No one would ever believe that a car could cover twenty kilometers in just two minutes.
A car isn't a bullet train. At such speed, it would be almost impossible to stay in control.
A small twitch of the wheel could mean a rollover—car destroyed, driver dead.
In their understanding, no one had ever held a car steady above 300 km/h on a curve.
And this wasn't just one curve—twenty kilometers of highway with multiple bends.
So the American police at the scene were baffled.
From the point of the hijack to where the container was dropped… what on earth had happened in between?
Why ditch the cargo mid-run?
From the traces left on the ground, the container should have been full.
Why was it empty when they found it?
Tossed aside like garbage in the middle of the road.
So many questions. The cops couldn't piece them together.
They sensed a key clue was missing, but couldn't figure it out.
Reporters pressed them, but the police brushed them off with vague answers:
"Please wait for the final investigation results."
The area had no road cameras. No patrol units either.
Reconstructing what really happened would be nearly impossible.
Meanwhile, Leon just chuckled.
Let them rack their brains—they'd never guess his car hit 700 km/h.
Even if they did, they'd dismiss it.
No one would back such a crazy claim without seeing it with their own eyes.
With no juicy leads, the reporters switched to interviewing the medics.
"Doctor, what's the casualty report?"
"All four occupants of the crushed vehicle perished. The remains are unrecognizable."
"And the other cars?"
"Blood traces were found. Survivors clearly left on their own, likely sought medical care elsewhere."
Just a glancing hit from the container could flip a car. A direct strike? Instant death.
Those four were gone.
Leon felt no guilt whatsoever. No ripple of emotion.
Yes, their deaths had been caused by his actions—but in this line of work, you either accepted the risk or got out.
Street hijackings defied both law and fate. Eventually, someone was bound to die.
As for the survivors… would they come after him later? Hard to say.
But he wasn't too worried. He was already nearly 300 kilometers from the crash site.
That was a whole state away.
Finding him here would be next to impossible.
Whistling, Leon cleared his dishes.
Just as he finished, the system chimed again:
"Ding. New mission released—Open a car repair shop and complete your first customer order. Reward: +1 level, +100 to all attributes, plus bonus item: Super Glass."
"Eh? Super Glass? What's that?"
Leon's curiosity spiked.
Every mission brought something new—always scratching that itch.
Fixing cars? Whatever. The rewards were what mattered.
If they were good enough, he'd do anything—even arson or robbery.
So the thought of "Super Glass" intrigued him deeply.
"This is a new type of damage-tolerant metallic glass. Highly malleable, resistant to massive impacts. Blows may bend it, but never shatter it."
That was Super Glass. Stronger than bulletproof glass.
At 700 km/h, even a minor collision unleashed colossal force.
Ordinary armored glass would crack like a spiderweb under that kind of strain.
But Super Glass was different.
Even a head-on crash wouldn't leave a scratch.
The perfect match for his suited-up street thug of a car.
With this glass, he'd never have to fear pursuit again.
He wondered, though—how much did it sell for in the system store?
He opened the menu and searched.
When the price popped up, he sucked in a breath.
Ten million!
He had expected tens of thousands, at most.
But ten million?
His head spun.
"I'll take it!" he declared, then laughed with glee.
If he kept completing missions, he could push the Silver Marauder to full upgrades without spending a dime.
Saving billions in the process—what a steal.
Getting the shop open was easy. Just unlock the doors, hang an "Open" sign.
But getting a customer? That would be the real challenge.
This was a small, out-of-the-way town.
Sparse population meant fewer cars, fewer chances of business.
Would anyone even show up today?
Shaking his head, Leon rolled up the garage door and flicked on the neon "Open" light.
Then he grabbed a beer, popped the cap off with a flick of his thumb.
With his strength boosted by +200, it was child's play.
"Nice."
A woman's voice.
Leon froze, looking up.
At some point, a red convertible had pulled up in front of the shop.
A Porsche 718.
He eyed the badge. A 2.5L turbo flat-four, pushing 360 horsepower.
The moment you hit the gas, you'd feel that rush of acceleration.
But the pushback wasn't as savage as an Audi RS.
The RS's brute force devoured and tore at you.
The Porsche, though, was refined—its low center of gravity and racer's build letting it carve through corners with perfect composure, zero body roll.
"Nice ride."
The words weren't from Leon.
They came from the woman behind the wheel.