The air in the old district clung like molasses.
Reeking of rancid motor oil and decay.
The armored truck crushed through puddles, grinding to a halt before a steel monstrosity.
Black Dragon Society underground entrance.
What had once been an air raid shelter now served as a fortress of war. Thick alloy armor plates welded to the rock face like ugly scabs. Twin sentry guns glowed red in the darkness—bloodshot mechanical eyes tracking movement.
A pale blue runic barrier shimmered downward like an inverted dome.
Inside the barrier: a den of vice and gold. Outside: the slums.
Several ragged scavengers fought over a moldy piece of bread, scattering like startled cockroaches when the truck stopped. They melted back into the shadows, leaving only the sound of dripping water.
The door opened.
Ethan Su stepped into the mud.
He glanced down at his leather shoes, now stained with filth, and his brow furrowed slightly. The expression of a man watching his assets depreciate.
Looking up, his gaze pierced through the barrier that supposedly "could withstand tank bombardment."
Behind his glasses, cascading red data streams flooded his vision.
**[Asset: Black Dragon Society Underground Market]**
**[Estimated Value: 350 million credits (including contraband)]**
**[Defense Rating: C-Class (Xuanwu-III Array)]**
**[Assessment: Terrible interior design, but adequate as office space.]**
"The ventilation system needs work," Ethan muttered, adjusting his collar like a picky real estate inspector. "And that skull logo is tacky. Replace it with the Tax Bureau's golden scales."
Heavy footsteps splashed behind him.
Marcus "Fatty" Wang caught up, each step now leaving deep impressions in the mud thanks to his divine blood enhancement. He instinctively hunched his shoulders at the sight of the gun turrets, then felt the heat surge through his veins and straightened his chest.
"Ethan, going in direct? Word is the Black Dragon boss is a mechanic. That door's harder than a loan shark's heart."
"Hard?" Ethan pushed his glasses up his nose. "In front of the Tax Bureau, there are no hard cases."
Before the words finished echoing, speakers crackled with harsh static.
A mob of tattooed thugs poured from behind the armored door, clutching modified firearms. Their leader—a scarred bald man with a centipede tattoo across his face—chomped on half a cigar, sparks dancing in the gloom.
"Did the circus take a wrong turn?" Scarface leered through the barrier, his gaze crawling over the three visitors before settling on Ethan. "This is a members-only establishment. Entry fee's a hundred grand. Don't have it? Go drink mudwater."
The thugs erupted in laughter. Some whistled lewdly, their eyes lingering on Lyra Qing.
Ethan didn't react.
He maintained maximum tolerance for debtors about to declare bankruptcy.
From his jacket, he produced a yellowed notebook. Opened it. His voice carried clearly through the rain.
"According to the First Tax Office Temporary Site Selection Ordinance." He looked up. "This property is hereby requisitioned."
Silence.
Then laughter more violent than before.
"Requisitioned? HAHAHAHA!" Scarface laughed so hard he spat out his cigar, yanking down a control lever.
HUMMMM—!
The pale blue barrier exploded with light! Brightness tripled, low-frequency vibrations making puddles dance frantically on the ground.
"Open your damn eyes!" Scarface slammed the control panel, face twisted with malice. "Thirty million credit military-grade defense array! Your mouth won't cut it—even an artillery battalion would need half an hour of bombardment! Requisition? You're not qualified!"
Lyra's grip tightened on her sword hilt. She recognized quality work. The array pulsed with violent energy. In her prime, perhaps, but now a direct assault would mean death or worse.
"Thirty million?" Ethan studied the blazing barrier and took a step forward. "Wasteful spending."
He raised his right hand toward the light and snapped his fingers.
*Snap.*
"According to the Light Pollution Prevention Act, nighttime illumination exceeds standards by 500%."
Golden fire erupted in his eyes.
**[Executing Tax Type: Light Pollution Tax]**
**[Collection Target: Array Energy Source]**
**[Penalty Ruling: Complete Power Cutoff!]**
Like God suddenly flipping a circuit breaker.
The blue barrier that could withstand artillery fire didn't flicker or fade.
It simply—vanished.
Physical nonexistence.
The humming stopped instantly. The entire entrance plunged into deathly darkness, leaving only the pathetic red glow of Scarface's cigar ember.
Scarface's snarl froze into a mask. He frantically hammered the control panel.
Nothing.
Pulled switches.
Nothing.
The expensive equipment had become scrap metal.
The scavengers in the shadows gaped, jaws nearly dislocating.
Broken? Just like that?
Lyra stared at Ethan's back, ice crawling up her spine. She'd seen clearly—the array wasn't damaged. The spiritual circuits remained intact.
