One hour later.
Locke smiled and waved goodbye to the police officer who had driven him home.
The officer had even left him his personal number—in case Locke ever needed anything.
Once the man stepped into the elevator and the doors closed, Locke quietly shut the door to his apartment.
His expression darkened.
Stripping off his shirt, he walked into the bathroom and carefully began unwrapping the bandages he'd just used to cover his injuries.
The dozens of cuts left behind by shrapnel? Gone without a trace.
Level 3 Endurance!
He was as resilient as a cockroach.
— Gulp!
Locke stepped out of the bathroom, walked over to his mini-bar, pulled out a bottle of bourbon, poured himself a glass—and downed it in one go.
No ordinary sixteen-year-old could buy alcohol.
But Locke wasn't ordinary.
And now...
He went upstairs, into his study on the second floor.
There, he opened his special laptop, logged into the [Continental Hotel]'s secure site, and clicked on the chat window in the corner.
Unrivaled: You there?
Not the Red Devil: Speak.
Unrivaled: A body dropped onto a car in Manhattan tonight. I want to know who it was.
Not the Red Devil: Wait.
Locke leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the message.
The NYPD had their own way of investigating crimes.
But the underworld? It had its own network.
And often, that network solved murders faster than any law-abiding organization ever could.
Even if Locke wasn't a master of stock market manipulation, the shadows gave him plenty of tools to confuse the market and make a profit.
Of course...
Shadow-world intel could be hit or miss.
But the source Locke was using now? Solid.
He'd worked with this informant back in Texas, and the guy had proven himself reliable.
Locke had also taken a few private contracts from him. Solid business partner.
As long as the [System] issued rewards, Locke was always open to work.
And this contact?
Locke strongly suspected it was the legendary underworld informant—Red Devil.
Not that he was chatting with the Red Devil directly, of course.
Most likely just an employee.
After all, the name "Red Devil" carried serious weight—far more than Locke's. People were hitting him up for business practically every second of the day.
Locke? Just another client.
A moment later...
A response came through.
Not the Red Devil: 100,000 bucks.
Unrivaled: That's robbery. Since when does a name cost that much?
Unrivaled: I know your boss. Give me a discount—we've been working together for years.
Not the Red Devil: Hold.
Unrivaled: Fine.
Locke scratched his chin—stubble already growing back—and stared at the screen.
A hundred grand to ID one guy?
Since when did money become this disposable?
Sure, for assassins, it was easy come, easy go... but the last couple of days had cost Locke a fair bit.
Also...
If he stopped taking contracts now, then by next year the IRS might roll up to his front door in a tank, demanding a "friendly chat" about tax evasion.
Not the Red Devil: Asked the boss. He confirmed—you're a friend. We'll give you the info for free.
No one makes deals that benefit only one side.
Unrivaled: What's the catch?
Not the Red Devil: You owe him one free job. If it's worth more than this intel, we'll balance the difference later.
Unrivaled: Deal.
Locke typed just two words.
There's no such thing as love or hate without a reason in this world.
And he wasn't about to beg for charity—freebies usually came with the highest hidden costs.
This was fair.
Equivalent exchange.
That's how it should be. Whether the [System] issued a [Mission] for it or not—it didn't matter. If it did, great. That meant the guy deserved it. No guilt needed.
Eventually, justice had to prevail in this world.
And if not...
Then why not let Locke be the one to deliver it?
Ding-dong.
Locke opened his underworld inbox and clicked the message.
His eyebrow twitched.
What the hell?
Male. Thirty-five. Codename: Mister X.
Affiliation: Fraternity of Weavers.
Occupation: Assassin.
Excuse me?
Mister X?
Fraternity of Weavers?
An assassin?
A fellow shadow operative?
What the hell?
Ding!
[Mission Completed].
Reward: 1000 [Achievement Points], 1000 [Potential Points], 10% discount coupon for the [Store].
Ding!
[Mission Created].
Mission Title: My Life is Mine, Yet I Am Powerless to Change It.
Reward: 1000 [Achievement Points], 1000 [Potential Points], Store Coupon.
Mission Description:
There is a Loom of Fate in this world, a machine said to channel the will of God himself.
There exists a group that obeys that will—executing one person, ten, a hundred, a thousand.
Any name that appears on the Loom must be erased.
But what if the name that appears… is yours?
Note: If fate exists in this world, it has no right to judge you, [Player].
— What the…
Locke furrowed his brow.
The Loom of Fate?
The Fraternity of Weavers?
Wanted?
"Are you kidding me? My name ended up on that damn Loom?"
His eyes narrowed, face full of disbelief.
Was this Loom even real?
Naturally, Locke had seen Wanted. He knew the Fraternity existed in this world, and had even planned—after settling down in New York—to pay their textile factory a little visit.
After all…
Curve-shooting bullets?
That was a legendary skill.
A unique, specialized ability of the Fraternity.
But...
He hadn't even had time to visit their factory—how the hell did his name end up on the Loom?
Did he offend some blond old man?
Locke blinked, trying to make sense of it.
No.
The Loom of Fate was real. Sloan hadn't faked it.
He genuinely believed he was executing divine justice.
But when Sloan's own name came up, he completely lost it—and started using the Loom for his own agenda.
So it wasn't fake...
But maybe Sloan was fabricating names now?
No… unlikely.
Why would they go after some random high schooler?
Unless...
Fate itself wanted Locke dead?
Locke raised an eyebrow.