Arthur had killed his master.
To be precise, Arthur chose to end his master's life after receiving the company's absolute termination order for Harry.
Right now?
Let alone letting Arthur retire, the higher-ups in that assassin company were probably already deliberating whether to preemptively eliminate Arthur, who had become an unstable variable.
Assassins were actually quite similar to secret agents.
In the eyes of certain individuals, they were merely tools. Any tool capable of biting back was a broken tool, one that needed to be repaired or cleaned up in a timely manner.
Now, Arthur had turned into an unstable tool.
Even if the root cause of this instability was entirely of their own making—since Arthur had only ended his master's life with his own hands because he accepted their assignment.
Therefore, retiring through regular channels was completely out of the question.
That left only one path to retirement.
Faking his death to escape.
However, executing a fake death was no simple feat. After all, their company specialized in the business of engineered accidental killings. Whether a death was staged or not could be seen through almost at a single glance.
And so...
Arthur brought in Harry's son, Steve.
"I looked into it."
Arthur turned his head to glance inside the house, then rubbed his face. Looking back at Locke, who was wearing sunglasses in front of him, he sniffed his nose and said,
"I questioned the guys who set up the game. Do you know why Harry went to gamble in the first place?"
Locke said, "Because his son, Steve, was the actual mastermind?"
Arthur froze slightly, looking over at Locke.
Locke shrugged. "New York is my territory now, after all. There might be things I don't care to know, but if I want to find out something, no one can hide it from me."
Arthur snapped out of it and didn't obsess over how Locke knew. He nodded.
"Yes, the one who set up the trap was Steve."
Locke snorted in amusement.
Why Harry's son Steve set up the trap was no longer important. In any case, he did it for money, and immediately after Harry died, Steve drained every last penny from Harry's bank accounts.
But...
What did he say to Arthur when Arthur drove him back to Harry's old house? He claimed there wasn't a single dime left in the bank accounts, and that the house was about to be repossessed by the bank because he couldn't afford the inheritance tax.
Steve seemingly had no idea exactly how much money Harry possessed, but to Arthur, who was a meticulous master technician, it was crystal clear.
That was why Arthur suspected him right then and there.
Subsequently, from the mouths of those crooked gamblers, he discovered that the fat sheep had actually been introduced by Steve himself.
"He owed a Las Vegas casino several million."
"Impressive."
"Heh, that casino only let him run up that kind of debt because they knew who his father was."
"I see."
Locke nodded. The rest of the plot was easy to guess. Faced with the gambling debts of this son—who had left after an early divorce, lived with his mother until her passing, and only then came to find him—Harry had completely blown his top. He stated that he wouldn't pay a single copper for Steve and would even write it into his will to prove it.
Arthur recalled how Steve had specifically emphasized that Harry hadn't left behind a will. He wanted to laugh, but couldn't bring himself to.
Harry talked tough, but reality painted a different picture. If it weren't to find a way to pay off Steve's gambling debts, would he have plunged headfirst into a rigged gambling setup? Would he have taken the desperate risk of selling out the company's assignment data and personnel roster out of fear that the casino thugs would chop up his son?
Therefore.
Arthur looked toward Locke.
"Since you already know, are you going to help with this?"
Locke smiled. "The ancient assassin covenant applies. But don't get ahead of yourself; once I teach this one, if you decide to take on another apprentice down the line, I can reject you outright, or it's going to cost an exorbitant fee."
This traditional covenant between assassins couldn't go on indefinitely; it was strictly a one-time trade for a single individual. You couldn't expect to teach one apprentice for me and have me teach five for you in return.
Arthur said, "Only your presence here will make him believe that I don't suspect him."
While Steve wasn't an assassin himself, his father Harry was an old-school professional who had naturally spoken to him about certain traditions within the underworld.
If Arthur took Steve as an apprentice but no other assassin showed up to fulfill the covenant, it would indicate only one thing: he wasn't truly being integrated as an apprentice.
That would be detrimental to Arthur's plan.
Locke smiled and looked at Arthur.
"Fair enough, but look out for yourself. Don't end up playing yourself at the end."
It didn't matter to him; he would treat it as a vacation.
After all, Locke had run into troublesome matters both times he went out normally. Coming out wearing sunglasses and operating under his Peerless assassin identity might actually turn out better.
Catching some alligators on this island wouldn't be a bad pastime either.
Entering the living room, Steve, who was sitting by the sofa meticulously watching the TV series "100 Bizarre Ways to Die," looked up. Seeing Locke walk in wearing sunglasses, he froze for an instant before springing up from the sofa. "Peerless..."
