to play tricks on me..."
I didn't even bother to stand up. I simply pivoted and drove my fist into his ribs. The sickening crack of shattering bone was perfectly masked by the pub's loud chatter.
The man dropped like a stone, out cold on the floor with a thick trickle of blood already pooling from his mouth.
"Take your friend to a medic," I said coldly, standing up and straightening the lapels of my coat. "Unless you want him dying from internal bleeding before midnight."
Without waiting for a response, I turned and headed for the door. I didn't want to waste my time arguing back and forth; that single, brutal strike was more than enough to serve as a warning.
Stepping back out into the cool London evening, I let out a soft sigh. "Money really does attract flies."
I could already feel several distinct, malicious intents locking onto my back from the shadows across the street.
The local thugs had definitely noticed the rich guy in the expensive suit flashing thousands of pounds in a dive bar.
I glanced down the street.
"That dark alleyway should be perfect."
I took a sharp turn into the dead-end alley. Five minutes later, I strolled back out onto the brightly lit main street, casually adjusting my cuffs
Not a single person was following me anymore, and I didn't have a single drop of blood or speck of dirt on my brand-new clothes.
...
END OF CHAPTER
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