The city remained shrouded in a perpetual, dense fog, pierced only by the occasional silver glimmer of the church tower above.

A line of Penitents from the Church, clad in rough sackcloth robes and carrying oil lamps and censers, walked slowly through the street. They murmured verses from the scripture that exhorted virtue, a faint, lingering holy power swirling around them, pushing back the thick mist within a ten-meter radius.

A convoy of a dozen luxury RVs burst forth from the fog like phantom knights in the blackness, roughly splashing through a puddle, sending sheets of water onto the robes of the monks.

The convoy halted by the roadside, and a throng of lean, intensely built men exuding killing intent poured out of the vehicles.

They roughly shoved the monks aside, forcing them into a corner against the roadside wall. The monks, incensed, attempted to reason with the hulking figures, but dozens of potent mental surges erupting from the RVs silenced them swiftly and wisely.

Over two dozen operatives, dressed in silver trench coats, each bearing an embroidered spade insignia stitched in black thread over their left breast pocket, emerged from the vehicles. They lined up respectfully beside the door of one RV, bowing in perfect, synchronized salute.

The RV door opened slowly, and a middle-aged man stepped out, small and seemingly frail, yet possessing a head of brilliant golden hair, leaning on a staff made of black mountain rattan. He cast a brief, disgusted look over the dirty ground, frowned, and waved his staff dismissively. “Donate a million to the London City Hall tomorrow; have them renovate this entire area. Such filthy roads, riddled with potholes—it’s terribly inconvenient for the citizens. Remember, ensure at least twenty reporters are present for the donation!”

A bald man nodded deferentially. “Yes, Boss. Your beneficence will soon be known across all of Europe! Your generosity rivals that of the Church’s very saints!”

“Hmph!” The man nodded, satisfied. He glanced at the Penitents pinned against the wall by his subordinates and let out a low, displeased grunt. Tapping the bald man lightly on the shoulder with his staff, he murmured, “How many times have I told you? Low profile, always low profile! How could you treat a group of devout believers like this?”

Taking measured, deliberate steps, the golden-haired man approached the lead Penitent. He offered a dazzling smile and gave a sincere bow. “My apologies, venerable Brother. I apologize for the barbarism and rudeness of my subordinates! I shall discipline them severely when we return!”

Straightening up, he fumbled in his pocket and produced a checkbook, scribbling a few rapid lines to sign a cash check for two million.

Not allowing for refusal, he forcefully pressed the check into the hands of the lead Penitent, warmly draping an arm over the shoulder of the slightly balding monk leader, turning him to present a brilliant smile. Click. The flash bulb popped, perfectly capturing the scene: the stern monk, the beaming golden-haired man, and the distinctive purple-gold cash check from the Federal Bank.

The instant the photo was taken, the golden-haired man dropped the stunned Penitent and vigorously wiped his palm on his trousers in full view of everyone. He calmly gave his orders. “Send this picture to the Thames Gazette tomorrow; aim for a front-page feature on page two. Say it’s the devout Mr. Blackjack donating to the Church’s orphans on the street.”

The beautiful woman holding the camera winked flirtatiously at Blackjack. She sensuously swayed her slender waist. “Understood, Boss! Your charity is enough to move the Heavenly Father to grant you a blessing!”

Blackjack struck a pose, making the sign of the cross over his chest, then pulled a jade Bodhisattva suspended on a red silk cord from his collar and kissed it. He blinked, startled, then quickly tucked the jade Buddha inside his coat, pulling out a silver cord instead, from which hung a carved jade Taijitu. With a dissatisfied snort, Blackjack crossed himself again, tucked the Taijitu away, and then produced a thin, white silk thread, which he kissed with utmost piety—a pure silver crucifix.

The two dozen operatives stared up at the sky, as if studying the lack of thunderclouds that might send a bolt of lightning down to smite their boss.

“Almighty Lord, have mercy on us poor lambs!” Blackjack shook his head with theatrical pity, tucking the crucifix back inside his clothes.

