Solitude's Crucible (13)

The three trucks that rolled out of the industrial complex slipped away unnoticed by anyone but me, amid the chaos stirred up by the Black Sea Party's assault team. Once the bike assault team's riders confirmed the truck convoy's escape, they pressed on with the slaughter a bit longer before melting into the alleys between buildings. The patrol police detachment's elite defenses had drawn a hard limit on expanding their kills. As they withdrew, the bastards lobbed Molotov cocktails here and there. They torched abandoned vehicles to cripple the Public Security Bureau's mobility. Just enough to ensure raw numbers alone couldn't restore full function.

This was our chance to pinpoint one of the Black Sea Party's bases. Unlike their assault teams, which could move and hide freely, places to stash large quantities of bombs weren't exactly common.

I hesitated for a split second. Should I hand off the pursuit to someone else? Even as a wild card, I only had one body to throw around—opportunity costs came with the territory.

But only I could tail them without getting spotted. My tracking ignored conventional line-of-sight limits.

Before the trucks could pull too far ahead, I made my call.

"Division Chief. Rally your forces, rebuild the blockade lines, and prepare minimal support units for dispatch to key urban sectors. The rioters in the industrial zone won't escalate further. I'll track down the vanished enemy."

Gao Xusen tried to stop me. "Hold on, Director—you need to stay here!"

"Why's that?"

"Because—"

The communist noble rolled his eyes and clammed up, on the verge of spilling something. His intentions were obvious. It suited him fine if I handled his job for him, but admitting it outright would bruise his pride. At least he still had the wits left to think straight in a situation this lopsided. Small mercies.

I gave the noble a quick briefing. "From here on, you need to seize control of city security operations. The Patrol Police Detachment is now the only functioning security arm left in Guangzhou—play it right, and you could snag official authorization from the Provincial Public Security Department. Once that's done, use proper channels to let Detective Zhang Tailong raid the Gongjeon Corporation. Make it clear they failed to cooperate with Public Security on this incident, and you can sacrifice their execs as political scapegoats."

This was all stuff the communist noble could've pieced together once his head cooled, but with every minute and second counting, better I jog his memory fast.

Whether the Gongjeon Corporation was covering up the situation would come out naturally during the raid.

Leaving Gao Xusen to chew on my rundown, I turned to Kom.

"I'll trust you and your detectives to improvise the rest. Be back soon."

Flattering the Division Chief's skills was whatever, but saying I trusted his detectives wasn't empty talk. Party loyalty prized birthright and political gamesmanship above all, but you couldn't climb without real results. In my eyes, those three detectives under him were what filled out his operational chops.

With a flick of my fingers, I signaled Kyung-tae and the rest to follow. I had one subordinate drag over the motorcycle of a Black Sea Party assault trooper who'd been eyeing us before getting wasted. The side panel was scraped to hell, but no functional damage.

For nimble pursuit, two wheels beat four.

I fired up the bike and gave orders. "You lot follow in the car."

The bomb-laden truck convoy was just fading from even my sight. I twisted the throttle grip, maxing out the engine.

Crisp acceleration that belied its Chinese make. The RPMs on the blue LCD gauge spiked in a rush. The electronic horn could make multiple tones—perfect for combat signals. The Black Sea Party bastards had invested smart here. Gear quality tied straight to troop morale.

Once I'd closed the gap enough, no need to keep flooring it. The trucks were playing by the rules like any ordinary traffic, obeying signals.

Bold as brass.

Backing their balls were the CCTV cameras, smashed even more thoroughly and extensively than before. Hard to believe this was the country that outspent defense on Public Security budgets to build a total surveillance state, dumping ten trillion won yearly into monitoring tech.

If things weren't this bad, I'd have just fed the vehicle plates to the communist noble and called it a day. Waiting at the signal like the distant truck drivers, I idly wished London's surveillance net had crumbled the same way.

Contrary to popular belief, the world's most surveilled city wasn't Beijing—it was London. They'd been overtaken lately in raw camera count, but AI-driven monitoring still held a slim edge.

That was why I had to pull out wild cards like the Raspberry plague ants for the London op. Nothing short of that could evade the Round Table's eyes.

Anyway, I didn't spot a single intact camera through over ten intersections. Destruction outpaced repairs; snipers and terror hits on camera crews never stopped; and absolute supply shortages had kicked in.

How long did we tail them? Finally, the bomb trucks rolled into a rundown residential zone.

Car-bomb terror was off the table now. Not that I'd expected a dud chase from the start.

Common sense dictated as much. Suppose they pulled it off. China, desperately backtracking the explosives' source, would flatten suspect factories without mercy or due process the moment suspicion hardened. No amount of guanxi from the owners could stop that inevitability.

To squeeze max yield from their hard-won arsenal, they had to veil it in patience.

Eyes on any sentries, I coasted past the entry point where the trucks had gone and parked the bike. Amid the agitprop wall posters, one odd flyer stood out.

Another sign of China's security mess. Cults running rampant post-mana resurgence happened everywhere, but in a functional China, these deceivers wouldn't dare crawl into the open to con the masses.

Directing the team's positions via radio as they caught up, I stood at the dreary residential fringe and scanned the surroundings.

What caught my eye was a humble eatery: a tiny shop expanded with a shack extension. More precisely, the lone worker inside.

