57: Chapter 57 Security Window

"The ticket price is all of his chips."

This sentence had been spinning in Yan Zheng's mind for three days, transforming from an abstract gambler's manifesto into a battle plan precise to the minute.

June 17th, 4:00 PM.

Old Jack's bar was still in its usual lifeless state. Daytime drunks lay on the bar counter yawning, someone was watching a horse racing broadcast in the corner, and the static noise from the TV filled the entire space.

When Yan Zheng pushed the door open, Old Jack was pouring Coke into a whiskey glass. Seeing him, he shoved the Coke bottle underneath.

"Boss Yan, here to fish for information again?"

"Jack, the tone you're using makes it sound like I never spend money whenever I come here."

Yan Zheng sat down in the corner seat, pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, and slapped it on the bar counter.

"I'll order something proper today, bourbon, on the rocks."

Old Jack raised an eyebrow, took a bottle of Wild Turkey from the shelf, and poured two fingers' worth, pushing it over.

"When Boss Yan takes out twenty bucks to order a drink, it usually means there's something big to ask."

"Jack, your ability to read people is wasted on you; you could be a psychologist."

Yan Zheng picked up the glass and took a sip; the sound of ice cubes clinking against the glass walls was exceptionally crisp in the afternoon bar.

"I want to know when the war between Kingpin and The Hand will officially begin."

"Are you asking too early or too late?"

Old Jack held an unlit cigarette in his mouth, squinting at him.

"This Saturday night."

Yan Zheng's fingers paused against the glass wall.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Old Jack leaned forward, lowering his voice to a level only the two of them could hear.

"I just heard it from the Russian Gang at noon today. Ranilov's men have already received Kingpin's deposit; five hundred thousand dollars were wired to their Swiss account."

"Saturday night at ten, all three fronts will move at the same time."

"Three fronts?"

"Right, Kingpin has gone all out this time."

Old Jack held up three fingers, bending them down one by one.

"The first front, the Russian Gang attacks from the north, targeting that known stronghold of The Hand on 55th Street."

"The second front, Kingpin's own men flank from the east, blocking The Hand's retreat toward the docks."

"The third front, the motorcycle gang infiltrates from the south, responsible for disrupting The Hand's communication network."

Yan Zheng held his bourbon glass, the corners of his mouth curving behind the rim.

"Three-sided encirclement, leaving only the west."

"Right, the west is the Hudson River; if The Hand wants to run, they'll have to jump into the river."

Old Jack took the cigarette out of his mouth, held it between his fingers, and twirled it.

"This fight won't be quiet; the entire West Side from 45th Street to 57th Street will become a battlefield."

"Boss Yan, you'd better not go out on Saturday night; just stay in your shop and watch TV."

Yan Zheng finished the last sip of bourbon in the glass, the ice cube sliding to his lips and then sliding back.

"Jack, how long do you think this fight will last?"

"How long?"

Old Jack thought for a moment, tapping his fingers on the counter a few times.

"Those ninjas from The Hand aren't pushovers. Even with Kingpin's three-sided encirclement, it'll take at least two or three hours to completely chew through a stronghold."

"Adding the initial contact and the cleanup afterward, from the start at ten to finishing up around two or three in the morning, it'll be about four or five hours."

"Four to five hours."

Yan Zheng repeated this number in his mind.

"During that time, what will the state of the East Side be?"

Old Jack tilted his head, his gaze at Yan Zheng carrying a hint of "what exactly are you plotting."

"The East Side? On Saturday night, everyone capable of moving will have gone to the west to fight; I doubt there'll be a single dog left in the East Side."

"What about that Red Devil?"

"You mean Daredevil?"

Old Jack sneered.

"With hundreds of people in the West Side holding guns and hacking at each other, do you think that guy in red will be able to sit still? He'll definitely be the first one to rush over to play peacemaker."

"The Punisher?"

"That goes without saying. That guy hears gunshots like a shark smells blood; he's bound to dive into the place with the most people."

He stood up, pushed the empty glass back to the bar, and turned his fingers in his pocket.

"Jack, Saturday night, ten o'clock to three in the morning."

"Hmm?"

"Five hours. The entire East Side, no gangs, no vigilantes, no The Punisher."

Yan Zheng turned up his trench coat collar, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting the sunset coming in through the bar door.

"Such a beautiful night, it would be a waste not to do something."

Old Jack took the empty glass to rinse it without looking up.

"Boss Yan, I don't want to know what you're going to do."

"Jack, you don't need to know anything."

Yan Zheng walked to the door, turning back when he pushed it open.

"If you hear any strange noises from the East Side on Saturday night, just assume it's sewer rats fighting."

"The sewers on my street only have cockroaches."

"Then it's cockroaches fighting."

That night, in the basement of the Antique Shop.

Yan Zheng squatted at the entrance of the stairs leading to the Underground Room, holding a Phillips screwdriver, with an iron plate he had just removed in front of him.

He spent two hours installing three physical deadbolts on the inside of the secret door, each made of solid steel. Once locked, they couldn't be kicked open from the outside.

Then, he placed two ordinary Skeleton Soldier in the niche in the middle of the stairs, adjusted the ghost fire to the dimmest setting, and set them to fixed-sentry mode.

"Fixed sentry doesn't consume control slots; it can only execute one command: when a living being other than myself is detected entering the stair range, emit an alarm pulse."

Yan Zheng dusted off his hands and nodded at the two Skeleton Soldier embedded in the wall recesses.

"Mr. Sentinels, your job is very simple."

"On Saturday night, if anyone touches that door, scream."

"Can you do that?"

The ghost fire of the two Skeleton Soldier flickered simultaneously, like two lighters pressing their igniters at the same time.

Yan Zheng turned around satisfied and walked down the steps to the workbench.

He opened the system panel, retrieved the materials one by one from the storage area, and arranged them on the table in the order of the assembly plan.

First slot on the left, The Hand ritual-strengthened skeleton, the highest quality one, with faint black patterns on the bone surface.

Second slot on the left, Epidermal Keratin Strengthening gene, encapsulated in a fist-sized dark red crystal sphere.

First slot on the right, Photon Absorption and Release gene, golden, like a miniature Sun frozen in amber.

Second slot on the right, blood of the black sky catalyst, ink-black liquid in a glass container as thick as a finger.

In the middle, high-temperature energy residue, a small mass of orange-red gaseous substance that was forever glowing slightly, sealed by the system in a transparent cube container.

Five materials, one blueprint, 84.7% success rate.

Yan Zheng stood in front of the assembly table, fingers gently stroking the golden photon gene crystal.

The moment his fingertips touched the surface of the crystal, a warm energy traveled up his skin, like touching a cup of freshly brewed hot tea.

"Alright."

He pulled his hand back and stepped back to look at the entire table.

Everything was ready.

Three days later, on Saturday night, when the entire West Side of Hells Kitchen was plunged into a sea of fire and a hail of bullets, he would quietly complete a work of art in this unknown Underground Room.

Yan Zheng leaned against the edge of the workbench, his gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses falling on that photon gene crystal, the curve of his mouth carrying a layer of warmth more than usual.

Not the warmth for a person.

It was the warmth for a creation.

"Gentlemen."

He spoke to the five silent materials on the table, his tone as gentle as a museum docent.

"Three days from now, you will become a masterpiece."

"I promise you that."