Possession Card: Momochi Zabuza
Mike went to the garage, lifted a floorboard, and revealed the entrance to the basement.
This was Mike's secret base—used to store firearms, ammunition, and other contraband.
"When will I get a spatial ring?" Mike muttered, dreaming of one day becoming a lucky winner.
[Fantasy Manifestation] was based on Mike's knowledge from two lifetimes, so everything that came out of the [Soul Fruit] was a mix of strange and fantastical items.
There were ordinary objects—sharp samurai swords, vampire cloaks, Anbu masks, handmade clogs, and so on.
There were also special items—enchantment cards, magic scrolls, explosive tags, health recovery potions, and more.
The system included a personal storage space, but it could only hold system-generated items and was limited to just one cubic meter—far from enough. That was why Mike needed a secret base.
He cleared out unneeded items from the system space, making room for essentials.
Then he loaded it with pistols, submachine guns, grenades, magazines, samurai swords, daggers, ropes, and more.
Most of it wasn't immediately useful, but better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.
By the time he left the underground base and returned to the supermarket, it was already dusk.
At this hour, the patrolling police had grown cautious, treating everyone like potential gang members. After midnight, Hell's Kitchen belonged to the criminals. Unless someone called for help, the police wouldn't leave their station. For them, the night was just as dangerous.
Old Earl winked at Mike. "Boss, that blonde chick left. She left you this."
Mike took the tissue from Earl. Written on it was a string of phone numbers and a delicate lipstick print. Jennifer was clearly very satisfied with Mike's services and wanted to meet again.
"What was her name again?" Mike muttered as he saved her number. He was also quite satisfied—pretty face, great figure, good attitude, and skilled technique.
They had good chemistry.
"By the way, Old Earl, got anything going on tonight?" Mike asked.
"Nope," Earl replied.
"Good. You're working overtime."
Mike didn't explain why.
"Got it," Earl said with a knowing nod.
"And don't go home tonight. Stay at the supermarket. After closing, lock up everything. No matter what you hear, don't open the door," Mike instructed.
"Understood."
Earl knew Mike had something planned for the night.
After laying out a few more details, Mike headed to Old Zhou's Chinese Restaurant.
"One special Yangzhou fried rice, one beef pho, to go," he ordered smoothly.
"Coming right up."
Little Zhou, Old Zhou's son, smiled warmly. Mike's presence had made the area safer, and many locals were grateful.
Mike sat down and sent a text to Jennifer.
[Did you get home safely, cookie?]
[Arrived.]
[You were sleeping so soundly, I didn't want to wake you. I happened to be out when you left—sorry I couldn't see you off.]
[Mike, you're such a gentleman. (￣ 3 ￣)づ]
Mike blinked.
A gentleman? Really?
Guess it all comes down to looks... (¬_¬)
They chatted playfully and made plans to meet again. Shortly after, Little Zhou returned with the take-out bag.
Mike paid and left.
From the back kitchen, two people emerged.
One was the chubby Old Li. The other was a sharp-eyed, short-haired woman.
Her name was Li Qianhuan, a member of the X-Men squad active mainly in Los Angeles. She carried the latest device capable of remotely detecting X-genes.
"Not a mutant," Li Qianhuan said with slight disappointment. The X-Men were severely understaffed.
Mike didn't realize he had caught her attention. Back at the supermarket, he shared the beef pho with Earl and enjoyed the Yangzhou fried rice himself.
To suit American tastes, Chinese food here was usually sweet and spicy, but "special" meant it kept the original flavor.
After dinner and a brief chat, Mike went upstairs to plan the night's operation.
The plan was simple.
The simpler the plan, the fewer things that could go wrong. Besides, how complex did it need to be to deal with a small-time gang?
Mike slept, recharging until nearly midnight.
He woke up, took a cold shower, and changed into black tactical clothing suited for night ops.
Finally, he pulled out a special card from the system space—a Possession Card.
It was the size of a playing card, depicting a tall, grim-eyed man with no eyebrows—Momochi Zabuza.
---
[Character: Momochi Zabuza]
[Type: Possession Card]
[Usage Cost: $10,000/hour (charged in full-hour increments)]
[Note 1: Known as the "Demon of the Hidden Mist," the second wielder of the Executioner's Blade, a master of Water Release and the Silent Killing Technique. He never needs a second strike.]
[Note 2: This card does not include the Executioner's Blade. Please acquire it separately.]
---
"Use card," Mike said silently.
The card dissolved into motes of light, and a strange power surged through his limbs. He let out a low groan of satisfaction.
This... This is power. No wonder humans are so obsessed with it. It feels amazing.
Ding!
A notification chimed, snapping Mike out of his trance. The message read: $10,000 deducted from your bank account.
Mike: o(｀ω´)o*
Forget Earl—even if he did have $20,000, what's left after the system fee and commission?
Barely a thousand bucks!
All that effort… just to make the system rich.
Mike exited through the window, leaping across rooftops and walls with ease.
He wore a half-face mask—just in case.
There were hardly any security cameras in Hell's Kitchen. Even if installed, they'd be broken within an hour, so most places didn't bother.
Hell's Kitchen sat on Manhattan's west shore, along the Hudson River. There were many small docks nearby.
The Foot Clan's stronghold was in a warehouse on one of them. It was a steel structure, five meters high, covering about a thousand square meters.
Minutes later, Mike crouched on the warehouse roof.
The warehouse was well-lit and divided into four sections.
The eastern section housed the clan members—it reeked of filth and rot, a true den of scum.
The southern section was a drug lab. Chemical equipment filled the space, and a group of nearly naked workers wearing only gas masks toiled under the watchful eyes of armed guards.
The western section held cages. Inside were men, women, and children—of all colors and backgrounds. They had paid to be smuggled into the U.S. and were now imprisoned for "final payment."
Some who paid were released.
Those who didn't—
Were forced to work in the drug lab, under brutal conditions. Many died before clearing their "debt."
Young, attractive captives were often forced into prostitution.
The northern section was a storage area for weapons, packaged drugs, and other supplies.
One container caught Mike's attention.
It was shut, but from the roof, Mike caught the overwhelming scent of blood—perhaps a perk from Zabuza's enhanced senses.
Mike concentrated chakra into his feet and crept silently down the wall.
The container's door was slightly ajar, covered by a plastic curtain.
One glance inside made Mike's blood boil.
On a stainless steel table lay a male corpse, strapped down and disemboweled. The man's face was twisted in agony and terror. His organs had been harvested—alive and without anesthesia.
A former worker from the drug lab. The Foot Clan called it "waste utilization."
Inside the container stood two people in white coats.
"You are—?"
"Wai—!"
Their words never finished.
A cold gleam flashed.
Mike wiped blood from his blade, his face dark and grim.