Madam Gao

"Zilla..."

There was a faint sound.

The arrow on the Elemental Bow in Blaine's hand suddenly changed.

Unlike ordinary arrows or flame arrows, this one gave off an unbearable scent.

Not a stench—

But a poison so potent it seemed capable of corroding flesh.

The smell alone was enough to poison someone, making treatment nearly impossible.

"Let me go!"

Harold finally collapsed. He couldn't take it anymore and began to beg desperately.

"Please! Let me go!"

"Wait! The Rand Corporation—yes, the Rand Corporation! I have money! A lot of it!"

"As long as you let me go, the entire Rand Group is yours!"

"It's only 300 million! Please, let me go!"

Harold, who always seemed calm and in control—ruthless, even willing to abandon his own son—now looked like nothing more than a dog groveling for its master.

As he begged for Blaine's mercy, Harold appeared to be just another desperate, middle-aged man, broken and pitiful.

But Blaine knew better.

He knew what filth hid beneath that face.

A hypocrite—that's what Harold was.

On the surface, he appeared dignified and noble, but in truth, he was despicable and shameless. Even now, crying and offering up Rand Corporation as a bribe, Blaine knew that if Harold were given the slightest chance, he would kill Blaine without hesitation.

Given the choice between a real villain and a hypocrite, Blaine would always prefer the former.

At least villains were honest about who they were.

It wasn't that Harold was too formidable—Blaine just had no interest in engaging with people like him.

And Harold had miscalculated.

If Blaine were the kind of Bounty Hunter who cared only for money, maybe he'd take the deal and then kill Harold afterward.

But he wasn't.

If people like Harold didn't exist, the world might be a better place.

"Bye-bye..." Blaine said it calmly, without emotion.

The words had barely left his mouth when Harold's eyes widened in terror.

The dark green arrow pierced Harold's skull. Red and white matter slowly oozed out. Then, the arrow seemed to dissolve into dozens of green snakes, slithering rapidly across Harold's body.

A foul stench began to spread.

Within moments, Harold's skin turned completely green.

Right before Blaine's eyes, Harold melted into a puddle of foul-smelling green goo, soaking the floor beneath him.

[Mission complete.]

[The system will deduct 300,000,000 dollars from the task publisher's assets and transfer it to the host's account within one minute.]

Blaine smiled.

The system came in handy sometimes. Not a bad day—his anger was gone, and he'd earned 300 million.

Suddenly—

Blaine's telepathy, which had been active the whole time, picked something up.

Someone was approaching the penthouse.

A young man. Similar to Harold.

Ward?

Blaine had been planning to leave, but now… he decided to wait.

He sat on the couch, waiting for poor Ward.

"Dad! … Why are you here?!"

Ward, unaware that he'd been betrayed by his father, shouted instinctively—only to see Blaine sitting calmly on the sofa. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

He clutched his chest, trying to steady himself.

"Why am I here? As your father's accomplice… don't you think that's a funny thing to say?"

Blaine stood up, eyes playful, walking toward Ward step by step.

"Wait! Wait—! Don't come any closer!"

Blaine didn't kill him.

He simply broke Ward's hand.

But for someone like Ward, the pain was far beyond anything he could bear.

Unsurprisingly, he passed out on the spot.

Blaine just shrugged and left the penthouse.

The job was done—Harold was dead, revenge served, money secured. What was the point of staying? Sleep here?

But what Blaine didn't know was—

Not long after he left, a new figure appeared at the penthouse window.

In the silence of the night, the scene looked strangely eerie.

Bathed in moonlight stood three figures: two men and a woman. Two middle-aged men and one old woman.

The men wore black suits—one black, one white.

And between them stood a short old woman, her face leathery, her features sharp and hunched over, leaning on a cane. She looked frail—like a single push would knock her over.

But anyone who knew her would never underestimate her.

She was—

One of the Five Fingers of the Hand: Madam Gao, who ran her own heroine operation in Hell's Kitchen.

"Sniff—"

Madam Gao's nose twitched slightly. Her brow furrowed. She tapped her cane and spoke in a heavily accented voice:

"Turn on the lights."

The 'Black and White Duo' behind her didn't respond verbally. Like machines, they moved quickly and efficiently, lighting up the entire apartment.

Madam Gao leaned on her cane and approached the foul-smelling puddle of blood and pus.

She stared at the scene before her.

Blood. Arrows. Decay.

What had happened here?

She turned toward the black-suited man. "Go check it."

The man nodded respectfully. In a few swift steps, he stood before the pool of filth. He extended a finger to touch the pus and bring it to his nose.

But the moment he made contact—

It was like touching acid.

A corrosive hiss filled the air as dark green toxin shot up his arm.

Pain that no normal human could endure surged through him. He staggered back, clutching his arm tightly to stop the spread.

The change had come so suddenly, it startled even the seasoned killers.

But Madam Gao remained unmoved.

"Help him. Cut it off."

"Yes."

The white-suited man nodded, stepped forward, exchanged a brief glance with his partner, then unsheathed a razor-sharp blade from his belt.

With a clean swing, he severed the infected arm.

Blood sprayed as the black-suited man let out a beastly howl, drenched in cold sweat.

Madam Gao paid it no mind.

Her eyes remained fixed on the pool of gore.

A trace of surprise flickered across her face.

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