Steve was incredibly thrilled.
After all, for a new trainee entering the assassin industry with a guide, the very first task was to recognize the top-tier figures in the underworld so they wouldn't foolishly cross a major boss by mistake.
Without a doubt.
With Peerless's current reputation, he fully merited the title of a major boss.
Not to mention, the name Peerless wasn't just known among assassins; the vast majority of citizens in New York City knew it too.
Locke glanced sideways at Arthur, walked straight over, and used his leather-gloved right hand to grab Steve's chin, tilting it around to inspect him before casually checking his hands. "Passable, just barely."
Since Arthur wanted to put on a show, Locke would play along.
After all, he was friends with Arthur, but Steve was no friend of his.
This comment was also intended to plant a notion in Steve's mind: with mediocre talent, he shouldn't even dream of learning his ultimate signature technique, the Peerless Dance.
Arthur stood in the back and said,
"You make the calls, I won't interfere."
Locke gave an affirmative grunt, walked toward Arthur's backyard, and said without turning his head,
"Find a Glock and meet me in the back."
Steve stood frozen in place.
Arthur spoke up to prompt him,
"What are you waiting for?"
Steve snapped out of it, looking at Arthur with a face showing unspoken gratitude. He quickly got up and ran toward the armory. A short while later, he emerged into the backyard carrying a Glock.
At this moment, Steve genuinely believed that Arthur was truly training him to be his successor and apprentice.
For some reason, Steve let out a sigh of relief.
Soon.
The news that Arthur the Mechanic had taken an apprentice began to circulate through the assassin underworld. Many watched the performance in silence, refraining from making any evaluations until the primary parties made an official stance.
However, when Arthur's company caught wind of this news, they looked at each other in utter bewilderment.
Originally, the company's profilers believed that after Arthur executed his own master on the company's orders, his loyalty to the organization would plummet.
But right now?
Arthur didn't show any drop in loyalty; he had even submitted an onboarding background report for his apprentice, Steve McKenna.
This maneuver was entirely unexpected.
One had to realize that once Steve stepped into this underworld of assassins, it was equivalent to Arthur personally handing the company a lever to control him.
But...
"Olson?"
Locke, who had already stayed at Arthur's place for a week and was preparing to leave today, looked at the photograph and file inside an envelope that had just been delivered, letting out a smile.
"The probe has arrived."
Olson was the middle-aged man in the photograph. He was also an assassin and a mechanic, but his operational skills had fallen short, forcing him to transition from a mechanic into a handler.
He maintained a competitive rivalry with Arthur's company. To put it simply, the intelligence and agent rosters that Harry had sold out had all been swallowed up by this fellow.
Without a doubt, this assignment was a test. Otherwise, they wouldn't have left a note explicitly specifying that Steve McKenna must complete it if he wished to successfully join the company ranks.
Arthur, however, remained indifferent.
"It is indeed time for him to complete his training."
He was also worried that dragging out the plan might cause a slip-up. Furthermore, they were mechanics who dealt in engineered accidents; unless absolutely necessary, no one would discover them.
As long as the knowledge level and theoretical application were up to standard, actual physical combat prowess wasn't all that critical.
What's more...
Arthur looked at Locke with an unreadable expression.
"You really put your heart into training him."
Locke said,
"Like you said, if you're going to put on a show, you have to play the full part."
Over the past week, Steve's marksmanship had progressed rapidly, entirely thanks to Locke's effective instruction.
However.
Locke glanced at the jet ski driven over by Arthur's friend and patted Arthur's shoulder.
"Rest assured, my friend, my finest Peerless gunmanship was left untaught. At best, his shooting is on par with a marksman from the NYPD."
Back in Texas, he had relied on highly precise marksmanship to make a living.
After arriving in New York, he relied on his meteoric, curving bullet-shooting technique.
And now?
Locke had already reached a level where formless intent surpassed rigid moves. With Gun Kata at his disposal, every punch, palm strike, and assault was as precise and fierce as a bullet.
Having spoken.
Locke took the keys to the jet ski that had been brought over, stepped straight onto it, turned it around, and looked at Arthur on the dock.
"Goodbye, my friend."
"Goodbye."
"Vroom!"
Locke twisted the throttle, and the jet ski shot out instantly like an arrow.
By the time Locke took a black flight to arrive at that suburban airport in New Jersey and replaced the clone at his house, he opened his study computer and logged onto the Continental Hotel network.
A news flash had already popped up.
Olson, while dining at a restaurant, had been blasted directly into a hornet's nest by an assassin wielding dual Glocks. His state of death was nothing short of miserable.
***
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***
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