An hour later.
Locke waved a smiling goodbye to the officer who had gone out of his way to drop him at his doorstep.
The officer left his phone number, just in case Locke felt any lingering discomfort.
Soon.
Once the officer entered the elevator and left.
Locke shut the door.
His face darkened instantly.
Shedding the shirt, Locke walked into the bathroom, twisted his body, and carefully unraveled the bandages wrapped around him.
Looking closely.
The marks of the dozen or so glass shards that had been embedded in his back had vanished without a trace.
Level 3 Resilience—truly terrifying!
Gulp!
Locke walked out of the bathroom, pulled a bottle of bourbon from the home bar, poured a glass, and downed it in one go.
An average sixteen-year-old couldn't buy alcohol.
But Locke was no average person.
The next second.
Locke looked up toward the study on the second floor.
Inside the study.
It was still the specialized laptop from the Continental Hotel. Bare-chested, Locke clicked open a chat software on the computer.
Peerless: "There?"
I Am Not Red: "Speak!"
Peerless: "A corpse fell from the sky in Manhattan tonight. I want everything you have on him."
I Am Not Red: "Wait."
Locke looked at the message and leaned back in his computer chair.
The NYPD has its ways of investigating cases.
The underworld has its own!
In fact, more often than not, intelligence from the dark world arrives far faster than that from official agencies.
If Locke knew how to trade stocks, he could have made a fortune by exploiting the speed of underworld information.
Of course.
Information in the dark world can be true or false.
But the source Locke was chatting with right now was top-tier.
Back in Texas, Locke had completed several transactions with this broker. They were business partners who enjoyed a pleasant cooperation. Locke had even privately accepted a few contracts from this guy.
Locke never turned down work, as long as the contract triggered a system quest.
As for who this guy was?
Locke strongly suspected he was Red—the legendary gatekeeper of the underworld.
Naturally.
The person talking to him wasn't Red himself.
It was likely one of Red's operatives.
Red's reputation was far louder than Locke's, and since he dealt in intelligence, people were looking to do business with him every second.
Locke was just one of them.
A while later.
A reply came.
I Am Not Red: "One hundred thousand!"
Peerless: "Are you robbing me? Who is he that the info is this expensive?"
Good grief.
Peerless: "I know your boss. Give me a discount. We've been partners for years."
I Am Not Red: "Wait!"
Peerless: "Fine."
Locke rubbed his chin, where stubble was finally starting to grow back, while staring at the screen.
A single identity is worth a hundred thousand?
Do they really think money grows on trees?
While the assassin business brings in cash quickly, Locke had spent a lot over the past two days.
Put it this way.
If Locke stopped taking contracts now, by this time next year, he wouldn't be able to pay his property taxes, and he'd be watching the IRS roll up to his door in a tank to have a "chat."
I Am Not Red: "Asked the boss. Boss says you are our friend. This information is free for you."
Acting suspiciously kind—there's always a catch.
Peerless: "The price?"
I Am Not Red: "Next time there's a contract, complete it for us for free. An equal exchange. If the contract exceeds the value of this info, we'll pay the difference."
Peerless: "No problem!"
Locke typed out the response immediately.
In this world, there is no love or hate without a cause.
He wasn't looking for a free ride. Free things had already proven that the cost is usually much higher in the long run.
This was better.
An equal exchange.
This was his trade. Who he killed didn't matter, as long as the system issued a quest. If the system issued it, the target was judged to be a bad person. He could kill them without any psychological burden.
In this world, someone eventually has to uphold justice.
So...
Why can't that person be me?
Soon.
Ding-dong.
Locke opened his dark world inbox and clicked the file.
His eyebrows shot up.
WTF?
Gallagher Abel. Male, thirty-five years old. Alias: Mr. Y. Underworld. New York Fraternity Assassin!
What's the deal?
Mr. Y?
The Fraternity?
Assassin?
A colleague?
What the hell?
Ding!
Quest Completed (An Eye for an Eye, a Tooth for a Tooth).
Quest Rewards: 1000 Achievement Points, 1000 Potential Points, Rare Treasure Refresh Coupon x1.
Ding!
Quest Generated!
New Quest: My Life is Mine, Not Heaven's!
Quest Rewards: 2000 Achievement Points, 2000 Potential Points, Rare Treasure Refresh Coupon x1.
Quest Description: "In this world, there exists a miraculous loom. Legend has it that this loom delivers the will of God. A group of people exists who practice their faith by killing one to save ten, a hundred, or even a thousand. Any name appearing on the loom will be erased by them. What if your name appears?"
Note: You are a player. If this world has a Destiny, then even that has no right to judge you!
"W... T... F?"
Locke's brow was tightly furrowed.
A loom?
The Fraternity?
Wanted?
Are you kidding me? How could my name show up on the Loom of Fate?
Locke raised an eyebrow, wearing an expression of disbelief.
Isn't that Loom of Fate fake?
Locke had naturally seen the movie Wanted. He also knew the Fraternity existed here. In fact, he had planned to wait until he was settled in New York before finding a way to pay them a visit.
After all...
Curve Bullets is a top-tier skill.
The signature move of the Fraternity!
But...
I haven't even gone to the textile mill to study yet, and now you're telling me the Loom of Fate has already spit my name out?
Did I offend that old guy?
Locke blinked, pondering the question.
No.
The Loom of Fate was likely real at the beginning. Before Sloan started faking it, he was genuinely carrying out the "justice" dictated by the names on the loom.
It seemed that only after Sloan saw his own name come out did his mentality completely shatter. He then chose to start faking the results, using the loom as an excuse to rake in profits.
So...
The Loom of Fate isn't exactly fake; it's just that Sloan mixes the fake with the real?
Which means?
Destiny wants me dead?
Locke raised an eyebrow.