There were already numerous crows and ravens in the area, inspecting the corpses on the street, which allowed him to blend in easily.
From a vantage point, he observed the spear-wielding man as he spoke to the others, catching every word through lip-reading.
He now understood their language as well as any local, reading text as effortlessly as he would his own dialect.
"Lieutenant Lex, we confirm your suspicion, but I don't think it's a dangerous beast we need to be concerned about."
"Don't be too naive. You all know that, given enough time, even a weak beast could kill humans. So, just request trackers from the main branch, and also get the CCTV footage of the street so we can figure out what we're dealing with."
"Roger, Lieutenant."
'Tsk, he's too meticulous' Francis hated this type of person because it reminded him of himself.
Unfortunately, he could do nothing. Taking on someone that strong would be both stupid and suicidal.
'I should find another host.'
Looking around, he spotted a small sparrow on a nearby rooftop. He flew closer. The bird noticed him and prepared to escape, but he moved first.
Binding ropes of muscles shot out and wrapped around the target, holding it in place. Without wasting a second, he activated his skill and began swapping bodies.
The sparrow had a smaller body, which made the swap easier.
He chose this bird for a particular reason. It would drew less attention, unlike a raven that often symbolized death, and made people wary.
Once finished, he checked carefully for any trace that could give him away. There was none.
Now, even if there was CCTV footage, they would be looking for a raven.
This was the advantage of always staying two steps ahead. Had he flown out without investigating first, he would have likely been shot the next he tried scavenging for livers.
About twenty minutes later, the trucks carrying human corpses started moving, their cargo hidden beneath dark tarps.
An idea sparked.
The morgue. Bodies stored in refrigerated units, organs preserved for examination.
Why hunt when he could raid a warehouse filled with dead people?
[Warning: Any liver that has been inactive for more than an hour would not count]
The notification blinked across his vision like a slap.
'So it's not that easy.'
He flew east, heading back toward the Defense Force perimeter after his brilliant plan was abruptly cut short.
This time he kept his distance—ten blocks out from the main gate. Close enough to observe, far enough to avoid detection.
He waited.
Others might find this tedious—hours of watching a hunk of metal like a CCTV camera.
But he perfected patience long before he got reincarnated.
There was even a time he stayed in a hotel for over two months just to gather dirt on a politician.
He then used it to blackmail his target into helping a resistance group overthrow the current regime, ensuring that his own government could control the new leaders and extract oil to their satisfaction
It was pretty standard when working with a CIA agent.
By comparison, this was a piece of cake.
Slowly, the sun set and night fell. There were times when the gate opened and he followed the convoy, but most of the damage was minimal, which disappointed him.
It seemed he overestimated the rate of attacks and had simply been very lucky in his previous encounters.
'I should have expected this. There's no way an actual city could stay operational if thousands of people died every day.'
Instead of wasting time, he set out to gather information from the locals while he waited.
From the window of a coffee shop, he listened in on a group of students.
Their conversation drifted through the glass—mundane chatter about assignments and weekend plans.
"I'm thinking Defense Force after graduation."
The girl speaking leaned forward, elbows on the table. Short black hair fell around her face as she gestured with her coffee cup.
"Really, Riza?" A lanky boy with glasses pushed his chair back. "You sure about that?"
"Why not?" she shrugged. "Pays better than anything else. Way better than college debt."
The third student, a boy with blonde streaks, nodded enthusiastically.
He began boosting. "My cousin works logistics for them. Makes more in a month than my dad does in three."
"Money's not everything." The fourth member of their group, a boy with calloused hands, shook his head slowly. "My brother's been trying to get in for three years. Three years."
Riza's cup clinked against the table. "What's his deal? Marcus. Bad grades?"
"Nah, he's smart enough. It's the tests. Three of them, and they're brutal."
"Tests? Like written exams?" she probed.
Marcus help up one finger. "Physical first. They put you through hell—endurance, strength, reflexes. Most people drop out right there."
"Then written: tactics, biology, basic physics, and beast behavior."
Riza frowned. "That doesn't sound impossible."
"It's not." His expression darkened. "The third test is what ends everyone's hope. Compatibility screening."
The table went quiet.
"Gama genetics," he continued, his voice dropping. "You either have the gene mutation or you don't. No amount of training changes that."
"What's it do exactly?" she asked.
"Lets you use their gear without dying." he traced patterns on the table with his finger. "All that equipment they carry? It's toxic. Regular humans touch it, their cells start breaking down within hours."
The lanky boy adjusted his glasses. "So if you don't have the genes..."
"You're out." Marcus's hand curled into a fist. "Doesn't matter how smart or strong you are. Biology decides everything."
Francis got closer to the window. So this was why the spear-wielding guy could display those inhuman capabilities.
Riza slumped back in her chair. "That's depressing."
"Not necessarily." The blonde boy straightened up. "There are other ways in, right? I mean, they need support staff."
Marcus nodded. "Sure. Medical, engineering, research. But you need qualifications first. Finish medical school, apply as a doctor. Get an engineering degree, maybe they'll take you for equipment maintenance."
"Still pays well?" she asked, her thoughts consumed by money.
"Better than civilian jobs. Not frontline money, but decent," Marcus said, his tone indifferent.
She stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "So the real question is whether I want to risk four years of college for a maybe, or try the Defense Force lottery first."
"Your call." Marcus shrugged.
She puffed out her cheeks. "Is there any way for us to know if we have the Gama genes or not? I mean, why not test compatibility first—to save us the trouble?"
Marcus shook his head. "Listen, the compatibility test is really expensive, and they can't just go around making thousands of applicants sick for no reason."
"But..." He paused. "I heard from my brother that people with the genes tend to have better physiques and looks. The more Gamma genes someone has, the more prominent these traits become."
A light bulb seemed to go off in the blonde boy's head.
"So that's it! No wonder all the top agents look like celebrities."
At the mention of physical appearance, all eyes turned to Riza, who definitely got above-average looks—enough to pass for a model.
"I think you should try it. You have a good chance of having Gama genes," the blonde boy winked, grabbing her hand.
He couldn't have been more obvious about liking her.
"T-Thank you." She forced a smile before pulling her hand away.
She couldn't have been more obvious about not liking him.
Marcus, noticing the awkward situation, changed the topic.
The conversation continued, but Francis heard enough.
He launched himself from the windowsill, wings catching an updraft.
'Gama genes. Beast-made equipment. Toxic to normal humans...'