Hong Fei was already geared up, but he didn't take the stairs. The target was mid-building, and civilians might get caught in the crossfire. Rappelling was the smarter play. Fast-roping it was.
The building's rear was pitch-black—no neon, no external lights. Perfect cover. He secured the rope, pulled on his fiber mask, and adjusted his goggles. A deep breath, then he stepped off the edge. The rope hissed as he plunged downward, counting floors in freefall.
At the nineteenth floor, he yanked hard. The abrupt stop sent him swinging toward the building. He adjusted his grip, legs snapping together as he lunged for the window—small, but open.
A sharp swish as he shot through the gap. He released the rope mid-air and landed in a crouch. When he looked up, his stomach dropped. Two men with cigarettes dangling from their lips gaped at him, frozen. Eyes of Death flickered to life again.
They went for their waists, mouths opening—probably to shout a warning. Hong Fei was faster. His blade cleared its sheath as he sprang forward. Two slashes, left then right, steel flashing cold. Objects thudded to the floor behind him, but he didn't turn. Ahead loomed a heavy double iron door.
Psychic Power activated. The positions of all thirty-two inside snapped into focus. This cheat's broken as hell, he thought, shaking his head.
Annoying that mind control was single-target for now. Otherwise, he'd just march this whole crew to the police station and call it a night. He nudged the nearest guy mentally—open the door—while sheathing his blade and drawing both pistols from his thighs.
The doors slid apart. The central space was vast, cluttered with chemical equipment, half-finished product, and finished batches. Most of the hostiles were here. To the right, a corridor branched off with side rooms—management offices, likely. Eyes of Death locked on.
Guns raised, his gaze flicked across twenty-six foreheads. Crimson Xs bloomed on each. He pulled the triggers. Twenty-six bullets, twenty-six perfect hits. The gunfire stuttered into silence after a few seconds.
Hong Fei shoved aside the corpse blocking his path. The others crumpled like puppets with cut strings. Weirdly cinematic. He sprinted for the corridor, firing blind through doorways as he passed. In his psychic overlay, red dots winked out one by one.
The innermost room. A silver blur slashed at him from the side. He pivoted on his toes, blocking with the cross-blade strapped to his back. A twist, and his Psychic Power stabbed into the attacker's mind like a needle. The man screamed. Hong Fei's blade lunged forward.
The tip immediately pierced the skin and flesh of the opponent's throat, punched through the spine, and exited the back of the neck in a spray of warm blood. It dripped down the steel as he yanked the blade free. A kick sent the body sprawling. It twitched once, then stilled.
Hong Fei's body thrummed with newfound strength as a crystalline skill card materialized from the corpse. The front bore the image of a masked ninja labeled "Yoshioka Nobu," while the back displayed its description: Fusion Card: Qi.
"You will obtain the complete cultivation method for 'Qi.'" Another rare skill card—the gem-like sheen alone marked it as exceptional.
The term "Fusion" and the absence of a tier classification gave him pause. But now wasn't the time for analysis. He flicked gore from his blade and turned to leave. Scaling back through the hallway window, he hauled himself up the rope and onto the rooftop. Two and a half minutes total. Slower than he'd planned.
He examined the fusion-capable card again, then pocketed it. Tonight's work wasn't done. The drug den's destruction came first—his accelerating physical enhancements made complications unwise. At the four-and-a-half-minute mark, the helicopter's rotors thrummed in the distance. Frank's voice crackled in his earpiece: "Status?"
"Clean." The chopper descended. Hong Fei coiled forward, timing his sprint to meet it as it skimmed the roof. One explosive leap, and he vaulted into the cabin. The aircraft wobbled slightly before climbing away. Below, the streets still pulsed with oblivious revelry. "Nobody noticed the gunfire," he observed.
Frank snorted. "Maybe the street noise drowned you out."
"Or I was just too fast."
"How many shots?"
"Twenty-six." He cracked open the ammo box, reloading with practiced efficiency.
Frank's brow furrowed. "That should have drawn attention."
"I told you—three seconds, max."
Frank clearly doubted him but let it slide. Once both pistols were loaded, Hong Fei added, "We'll tip off the cops after we're clear. Let them take the cheap win."
"They might not want credit for this kind of mess," Frank muttered.
Hong Fei considered it, then nodded.
Without police turning a blind eye, how could this festering pit exist in Akihabara—anime paradise, otaku sanctuary? Hidden in plain sight, pumping poison into the world. They'd earned their deaths.
The helicopter touched down at their starting point. Both men shed helmets and masks, swapping them for black trench coats as minimal disguise. The SUV rolled toward Jiangdong without incident. Thirty minutes later, they idled in a dim side street. Frank pointed through the windshield. "Target acquired. Over two thousand square meters. Nearly two hundred hostiles. It's a meat grinder in there."
"Scared?" "You'd be the one shaking." "I don't even know the spelling." Hong Fei cracked his knuckles. "You're running point. What's the play?" "Simple. You hit the front, I'll flank from the rear. Pincer move, constant comms." "That's... ballsy." "Getting cold feet?" Hong Fei grinned. "No. I'm getting warm."
Frank checked his watch. "Move out. This street's quiet, but the opposite side's downtown. Blades preferred outside the villa—save the guns for indoors."
"Copy that."
Opening the door and getting out, Hong Fei melted into the shadows. At Frank's signal, he strode toward the villa's entrance. Three running steps up the wall, and he cleared the three-meter barrier, landing in a crouch. When he looked up, his breath caught.
Not two guards. Not ten.
An entire platoon.