Lin Hao was no longer a "student." He was a "hidden boss," and he was on a deadline.
He stood in the center of his leaky, cold, condemned warehouse. He was in his full, new wargear.
The Low-Grade Spirit Rank Concealment Robe (Qi-Masking) was on. He was a man-shaped shadow, his [Level 7] aura completely, perfectly, sealed. He was, to all supernatural senses, a ghost.
The Low-Grade Spirit Rank Perception-Filter Mask was on. His face was a smooth, gray, featureless void. He was, to all mortal senses, an unmemorable nothing.
In his hand, he held two items.
The first was a brand-new, $20, untraceable burner phone. The second was a small, velvet-lined, anonymous black box. Inside it, one of the ten Minor Vitality Pills pulsed with a soft, pearl-white, living light.
He had a product. He had a persona. He needed a broker.
He couldn't use Old Man Feng. This was a billion-dollar play, not a 15-million-dollar alley deal. He needed a broker with power, with access to the real elite, and, most importantly, someone who was terrified of him.
He had the perfect candidate.
He had spent an hour with his laptop and his [Level 7]-enhanced mind, "walking" through the BSA's "secure" servers. He now had the private, direct, panic-line number for the man in charge of the entire provincial BSA. Director Zhou.
He turned on the burner phone. He used a simple, pre-downloaded, digital voice modulator app. He didn't want to sound "deep" or "menacing." He wanted to sound inhuman. He chose a setting: "Synthetic Monotone. Null-Frequency."
He dialed.
The phone rang twice. A man answered, his voice sharp, stressed, and barking. "...and I told you, I want all satellite footage of the..."
"Director Zhou."
The voice that came from the phone was not a voice. It was a cold, perfectly flat, synthetic sound. It had no gender, no accent, no life.
On the other end of the line, in a high-rise, BSA command center, Director Zhou froze. His blood, which had been pumping with anger, turned to ice. He knew, with an absolute, primal certainty, who this was.
"This... this is a secure line," Zhou stammered, his "tough-guy" persona vanishing. "Who is this?"
"You have been searching for me," the synthetic voice stated. It wasn't a question.
Zhou stopped breathing. He was on the phone with the "Man in the Gray Mask." The Level 5-killing, finger-flicking boogeyman.
"What..." Zhou's voice was a dry croak. "What do you want?"
"I am not your enemy, Director," the voice said. "I am... a businessman. I am offering a show of goodwill. A gift."
"A... a gift?"
"The public fountain at City Hall. Inside the north-side planter, there is a small, black box. It contains one 'Minor Vitality Pill.' You have ten minutes to retrieve it. Come alone. If you do not, this line is closed forever."
Click.
The line was dead.
Lin Hao, the "Masked Expert," didn't wait. He moved, a black-robed shadow, leaping from his warehouse roof, a ghost in the city's night. He was on a rooftop, a block from City Hall, in two minutes. He dropped the small, black box into the planter.
And he watched.
He was a Level 7 cultivator. He could see in the dark.
Six minutes later, a black, armored BSA SUV, not a civilian car, tore up the street, its sirens off. It slammed to a halt. Director Zhou, a stout, powerful-looking man in a tactical suit, a Level 4: Grandmaster, Lin Hao noted with clinical detachment, leapt out.
He ran, his "Prodigy"-level speed a blur, to the planter. He plunged his hand into the dirt. He found the box.
He opened it.
Even from a block away, Lin Hao saw the Director flinch. The light from the pill, that soft, pulsing, living glow, was so potent, it illuminated the Director's face in the dark.
Zhou stared at the pill, his "Grandmaster" senses screaming at him. This wasn't a drug. This was life.
He slammed the box shut. He got in his car. He was gone.
One Hour Later. BSA Medical Wing.
"He's crashing, Director! He's crashing!"
The room was a sterile, white, medical hell. "Rhino," the one-armed Level 2 Adept who had survived the tiger, was dying. His body, ravaged by a Level 5 Qi-infused poison from the tiger's claws, was septic. His one good arm was strapped to a bed, his body convulsing.
"We can't stop the necrosis!" a doctor yelled. "His 'Awakened' body is rejecting the anti-venom! He's... he's gone."
The heart monitor, in a long, final, beeeeeeeeeep, flatlined.
"Clear!" a medic shouted, charging the paddles.
"Stop."
Director Zhou pushed them aside. He was holding the small, pearl-white pill.
"Sir, he's dead!" "Then it doesn't matter," Zhou snarled.
He ripped Rhino's oxygen mask off, pinched the dead man's nose, and shoved the glowing, Minor Vitality Pill into his mouth, forcing his jaw shut.
For a second, nothing. The beep was still flat.
And then... thump-thump.
The heart monitor jumped. THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP.
"What... what did you do?" the doctor whispered.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!
The monitor wasn't just beating. It was sprinting. A wave of steam suddenly rose from Rhino's body. The black, necrotic, septic veins that had been covering his skin vanished. His pale, gray, dead skin flushed a deep, healthy, vibrant red.
Rhino's eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright on the table, and roared, a pure, vital, animal scream of returning life.
He wasn't just not dead. He was perfectly healthy.
Director Zhou stared, his hands shaking, his mind reeling from the divine power he had just witnessed.
Two Minutes Later.
Lin Hao stood on a dark, windy rooftop, his black robes fluttering. His burner phone rang.
He answered. He did not speak.
He heard a long, shaky, terrified breath on the other end.
"What..." Director Zhou's voice was a dry, rasping, reverent whisper. The voice of a man who had just spoken to a priest, and then seen the god.
"...what do you want?"
The "Masked Expert's" synthetic, cold, inhuman voice replied, cutting through the night.
"I want an audience."
"With... with who?" Zhou stammered. "The President? The Guardian Families?"
The synthetic voice scoffed, a short, sharp, "tsk" of static. "No. I am not interested in children with Gongfa. I want an audience with the real power. The ones who sign your checks."
"I... I don't..."
"The three richest, sickest, dying old men in this country. You will find them. You will arrange it."
"But... that's impossible! I can't just...!"
"They will be at the abandoned 'Sector 4' Industrial Warehouse, the one your patrols are so 'curious' about. They will come alone. They will be scanned for weapons, recorders, and BSA trackers. If I find any, the deal is off."
"I... wait..."
"You have until midnight. Tonight."
Click.
The line was dead.