The Mafia Empire

Facing firearms is not something everyone has the courage to do while wielding only cold weapons. Without unwavering faith or a spirit of self-sacrifice, the fear of death becomes amplified infinitely. Over a dozen gang members dressed in eccentric attire seemed to have hit the pause button; they didn't dare make any large movements, fearing that even the slightest action might be misunderstood and end their lives with a single bullet.

Mad Dog Wesson also halted in his tracks, feeling his heart pound wildly with unprecedented speed and intensity. Even when he'd faced tens of thousands of enemies alone, he hadn't been this panicked!

Alright, he lied. His greatest feat had been taking on two opponents at once before getting thoroughly beaten, but he had a knack for exaggerating his abilities and outcomes. This often led others to believe he was a fierce warrior.

At this moment, only one thought filled Wesson's mind: compared to himself, the "Mad Dog," those three guys across from him were the real mad dogs, weren't they? Although this wasn't exactly the city center, it was close enough! Firing guns here would carry a completely different implication than doing so in the suburbs or countryside. They wouldn't open fire, would they? Surely not. They must just be bluffing to scare him!

He kept trying to pump himself up, fighting to control his trembling legs, and clenched his sphincter tightly to prevent his surging urge to urinate from staining his favorite pants.

One drop.

Wesson swore, just one drop escaped uncontrollably. Just as he prepared to say something to save face, his face suddenly felt hot, and the guy directly in front of him jerked his head back, falling backward with a loud thud. The dull sound of him hitting the ground felt like a hand piercing through Wesson's chest, gripping his heart.

A brief neural disruption made Wesson lose control of his sphincter, and he not only wet himself but felt an even stronger urge to relieve himself bubbling up.

He wiped his face with his hand, feeling the warm, sticky moisture tinged with a faint metallic smell; the vivid red under the dim streetlight was especially jarring.

Bang!

The two men beside Julian advanced in turn, their raised arms steady. Each gunshot took down a gang member before they could react. When they could finally see Wesson, Wesson could see them too—all the people who had been standing between them had already fallen.

The air was heavy, almost like concrete. A door on the side of the street slowly opened, and Wesson, barely able to stand as he clutched the wall, felt a surge of hope explode within him.

There was salvation! A witness! These mad dogs wouldn't kill him too, would they?

However, in the next moment, he stared, dumbfounded, as a young man emerged from the doorway, dragging the bodies on the road inside with swift efficiency. In less than two minutes, not a single one of his comrades was left. Soon, some girls came out with buckets, rinsing the blood off the ground and scrubbing it down the drain.

No longer able to control himself, Wesson collapsed to the ground. In his terror, he didn't even notice that he was sitting in something warm.

Julian walked up to Wesson. He looked a bit disheveled; his trench coat was long gone, his shirt buttons ripped open, and he'd lost his shoes, leaving him barefoot. The only thing still intact was his pants.

Standing above Wesson, Julian looked down, rolling his eyes downward to observe Wesson with the corner of his vision.

"Do we have some kind of irreconcilable grudge?" Julian asked calmly, "To the extent that you'd bring so many people… to hunt me down?"

The sound of chattering teeth was especially clear in the stillness of the midnight. Wesson's teeth clacked as he shook his head, forcing a smile uglier than crying, "N-no! Let me explain. There's no unresolved hatred between us; I just wanted… just wanted…" His eyes darted around quickly, like a man on the verge of a breakdown. "I just deeply admire a person of your stature and wanted to pay my respects!"

His timid tone carried a desperate hope, convinced that his explanation was flawless.

Julian tilted his head slightly, thinking it over, his hands releasing his right wrist, which he'd been holding. He raised his right hand, and the young man beside him placed a handgun in it.

"What's your name?" Julian asked.

"Wesson! My name is Wesson, sir!"

A faint smile appeared on Julian's face. Wesson immediately felt warmth and blinding light in that smile. Surely he'd be safe now, right? Otherwise, why would he be smiling at him? A smile is a symbol of kindness, isn't it? Wesson grinned foolishly, humbly bowing down from his seated position to kneeling, showing his submission.

Julian asked with a smile, "I remember not seeing you nearby when I entered the Grand Theater. Can you tell me how you managed to find me?"

This was a crucial question. If he could be located anytime, anywhere, it indicated two possibilities. The first was that he had become a public figure, so whenever he appeared, he'd be noticed. However, based on his current actions, he hadn't reached that level, so it was unlikely. The second possibility was that someone was tracking him without his knowledge, which was even more infuriating. No one likes being watched, so he wanted to clarify how this guy had found him.

Julian's memory wasn't bad; he remembered exactly who this guy was but remained silent.

Wesson disclosed every bit of information about the car washer to Julian. He harbored deep resentment for the car washer; if not for him, Wesson wouldn't have experienced such misfortune tonight. If he made it out alive—no, he was sure he would—he'd make sure that guy suffered tomorrow!

Satisfied with the information he'd gathered, Julian nodded with a smile at the kneeling Wesson. "I think I understand. Well then, good night, Mr. Wesson!"

The sudden farewell left Wesson momentarily confused, but he nodded repeatedly, offering goodnight wishes and blessings in hopes of ending this dreadful encounter as soon as possible.

Under the dusky streetlight, beside the road, one man knelt, and the other stood. The light seemed to shun them, casting shadows devoid of brightness amidst the illuminated street.

The standing figure raised his arm, gripping a gun, and pulled the trigger amidst the kneeling man's pleas.

The compressed heat from the firing pin pushed the hollow bullet out of the chamber, spinning at high speed along a nearly straight trajectory. It pierced through a thin layer of skin, some fat, a small amount of muscle, and bit into bone.

People say the skull is hard, but sometimes it's not as resilient. A crack began spreading from the point of impact between the bullet and the skull. The bullet, still spinning forward, deformed upon encountering the bone. In the next second, the skull yielded, splitting completely…

Julian handed the gun back to the man beside him, glanced at Wesson's corpse, with blood fanning out behind him, and shook his head as he turned away.

"Find that car washer. If he's a Provian or Ordinian, send him to meet the River God. If he's a Guar, let him face the trial of the Old King."

Wesson's body twitched as a young man grabbed his leg, dragging him into the store. The practiced girls cleaned up the blood on the ground in no time, as if nothing had happened.

On the other side of the city, the car washer, hugging a bottle of fruit wine, returned home cheerfully. He often had a drink, only a single cup, as his income couldn't afford indulgence. But tonight was different; he'd paid a cheap, skilled woman a dollar and even bought home a half-full bottle of fruit wine, an extravagance he'd never imagined before. He pushed open the door, taking off his clothes in the dim light and tossing them onto the worn sofa, placing the wine on the table.

He hummed a tune his mother taught him, basking in the joy of today's "earnings."

"You're back? You're a bit late today. Shall I warm up your food?" His wife emerged from the bedroom, adding a sense of warmth and a bit of crowding to the small living room.

Perhaps under the influence of the alcohol, the car washer breathed heavily at the sight of his wife in her nightgown. Like a predator, he pounced, pressing her against the table.

For a man, money and power are undeniable aphrodisiacs, and five dollars was enough.

Early the next morning, still not fully awake, the car washer looked at his wife, frowning as he rubbed his head and sat up. He glanced at her again, feeling like he'd done something foolish. Shaking his head, he prepared for work. Just as he opened the door, barely awake, he only glimpsed two half-grown kids before a sharp pain hit his head, and he lost consciousness.