Byrd Rodney was a native-born American.
On the surface, he ran smuggling operations through Hell's Kitchen's docks, dealing with Eastern European shipments.
At least, that's what it looked like.
When Anqiluo found him, Byrd was already standing outside his house, clearly prepared to go through the usual "conversion" routine.
At first, Anqiluo intended to follow the same pattern—say a few words, give instructions, and leave.
But then—
"Someone help—!"
"Please, save us—!"
"Help!"
Faint cries echoed from inside the house.
Women's voices.
Mixed English and clear, fluent Chinese.
Anqiluo's expression darkened instantly.
He knew there were women in America who worked in that kind of trade by choice. That wasn't his concern. People chose their own paths.
But this?
This didn't sound like choice.
"What's going on?" he asked coldly, pointing toward the house.
He already had a bad feeling.
Byrd's slightly overweight face still carried a polite smile.
But behind it, something ugly flickered.
"Just a party," he said casually. "You know how it is. Free country. Just a little crowded, that's all."
"Bring them out. I want to see them."
Anqiluo tightened his grip on the staff.
"Anqiluo," Byrd said, his smile fading as his eyes narrowed, "I'll bring the one million tomorrow. No need to get involved in this."
"I said bring them out!"
Anqiluo raised the staff and pressed it against Byrd's throat, his voice exploding with anger.
This was the angriest he had been since arriving in this world.
Even taking an RPG to the face hadn't come close.
He already understood.
Byrd wasn't just running smuggling operations.
He was trafficking people.
Even in Hell's Kitchen, that crossed a line.
If word got out, every gang in the area would turn on him.
No one wanted their own family to end up like that.
The only reason Anqiluo hadn't already crushed his skull was simple.
The victims were still inside.
If there were guards holding them, stray bullets could kill them.
"You really want to see?" Byrd said, giving a subtle signal to one of his men to head inside and "clean things up."
He was stalling.
Buying time.
Without proof, accusations meant nothing.
Unfortunately for him—
Anqiluo saw it.
The moment that man slipped away, he knew.
There were no hostages under guard.
No reason to hold back.
Now was the time.
And it had to be fast.
Anqiluo swung his staff.
In an instant, multiple jagged bone spikes shot out, streaking through the air and pinning the armed men to the ground.
The speed was so extreme that it took three full seconds before they even reacted.
Then the screaming started.
The man trying to retreat into the house was hit hardest.
Three spikes tore through his body, killing him instantly before he could make a sound.
Byrd reacted first.
Years of gunfights had sharpened his instincts.
The moment Anqiluo moved, he threw himself backward, barely escaping the attack.
"Open fire!" he shouted as he ran.
Gunshots erupted.
At this point, there was no turning back.
Deal with the threat first.
Everything else could be handled later.
But before he could get far—
A wall of bone rose up in front of him.
Solid. Pale. Unbreakable.
It sealed off the entire building.
Byrd turned.
Behind him, the gunfire was already weakening.
Anqiluo walked forward through the chaos.
Untouched.
Unhurried.
Like death itself.
With each motion of his hand, more bone spikes formed and launched into the remaining gunmen.
Some were lucky.
They were only wounded—legs shattered, bodies pierced.
Others weren't.
Their heads were obliterated in an instant.
Only now did Byrd understand what the others meant.
"Untouchable."
A monster.
But it was too late.
As Anqiluo closed in, Byrd emptied his pistol in desperation, then turned and began hammering at the bone wall.
His only chance was to grab a hostage.
Maybe—just maybe—he could survive.
But Anqiluo was faster.
After dealing with the last of the gunmen, he looked down at Byrd coldly.
With a flick of his hand, several bone spikes pinned Byrd's limbs to the ground.
Then Anqiluo opened a gap in the bone wall and walked inside.
Behind him, Byrd writhed helplessly on the ground.
Anqiluo followed the cries to the basement.
The moment he stepped inside—
The anger he had barely contained erupted again.
The basement had been turned into a prison.
Small.
Cramped.
Barely ventilated.
The air was thick, foul, almost burning to breathe.
And inside—
Less than fifty square meters.
More than seventy women.
Packed together.
Most of them were Chinese.
The rest were Eastern European.
Their clothes were torn.
Their bodies weak.
When they saw him—a stranger in bone armor—only a few Chinese women showed hope, calling out to him.
The rest looked at him with empty eyes.
Or something worse.
Relief.
As if death itself might be better than what they had endured.
Even someone completely detached would feel something at a sight like this.
For Anqiluo—
It was like gasoline on fire.
He forced himself to stay calm.
Smashed the lock.
"I'm here to get you out."
After a brief explanation, he didn't linger.
There was no time for comfort.
No words would fix this.
He had the Chinese women help guide everyone upstairs.
Out of the prison.
Then he turned back.
There was still someone waiting outside.
And this time—
It wasn't about conversion.