Chapter Sixty-One: The Soul of the Strange Beast

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June 14th

“Help, help!”
“Don’t eat me, please don’t eat me, my stomach is full of filth, I beg you!”
“Ah…”

Li Pingping felt as if she had fallen into a deep abyss, waking with a start. “What is happening to me? I keep dreaming of monsters. I need to find someone who can interpret dreams, see if this is good or bad.” With that resolution, she hurried to dress and prepare to go out.

Ding-dong—the doorbell rang.

“Who is it? I’m coming...” she muttered, annoyed. “Just about to head out and someone shows up. Ugh...” With a helpless shake of her head, Li Ping opened the door. Standing at the entrance was a man with a crew cut, dressed sharply in a suit, his posture rigid and upright.

“Excuse me, are you Li Ping?” the man asked.

“Yes, who are you? I don’t know you!” Li Ping replied nervously, feeling as though she were in one of those films where the FBI breaks in to kill someone. A bad feeling rose in her chest. Her first instinct was to close the door, but it was too late—the man had wedged his arm and foot in the way.

“What do you want? I’m calling the police!” she cried. “Help! Robbery!” Li Ping shouted at the top of her lungs.

“I advise you to be quiet if you don’t want things to get worse for yourself.” The man shoved the door open with force, causing Li Ping to fall back onto the floor, trembling uncontrollably.

With a loud bang, the man in black closed the door. He crouched down, placed his left hand on Li Ping’s head, and a strange smile twisted his lips. “I’m here today to send you off. Everything you have will soon belong to me...” He reached to his chest with his right hand.

“A gun! He has a gun!” Li Ping’s whole body shook as if she had just been pulled from an icy lake, shivering uncontrollably.

A silenced Desert Eagle appeared before her eyes. “Bon voyage!” said the man in black, pulling the trigger.

A series of muffled shots sounded—five in total. Each shot made Li Ping’s body jolt; her wide eyes stared at the man in black as wisps of black mist curled from her brow.

“Finally dead! Another beast soul for me to absorb,” muttered the man in black. He opened his mouth wide, inhaling sharply. The black mist seemed almost sentient, struggling fiercely, refusing to be drawn into the man’s body, emitting the howls of a wild creature. Yet it was no match for the man, who, satisfied with his work, watched the veins on his face bulge and then subside. “So it was a Haozhi beast, no wonder it was so foolish.” He pulled out a white handkerchief, wiped the blood from his pistol, and tossed the handkerchief onto Li Ping’s face before turning to leave.

“I’m Rayleigh, a reporter for the Warsaw Daily in New York. Today’s shooting is the third this week. Would you call this a serial crime?” A blond woman pressed a recorder toward the police chief of 15th Street Precinct.

“We’re still investigating... everything is under investigation,” replied the chief, exasperated. He knew full well the methods were identical in all three cases—five shots, a handkerchief covering the face, the handkerchief marked with a monster’s image.

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“Does the image on the handkerchief relate to the victim? Our research shows it’s a mythical beast called a ‘Taotie’! What does this suggest?” the female reporter pressed, unwilling to let the chief go.

“All still under investigation. I promise the public a satisfactory answer,” the police chief insisted.

“Hello, I’m a reporter from New York Liberty TV. What do you personally think happened?” Another reporter, this time with a camera instead of a recorder, pressed in.

The police chief, besieged by the media, was at his wit’s end, but still forced himself to answer. “As I said, everything is under investigation. I can’t solve these cases based on personal speculation. Hope you all understand.” It was the same formulaic response; clearly, the chief was used to this sort of grilling.

Inside a private villa in New York, a man in his fifties watched the news. “Looks like Master Bruce has succeeded again!” The Master Bruce he referred to was Bruce Kirk. The speaker was Bruce’s butler, Green Carter.

“You’re back, Master Bruce. Did everything go smoothly?” Green Carter knew it was his master at the door.

“Green, I’m a bit tired. I’ll rest now. In three days, I plan to go to Hokkaido, Japan. Please make the arrangements.” Bruce Kirk headed upstairs.

“Yes, sir. Everything will be ready for you at any time,” Green Carter replied promptly, the scene reminiscent of a conversation between the Waynes and their butler in Batman.

June 17th, New Chitose Airport, Hokkaido, Japan.

A Dassault Falcon 2000 private jet landed and, directed by ground staff, taxied to a VIP spot. Bruce Kirk disembarked. Though he’d planned to take his personal Airbus 500—custom made for him by Airbus—he opted for discretion; after all, he wasn’t here for anything good. A Mercedes waited by the plane. Bruce Kirk got in and was driven straight to his private apartment in Hokkaido.

“Master Bruce, we can handle the arms business ourselves. It’s an honor, but you didn’t need to come in person,” a Chinese man said. “We’ve arranged a banquet for you tonight, if you are free?”

“Fine, arrange everything as you see fit. In ten days I plan to go to Hong Kong—sort out my travel documents,” Bruce instructed simply.

June 19th

A rented apartment outside the University of Tokyo

Ding-dong...

“I’m coming, I’m coming...” Keiko Inoue went to open the door, thinking, “That must be my delivery.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Keiko greeted politely.

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“Are you Miss Keiko Inoue?” asked a Japanese man, holding a package.

“Yes, are you the deliveryman?” Keiko asked happily, thinking her cosmetics had finally arrived.

“May I come in?”

“Of course, let me make you some tea—you must be tired in this heat,” Keiko replied warmly.

As she turned to serve the tea, there was a sudden crash—the hot tea and cup shattered on the floor as a silver pistol was pressed to her brow.

“Yamete... yamete...” Keiko trembled in terror.

A muffled shot rang out. Keiko’s eyes bulged as her body collapsed, blood flowing from her like water from a broken bucket, quickly soaking her kimono a vivid red.

“Come out!” the deliveryman muttered.

A cloud of red mist rose from her brow, darting toward the window. “Trying to escape?” With a gesture, the man seized it, pulled it back, and inhaled it deeply. “Another one for Qu Ru,” he said before tossing a handkerchief over Keiko’s face.

In the Hokkaido apartment

“Master Bruce, you’re back. Here are this year’s contracts—would you like to review them?” the Chinese aide inquired.

“Leave them in the office, I’ll look at them soon. By the way, take five hundred million yen as your own spending money for the first half of the year. How are the plans for Hong Kong?” Bruce asked as he headed upstairs.

“Don’t worry, sir, everything’s ready.” The aide was overjoyed—even if yen wasn’t worth much, five hundred million was no small sum.