A death notice?
Speaking of which, George instantly felt all residual drowsiness vanish from his system. His eyes lit up, and he snapped out of his chair.
"Where is it?"
"Right here."
Kate Beckett handed an evidence bag over to George. "We discovered it sitting directly on the windshield of a car parked right outside the main entrance."
"..."
'I will bring you to justice, Peerless Assassin. Flaunt your arrogance all you want; sooner or later, you are going to slip up!'
George comforted himself mentally as he accepted the bag, looking down at the crisp card sealed within.
Target: Nick Rice!
Charge: Selling his soul!
Verdict: Death!
Executioner: The Dark Sovereign!
"..."
George stared at the unfamiliar title printed on the card, freezing slightly before looking back at Kate Beckett. "What on earth is a 'Dark Sovereign'?"
Beckett simply shook her head in silence.
---
"Achoo!"
"Bless you."
Sitting inside the car, Locke instinctively offered a blessing to Carrie, who had just sneezed. He then manually lowered the fan speed of the air conditioning.
"What's wrong? Catching a cold?"
Carrie shook her head. "Someone just whispered my name."
Locke chuckled. "Then George has likely just laid eyes on the death notice."
George's lingering resentment was incredibly potent.
It was almost a pity.
His personal energy reserve was infinite, yet Locke possessed zero methodology for harvesting raw resentment. Otherwise, George would easily rank as his single largest continuous supplier of negative emotional energy.
Tsk tsk.
The man's raw combat stats were practically non-existent, yet because he carried the prestigious title of Gwen's father, Locke continuously pulled his punches.
To speak candidly, if an ordinary individual lacked that level of self-awareness and faced the Peerless Assassin, they wouldn't survive past chapter five.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Carrie looked slightly confused by his statement.
Locke offered a warm smile. "You are the designated executioner for this specific operation."
Carrie blinked, sounding entirely perplexed. "I don't quite understand."
Locke replied smoothly, "Occasionally executing a monster to alleviate personal stress is quite therapeutic."
Pausing briefly, Locke looked toward her. "Last week, you personally corrected two narcotics dealers?"
Carrie nodded, meeting his gaze.
"I didn't compromise my identity."
Locke said, "I'm not assigning blame. In fact, it was excellent execution. As long as the targets aren't innocent bystanders or blameless citizens, allowing their elimination to soothe your state of mind is arguably the single useful contribution they can offer to society."
Furthermore, it yielded passive system points for him.
This factor fell entirely within his calculations. Otherwise, what would be the point of recruiting subordinates if their operations brought zero dividends to his ledger?
At most, the system points were halved.
A standard punitive mission yielded 200 Achievement Points and 200 Potential Points. Because Carrie executed the targets herself, he only received half the distribution, but the old principle still applied—meat is meat, no matter how small the portion.
Staring at Locke to verify his sincerity, Carrie blinked.
"Is that true? I genuinely thought you were worried about me exposing—"
"Exposing yourself?"
"Yes?"
"Carrie." Locke watched from a distance as George and a dozen uniform officers filed out of the NYPD headquarters. He smiled warmly.
"Do you know what specific class of individual actively fears exposure?"
Carrie shook her head.
"The powerless."
"Uh..."
"Fearing exposure simply stems from the internal realization that one lacks the capability to handle the consequences and complications that follow. You didn't truly believe that my use of the Peerless moniker was driven by a fear of being discovered, did you?"
"...It wasn't?"
"Haha." Locke let out a cheerful laugh, shaking his head. "I am merely participating in a grand game. It has nothing to do with fear. Fearing exposure implies your raw power is insufficient to confront the aftermath. But that dynamic does not apply to me."
"Similarly," Locke turned a warm look toward Carrie, "it doesn't apply to you either. Execute what you internally believe to be right. That is entirely sufficient."
Carrie's eyes flickered, nodding as she processed the words.
As long as Locke didn't view her autonomous actions as a nuisance, she felt completely reassured.
The next second, a spark of anticipation flared in her eyes.
"Then what is my initial move? Do I march straight over there and cut him down?"
She harbored an absolute, deep-seated hatred for anything relating to demons.
The root cause was her mother, who had spent Carrie's entire childhood labeling her a child of the devil, a sinner, and a demon.
Back then, Carrie truly believed she was the problem, assuming everyone's discrimination stemmed from her own inherent flaws. Naturally, she grew to despise the very concept of demons.
Furthermore, a literal demon had previously attempted to manipulate her, demanding she sacrifice her own mother to unlock her latent powers.
There was absolutely zero universe in which Carrie would ever harbor sympathy for an infernal entity.
Observing the raw kinetic energy beginning to surge right on the precipice of a violent outburst, Locke offered a calming gesture.
"No rush, let's wait a bit longer. Let him leave the premises first."
The two vengeful spirit dolls that Nick Rice had manufactured had yet to be located.
While waiting out the time differential in the parking structure, Locke had run a diagnostic. The two dolls synthesized from the Bell couple's pure resentment had been removed by Nick Rice, yet Locke hadn't found a single trace of them back at the apartment.