I planted myself at the street stall counter. The type where day laborers grabbed standing breakfasts. Despite the chill, no plastic curtain—just wide open.

"Welcome—" The elderly owner tossed out a half-hearted greeting in thick dialect.

This was a bedroom community, off rush hour—no other customers besides me. Hell, no pedestrians at all.

"What'll it be?"

Steam rose from the bamboo steamer packed with dim sum. The weathered menu listed three options: pork, chicken, shrimp.

No harm in refueling. I nodded at the pork.

"Three kuai fifty."

Kuai was slang for yuan; three kuai fifty meant 3.5 yuan.

I pulled out my wallet. The owner scowled and jabbed at the payment QR code stuck to the counter.

I ignored it, offering a crisp 50-yuan note instead. The yuan I'd looted from the Party cadre's basement was all brand-new, pristine—like it'd gone straight from mint to secret vault.

The owner grimaced, pissed. "What, you been living in Japan or somewhere? Who the hell pays with a high-denom bill for one plate of dim sum these days?"

"No change needed. Just keep me company. I'm curious about local news."

His face hardened. In a slum for poor migrant workers, who drops 46.5 yuan (about 8,000 won) just to chat? More than a day's wage for them.

I slowly waggled the bill side to side. "Not taking it?"

"Well, uh..."

"Guess it's not enough."

I opened my wallet again, pulling nine more high bills. The owner's face went whiter than the dim sum wrappers.

Guilty conscience—natural reaction. He swallowed hard as I held out the cash. With trembling hands, he snatched it.

I was magnanimous. "Feel free to run it through the detector."

Torture wasn't a universal key. Whips worked best after carrots. If buying with cash, best prove it wasn't fake.

"Go on."

Even this dump had a counterfeit scanner—and a decent one. With fakes flooding around, survival demanded it.

Cowed, the owner fed in the bills—not from greed, but because I'd told him to. Ten bills sucked in one by one. Heart pounding, he stared at the floor in silence.

I tapped the counter to get his attention. "Cash accepted—now serve the food."

He nodded frantically, piling the plate high—not just pork, but everything, heedless of type.

Hygiene aside, nothing harmful to my eyes. I popped one in, chewed, swallowed. Cheap-tasting as expected. Too greasy for me.

"Relax. Answer well, and I'll double what you just got. Good deal for you, boss."

"...Yes."

"First off... why do you have two phones?"

That was why I'd picked this stall. A backwater shop owner needing dual lines for business? Suspicious.

Gripping the counter, eyes shut, he trembled. No way he knew I had x-ray vision—he'd figure Public Security sniffed him out via comms surveillance.

"Spare me."

Unprompted pleas poured out. "I just kept watch. Didn't get much pay. T-ten kuai a day. Sometimes ran errands moving stuff... but I didn't know what it was. Really..."

"Hand over the phone. That's what you used for contacts."

He surrendered his secret line without fuss. With his help unlocking it, I sifted routine-looking texts and zeroed in on a lead fast.

One number popped: tons of messages like "Yiwuchi's second turns five soon, birthday Jan 27, meet at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠14:00, withdraw X from public fund account..." Saved as "Alumni President."

Classic random-number cipher.

Why save an "alumni president" on a burner phone? Other texts were just spam bombs for cover—made it obvious.

Yiwuchi's "Yi" matched the number 1 (yī) in tone and sound. "Wu" was 5 (wǔ), "Chi" was 7 (qī). Stringing the numbers: 1572512714...

Page-flip code: 157th page, 25th character; 127th page, 14th character, etc.

I shoved the text in his face. "Where's the codebook to match this?"

Eyes squeezed shut, near tears: "...Check Mao's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Quotations in the secure folder. F-folder pass is 090118."

Sure enough, a PDF lurked inside. I forwarded it to one of our numbers.

Mao's Little Red Book had endless editions from countless publishers—title alone wouldn't crack Black Sea Party ciphers. Testing a few chars yielded coherent words.

"Spare me."

Red-eyed, he begged. "I-I have a son turning twelve next month. No other family—he'll have no one if I die. I'll do anything you say. Please, just let me live..."

I stared him down. No liar's brain patterns, no telltale biosignals. Stirred a bit of pity. I was an orphan myself, parents unknown.

Whim or not, I weighed it: risks of letting him go against the pull of mercy.

Answer came quick. With a sigh, I returned the phone and emptied my wallet into his hands.

"Fight's about to erupt inside. Fallout might reach here—get across the street, opposite side. Then turn yourself in to Public Security. I'll smooth it over. Got it?"

Incredulous joy—he nodded wildly. "Thank you! Thank you!"

I jerked my head across the road. "Hurry—before I change my mind."

He stuffed the cash and bolted.

Before he reached the other side, I expanded my mana field to the right radius and triggered the telekinesis incantation I'd queued in my circuit.

Crossing against traffic mid-road, his body flew sideways with a thud! In line with the lane's flow.

Blood in the shop would tip off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Black Sea Party to a codebook leak—no choice.

Regrettably, he didn't die instantly. Despite a passenger-car-speed smack.

As I approached with footsteps, his bleeding eyes rolled to me. The gasping middle-aged man looked baffled at his fate.

Considered easing his pain, but the injury pattern and blood trail might look off. Waited, checking my watch for no reason I knew.

Took 1 minute ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠14 seconds for death. The corpse's forearm bore several dark needle marks.