3: Chapter 3 The Dead Man in the Alley

The moment the gray light faded from his palm, a faint tingling sensation spread from his fingertips to his wrist.

[Extraction complete.]

[Material obtained: Healing Factor (Incomplete), Quality D+, stored in the system warehouse.]

[Note: Gene extraction ≠ corpse collection; the first corpse collection mission is not yet complete.]

[Time remaining: 21:21:47]

Yan Zheng: ⸜( ˙ ꒳ ˙ )⸝

He withdrew his palm and stared at the cold prompt for two seconds.

"Extraction is slicing, collection is packing; they are two different sets of settlement logic."

He whispered to himself, his gaze returning to the Mutant corpse, its bone-spur-like fingers gleaming with a waxy, deathly pallor in the light of the broken streetlamp.

There was an unnatural depression in the chest cavity, as if something had been extracted from deep within the bone marrow, but the corpse itself remained.

Yan Zheng did not linger.

Seven or eight bodies of men in black were scattered throughout the alley, the air thick with the pungent smell of gunpowder and blood; a crime scene of this scale wouldn't last long, even in Hell's Kitchen.

He turned and left through the exit at the other end of the alley, slipping back into the shadows of the street network.

Repair progress: 14%. The dull ache in his ribs had faded to a faint soreness, and his steps were much steadier.

Three blocks later, he heard voices.

Not gunshots, but human voices, kept very low, carrying that distinct, slurred, rolling tongue characteristic of an Irish accent.

"Damn it, this guy is much heavier than he looks. You take the legs."

"I'm fucking lifting, can you walk any faster? You're stepping on my shoes, you know that?"

"You're wearing two-hundred-dollar shoes to move a corpse?"

"Three-hundred-twenty. These are limited edition. You don't know shit."

Yan Zheng halted his steps, pressed silently against the alley wall, and glanced over.

A three-meter-wide dead-end alley, about ten meters deep, with a wall at the end.

Two burly White men were hunched over, laboriously dragging a corpse toward the alley entrance.

Black leather jackets, shamrocks tattooed on their necks.

The Irish Gang.

Yan Zheng: ( ⌐■_■ )

The tall one cursed as he walked backward, white mist spraying from his mouth.

"This Mexico guy had it coming. Who else could he have done business with? He just had to get mixed up with Vladimir and those Russian broads."

"What did Ronnie say?"

The short one tugged at the corpse's ankle, holding an unlit cigarette in his other hand, his tone impatient.

"Ronnie said it doesn't matter if we didn't get the stuff, the guy has to disappear. Can't let the Russians find out it was us."

"Dump him in the river?"

"The usual rule. The van is parked at the intersection ahead."

"Fine. When we're done, I'll buy you a drink to warm up. This damn weather is freezing my balls off."

The short one suddenly chuckled.

"By the way, that kick you gave the Asian kid who runs the Antique Shop last week—that made a hell of a noise. I could hear his ribs crack from outside."

"That little bastard needed a lesson. Three months of protection money, not a cent paid. Even Ronnie was getting annoyed."

The tall one scoffed dismissively.

"Next time we go, we'll just smash up his shitty shop and let him know how the rules in Hell's Kitchen are established."

The short one: ꉂ(σ▰σ)

"Don't do that. Ronnie said that street belongs to Doug. If you smash up his shop, you have to clear it with Doug first."

"That coward Doug? I…"

The conversation ended there.

Yan Zheng had no interest in listening to the second guy brag any longer.

He bent down and picked up a half-meter-long iron pipe from the base of the wall. Its surface was mottled with rust, and it had a good weight to it.

Rust powder rubbed off onto his palm, feeling cold to the touch.

The tall one exited the alley first, walking sideways and backward, his hands supporting the corpse's armpits, his eyes fixed on the ground.

The back of his head was completely exposed.

The iron pipe whistled through the air in a short arc, striking precisely at the junction of the back of the head and the cervical spine.

A dull thud.

The tall one didn't even grunt; his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed forward, his hands releasing the corpse, letting its upper body slam into the ground.

"Fuck!"

The short one dropped the corpse's ankle and reached for his lower back with his right hand.

Too slow.

Yan Zheng took a step, the iron pipe precisely striking the opponent's outstretched wrist with the weight of his entire body.

The sound of bone shattering was like stepping on a dry branch.

The short one: ( °Д° )！

The scream was barely halfway out when the iron pipe swung horizontally, jamming into his open mouth like a pestle.

Shattered teeth mixed with bloody foam dripped from the corners of his mouth.

"Shh."

Yan Zheng held his index finger to his lips, his voice as gentle as if reminding someone to be quiet in a library.

"Sir, disturbing the peace late at night is very rude, don't you think?"

The short one's eyes widened, making muffled sounds with the iron pipe in his mouth.

Yan Zheng stared at him for two seconds, then gave a light push with his wrist.

The short one's eyes bulged, his body convulsed once, and he collapsed to the ground.

Yan Zheng: ( ‾ ́ ◡ ‾ ́ )

It took no more than eight seconds in total.

He tossed the iron pipe aside and bent down to check on the two men; both were breathing, just completely unconscious.

He fished a Glock from each of their waists, ejected the magazines to check the ammunition—one fully loaded, one mostly full—and tucked them both into the inside of his jacket.

He found over six hundred in cash, pried the batteries out of their two phones, and tossed them into the roadside sewer.

After doing this, he walked toward the corpse of the Mexico man in the center of the alley and crouched down.

About thirty years old, medium build, the back of his head smashed in by a blunt object, the blood already congealed and black.

An ordinary person, no Mutant traits.

Yan Zheng placed his right hand flat on the deceased's back.

[Ordinary human corpse (intact) detected. Collect?]

"Collect."

A dark green glimmer spread from his palm, and the deceased's body seemed to be decomposed by an invisible solvent, turning into fine black mist starting from the point of contact, silently surging into Yan Zheng's palm.

Three seconds later, only a pool of dried blood and a set of empty clothes remained on the ground.

Yan Zheng: ꒰ ᐡ ⸝ ⸝ • ༝ • ⸝ ⸝ ᐡ ꒱

His Mental Power trembled slightly deep within his mind.

[First corpse collection complete.]

[Mental Power +1, current Mental Power: 8/8.]

[Reward issued: Basic Undead Assembly Blueprint x1 [Skeleton Soldier].]

[24-hour countdown mission complete. The system will no longer reclaim the host's life force.]

The noose hanging over his head loosened.

Yan Zheng slowly exhaled a long breath, stood up, and brushed the dust from his palms.

The night wind filled his lungs; the chill of December had never felt so refreshing.

He turned and walked toward the alley entrance, pausing for a moment as he passed the two unconscious thugs, looking down at them.

"I'll remember your generosity, gentlemen."

Footsteps faded into the night wind, leaving only the final sentence, as if spoken to the air.

"Next time we meet, I hope your bones are harder than this gentleman's tonight, otherwise you won't even qualify to be materials."