It had been *confiscated.*
The energy maintaining the barrier had been drained by some tyrannical force in that single instant.
"Sorcery... this is sorcery!" Scarface snapped back to reality, dropping his cigar and grabbing a six-barreled heavy machine gun from behind cover.
Since the barrier was gone, he'd speak in metal storms!
The black muzzle aimed directly at Ethan's forehead.
"I don't care what kind of demon you are! DIE!!"
*RATATATATATA—!*
Muzzle flash erupted! The modified armor-piercing rounds screamed out in a metallic hurricane.
At this range, even an iron man would be shredded.
"Ethan!" Fatty roared, raising the twisted car door to shield him.
A hand pressed down on his arm.
Ethan stood directly in the bullet storm's path.
No dodging. No flinching.
His lenses reflected the approaching fire line.
"This is your attitude toward tax resistance?" He shook his head with the regret of someone dealing with the legally illiterate. "Speeding in an urban area... you're over the limit."
His lips barely moved.
**[Executing Tax Type: Aerodynamic Tax]**
**[Collection Target: All Airborne Objects]**
**[Tax Rate: 100% Kinetic Energy]**
The world seemed to skip a frame.
Dozens of armor-piercing rounds carrying terrifying kinetic energy froze one meter from Ethan's nose.
No impact sounds. No sparks.
Their momentum instantly drained, converted to digits in Ethan's account.
What had been instruments of death became suspended scrap metal.
0.1 seconds later, gravity reclaimed them.
*Clink, clatter, ping.*
The bullets dropped vertically, piling into a steaming metal mound at his feet.
Wind blew. Somewhat cold.
Scarface kept squeezing the trigger until the firing pin clicked empty. His eyes bulged, staring at the bullet pile, then at his gun.
His brain went blank.
What the hell was this? Divine decree made manifest?
"Finished playing?" Ethan stepped forward.
His leather shoes crunched on hot shell casings, producing teeth-grinding sounds. One step. Another step. Like Death's countdown.
He stood before the massive alloy door, regarding the fortress like a pile of illegally constructed blocks.
"Since you refuse relocation and won't pay back taxes..." Ethan raised his right hand, palm down, and pressed toward the ground.
"According to the Illegal Construction Demolition Act." His voice carried absolute authority. "The foundation... is hereby seized."
**[Ultimate Collection: Land Use Rights (Physical Level)]**
**[Execution Range: 20 cubic meters beneath main gate]**
*RUMMMMBLE—!*
Not an explosion. A collapse.
In that instant, thousands of tons of earth and stone supporting the steel gate and defensive works simply evaporated. Converted to pure data streams and absorbed into the void.
Deprived of terrestrial support, the fortress that could withstand nuclear blasts produced tooth-grinding sounds of structural failure.
"NO—!!" Scarface managed one desperate scream.
*CRASH!!*
Dust clouds erupted skyward. The massive alloy gate and gun turrets plummeted like garbage down a drain into the suddenly appearing pit.
The earth shook violently. Shockwaves rolled outward with debris, bowling over spectators.
Ten seconds later, dust settled.
Where the mighty Black Dragon entrance once stood, only a bottomless square pit remained. The edges were perfectly smooth, mirror-like. Faint groans and metal grinding echoed from the depths.
Ethan stood at the pit's edge, his coat untouched by dust. He produced a handkerchief and wiped his hands as if he'd just disposed of garbage.
"Captain Qing." He turned to his petrified companions. "Clear the area."
Adjusting his glasses, cold light flashed. "I want assets, not corpses. Keep the ones who can work. The others... make them pay the 'breathing tax' they've owed all these years."
Lyra drew a deep breath of earth-scented air. That absurd sense of shock struck again. In this man's eyes, whether magical arrays or physical laws were merely ledgers to be edited at will.
"Yes, boss." Lyra leaped into the pit, sword drawn.
Ethan remained motionless. The moment the ruins were exposed, the [Ancient God Fragment] in his jacket pocket suddenly burned hot.
*Buzz buzz buzz—!*
**[WARNING! High-Energy Reaction Detected!]**
**[Distance: 0 meters!]**
Ethan looked down. In his [Predatory Vision], the pit's bottom wasn't seeping groundwater.
It was seeping an eerie purple-red glow.
Beneath the twisted steel gaps, a string of question-mark data that made even him uneasy pulsed with malevolent life.
Ethan narrowed his eyes, his mouth curving into a predatory smile.
"So the so-called Black Dragon Society was built on an... Ancient God seal?"
He laughed—a sound both greedy and elegant.
"Now this is what I call... a buy-one-get-one-free deal."