Since Ms. Patty Finn required a window of time to configure the New Jersey Water Treatment Plant location anyway, Locke figured throwing a death notice into the mix might flush out Nick Rice—a man who had failed the bar exam multiple times and clearly didn't possess a top-tier intellect.
Furthermore, this involved George.
Allowing the Peerless Assassin to step out and engage with George would prevent his father-in-law from falling ill from the sheer stress of chasing a ghost.
"Aren't you worried that Nick Rice will run into hiding the moment he reads your notice?"
"Not at all," Locke shook his head, answering her query. "There is no demographic on this planet that becomes as utterly oblivious and unhinged as they do the exact moment they secure a shred of leverage or power."
Consider how pathetic their circumstances used to be, yet look at them now—it was like a grotesque carnival, resembling the final, desperate celebration before an absolute collapse.
The last group to act this aggressively arrogant was the Zionists.
They remained incredibly arrogant, yet after nearly facing complete annihilation, they at least learned to retreat behind closed doors to display their hubris.
For a man who had freshly secured power to lay out a literal blueprint for turning Earth into a living hell so openly across his study desk... Locke felt that if he attempted to credit the man with a brilliant counter-strategy like a diversionary tactic, he would be drastically overestimating his opponent's IQ while insulting his own.
Sure enough.
Right outside the NYPD entrance.
The moment Captain George Stacy utilized a rapid verification protocol to confirm the authenticity of the death notice, he instantly arrived at a critical deduction.
The Peerless Assassin was no longer operating as a lone wolf.
He had begun actively recruiting cells, and one of his accomplices had just deliberately exposed a moniker.
The Dark Sovereign!
George surveyed the entire perimeter surrounding the police headquarters, realizing that if the Peerless Assassin possessed the capability to plant a notice right under their noses, he could just as easily execute a target on the spot.
He turned squarely to Nick Rice, who had followed him out. "You have been marked by the Peerless Assassin. Effective immediately, you are grounded to our custody."
Once a notice was served, the assassin typically materialized to claim the life within twenty-four hours.
This represented a prime tactical opportunity.
George intended to utilize this window to configure a massive dragnet, waiting for the assassin to walk straight into a trap.
But...
Nick Rice had zero intention of cooperating. Hearing George's mandate, he let out a sharp laugh.
"Accept your protection? To this day, do any of you even know the actual legal name of the Peerless Assassin?"
A nearby detective frowned deeply at the remark. "What exactly are you implying?"
George despised the man's attitude, but he needed the target alive as bait.
"Mr. Rice, your current survival status is extremely critical. Without our armed detail, the Peerless Assassin can materialize right in front of your face at any given moment."
"I don't require it."
"What?"
Nick Rice let out a cold smirk.
"Your department threw an armed detail around Barry Weiss as well. Look how that turned out. I have zero intention of letting that assassin drag me off to a live-streamed execution because of your incompetence."
"You—"
"Do you even know how to use your mouth to speak properly?"
"Shit, who do you think you are?"
The moment the words left his mouth, several short-tempered detectives were instantly pushed to their boiling points.
Barry Weiss.
The drug addict who had murdered an officer.
That had been an anomaly. To speak plainly, not a single officer on the force had genuinely desired that cop-killer's survival—at least, not from a human perspective.
George barked a command to silence his detectives, fixing a cold stare on Nick Rice.
However, before George could speak further, Nick Rice turned to leave. He glared at the uniform officers attempting to block his path. "What? Do you intend to illegally detain an Assistant District Attorney?"
Jason Blaut stared squarely into the face before him. "You know, that face of yours is incredibly punchable."
"Are you threatening me, Detective Blaut? Threatening an official of the District Attorney's office?"
"How exactly did you secure that appointment? Do you honestly believe people don't know the truth?"
"..."
Nick Rice locked eyes with the notoriously aggressive Jason Blaut. "I will remember your name, Detective Blaut."
'Once I eliminate that assassin, I will personally ensure your career is dismantled.'
A mere street assassin.
He was a sworn servant of the Infernal Prince, Blackheart. Let the assassin come—it just so happened he had recently lost one of his occult playthings. The soul of an elite assassin would undoubtedly please his master immensely.
With that thought, Nick Rice brushed past Jason Blaut.
He climbed into his vehicle.
And tore away from the curb.
Judging by his trajectory, he was charting a direct course toward the Queens borough.
Watching from a distance, Locke spoke directly to Carrie.
"You can keep a lock on him, correct?"
Carrie nodded. "Am I permitted to terminate him now?"
Locke shook his head. "He is likely tracking down the two missing resentment dolls. Maintain surveillance; his existence still serves a purpose."
Carrie nodded, opened the passenger door, and slipped out of the vehicle.
*Vroom!*
The Audi R8's engine roared to life.
"George—"
"Tail him."
"But George, protecting a piece of garbage like—"
George looked at the furious Jason, his face entirely expressionless.
"We are instruments of the law. As long as he pays taxes into the system, he is an objective requiring our protection!"
Right at that moment.
A sports car let out a powerful whine.
The silver Audi R8 pulled up alongside the curb right outside the NYPD precinct. The passenger window rolled down smoothly.
George's eyes locked onto the vehicle instantly.
Their gazes met in mid-air.
***
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