The Vein of Gold of the Unrighteous (3)
Tennis courts and a swimming pool, a neat garden trimmed in the European style. The mansion nestled in the mountains, flanked by two annexes, was the epitome of bourgeois aesthetics. How could anyone call this a communist cadre's personal asset? If Marx saw it, he'd scream that this was where class struggle was desperately needed.
Deep into the night, just before dawn. The enemies—minus those on guard duty—were deep in slumber, their response a total clusterfuck. A few woke to the racket of armor-piercing rounds punching through walls, but not enough for any organized pushback. By the time escape routes for the survivors were fully sealed, I'd descended the slope and entered the mansion's sprawling grounds.
The barking dogs lay silenced, cooling slabs of meat riddled with bullets. Strolling through the garden like it was a leisurely walk, I kept feeding intel to my men.
With every firefight playing out like this, the enemy had zero chance.
By the time that report came in, I'd stepped into the main building. Blood pooled on the marble floors, squelching underfoot with every gritty step. Electronic static and howls piled on—open-eyed corpses clutching their service radios, the source of the chaos.
"Goddamn it! Anyone there?!"
"Too many enemies! They're overwhelming our firepower!"
"Save me... it hurts so much..."
"Shut the fuck up, you little shits! Comms are fucked! Someone get a sitrep—"
"Situation room! Situation room! Hey! You retarded fuck Wei Rui! You asleep, shithead?!"
"Mommy, Mommy!"
"Waaah—"
"When's SWAT coming?! They said they'd respond to emergencies!"
"Phone! Anyone got a phone that works?!"
"Fuuuuck!"
The cries grew more frantic by the second. Brushing past the wailing radios, I asked 2-1—Kyung-tae—that had seized the situation room: "Any broadcast system there?"
"Thought about calling for surrenders from survivors. Never mind if not."
No speakers caught my eye, but interphones dotted every room—worth a shot. Might've worked like a mass conference call. But dialing each one? Too much hassle; better to just kill them.
"Hell no. Thought about filming beheadings live."
The Black Sea Party's bike assault squads lingered vivid in my mind. Guys hanging nooses on bisected torsos and dragging them; lopping heads and bathing in the spray; lining up surrendered foes on their knees for mass executions. To frame the Black Sea Party, we had to mimic their brutality. The lifelong shadows of class hierarchies wouldn't spare mercy for these revolutionary songbirds. In their dreamed utopia, purging communist nobles and their dogs was non-negotiable.
Footage from here should suffice.
Editing and uploading my men's firefights would make a solid decoy.
"Kill 'em all."
I reiterated. "Fighters or not, armed or not. Everyone in this mansion is an 'enemy of the people.' Not one spared. Gut them, kick out the entrails. Revolution's a tree fed on blood."
With policy reaffirmed, the bourgeois den accelerated into a slaughterhouse expo.
Hired a shit-ton, huh.
The near-wiped mercenaries rivaled two companies. Elite paygrades, no doubt. Temporary gigs till the heat died, but the party secretary shelled out big to guard his hoard.
Deployment screamed "defend the mansion"—no clue on priorities. Outsiders like them wouldn't know vault spots anyway. Who'd honor cheap oaths with tons of gold and cash staring? CCTV would've nixed any scouting.
Through horror-movie halls and blood-rushing stairs, I reached the first treasure room. Vault hidden behind a bookshelf. Shifting it revealed a plain wall—standard fakeout for tax-dodging rich Koreans, just bigger.
"Filming?"
A team lead confirmed. This footage? Proof for my split with Gao Xusen, propaganda for fake Black Sea Party.
Balaclava'd like Kyung-tae, I approached the wall. Outlet disguised the lock—fully wired fakeout. Yanked it—crack!—keypad popped out. Faked punching code, mana-tweaked the circuit.
Clunk! Grrrrrrind!
Locks disengaged, gears turned, door swung. Stale air wafted with dry paper scent. I knew the haul; my men gasped. Stacks of bills, bonds, gold trinkets. Antiques, East-West paintings. Just a fraction—hence the awe.
Well? Get it out.
My signal sparked action. Priority: bearer bonds/stocks, gold. Then forex like dollars. Antiques/art/fakes/tricky yuan last.
Bonds topped for easy laundering, black market premium. Bags/padding stocked for evac—standard shady vault kit.
I left for other vaults. Smaller ones paled, but a sofa-seat hide brimmed with pricey jade carvings and certs. Korea's MLM junk tainted jade as cheap; real A-grade nephrite—Chinese fave—fetched $27 mil per necklace. This speck? 800 mil yuan, 150 bil KRW.
Tough to liquidate.
Certs meant records—black market dump needed time/effort. China-only market worsened it. Years-long play. Better as evidence: Guangdong Triad busted with jade piles? Instant Black Sea collab label.
Still, pocket a couple for guanxi bribes.
Systematically looting, I hit the final hide: the wall itself. Amped mana, ripped plaster—crash!—bricks tumbled.
Post-op, Kyung-tae joined after CCTV wipe. "Lemme see... this spot? Gold? All gold bars?!"
Nose buried in sleeve, map-checked. I nodded at the red bricks—gold ingots.
"Yeah. Classic old trick."
Chinese/Jews loved it—turmoil/persecution. Clay-coat, bake—easy. Still unearthed in old Chinese homes during redev.
"Demo this, erase traces. Gao Xusen stays blind—we pocket it."
"Yessir."
Ten mil USD easy. Ship to Macau over time, not liner.
Loaded into garage: shy of five 2.5-ton trucks. Ditch bulky porcelain/paintings? Under three.
Telekinesis-loaded in a flash, hopped in with Kyung-tae, peeled out.
Exfil smooth—my eyes, fake ID. Solid hunt, I mused.
Kyung-tae at wheel: "Not planned, but we're doing China a solid."
"Huh?"
"Even partial hoard as evidence? Billions reclaimed to treasury. Better than most patriots."
"Treasury?"
His naivete hit absurd—veteran merc?
He caught my vibe, eyes front: "Uh, something wrong?"
"Wrong? Colossal fuckup. This cesspit nation?"
"Ack."
"Shortsighted, hyungnim. Sorry."
"No apology needed."
Blind spots happen. Every purge here? Loser's gold becomes winner's spoils. Crime war hauls? Same for power-holders.
The impure vein never snaps. Beasts devouring each other, chaining gold from past to now. Some leaks overseas, sure.
Today? We hijacked a filthy tributary. Impure as they come, I'll carry the chain fine.