Waving a dismissive hand, Blackjack led the operatives and nearly a hundred hulking enforcers into a narrow alleyway beside the road. Like a pack of rabid hounds, they sprinted several hundred meters until they reached the doorway of a dilapidated, old apartment building. The ancient doorman, seeing the menacing group charging toward him, reached for the alarm button, but Blackjack was already shouting incoherently, charging ahead and bringing his rattan staff down hard across the old man’s face.

The old man cried out, collapsing to the ground clutching his cheek, which now sported a deep, torn gash. His body began to convulse violently.

Blackjack kicked the man several times savagely. “Damn old bastard, I hate you troublemakers! Can’t you just be compliant?”

He casually pulled out a stack of bills and threw it onto the man, then turned and rushed into the doorway. But after only a few meters, he ran back, snatching half of the money back from beside the fallen doorman. He grumbled under his breath, “A little injury like this will cost a few hundred at most to fix. I’m rich, yes, but I’m not wasteful. Leaving you two thousand instead of thirty-five hundred—that’s enough for your medical treatment and some decent nutritional supplements, you old fool!”

Meticulously counting the bills he retrieved, Blackjack then suspiciously stuck his finger in his mouth, moistened it, and recounted them carefully twice more before finally stuffing the money back into his pocket with satisfaction.

He waved his hand sharply. “Brothers, move in!” Blackjack roared.

The group stormed into the apartment building, taking the elevator directly to the two hundred and twenty-eighth floor, finally arriving before the door to a studio apartment.

Blackjack’s face darkened as he barked an order. An operative, over two meters tall with corded, bulging muscles, grunted in effort. Placing both hands on the security door, he ripped the three-inch thick, solid steel barrier clean out of the wall. With a loud crash, a section of the wall around the frame crumbled, kicking up a cloud of dust. Blackjack and his men charged swiftly inside.

“Good heavens!” In the small studio apartment, no more than five meters wide and long, a handsome, oily-haired brown-haired man and a pretty green-haired woman were entangled nakedly on two stacked mattresses, vigorously engaged in humanity’s most primal act of procreation. The violent removal of the security door shocked the couple apart. The brown-haired man reached for the automatic rifle resting beside the mattress, but a heavy boot slammed down on the weapon first.

With a sharp crack, the automatic rifle was driven deep into the floorboards. The brown-haired man lifted his head in despair, screaming hoarsely, “My God, Boss, no, no—”

Blackjack stormed forward, his face grim. He swung the mountain rattan staff down hard, striking the brown-haired man’s groin.

A piercing sound of rushing air was followed by a sharp, agonizing howl as the man clutched his lower body, convulsing violently.

The green-haired woman shrieked hysterically, shaking her naked body as she desperately sought cover. But in this subsidized government housing unit, there was nowhere to hide. She thrashed a few times on the mattress, then tumbled onto the floor, clinging desperately to Blackjack’s leg.

“Oh, my dearest Boss, you’ve finally come to rescue me?” A forced smile stretched across the pretty face of the green-haired woman as she fawned, rubbing her cheek against Blackjack’s thigh.

“Rescue you? Oh, no, my dear Jennifer. Though I still recall your exquisite body, I am here to rescue my money!” Blackjack stroked Jennifer’s cheek, smiling thinly. “Where is my money? You damned whore, my money! The seven hundred and fifty million cash I entrusted you to manage!”

Jennifer’s body trembled violently, her eyes wide with terror as she stared at Blackjack.

Blackjack swung his staff, bringing it down repeatedly across Jennifer’s body. The crisp sounds echoed endlessly. Soon, her skin was covered in vivid, crisscrossing bloody welts. Before long, the welts began to tear, oozing blackish blood. Jennifer screamed in agony, writhing wildly on the floor, but the small room was packed with men, and no matter where she rolled, she could not escape Blackjack’s blows.

Blackjack roared, his voice tearing. “My money! Jennifer! My money! My money! My money!”

“You can deceive my affections, you can toy with my flesh, but you cannot steal my money! My money, my money, my money!” Blackjack stamped his feet furiously, viciously beating the screaming Jennifer, roaring aloud, “You can destroy my soul, you can destroy my body, you can destroy my faith, you can destroy my honor—it doesn't matter, I don’t value those things! But you cannot touch my money! Do you understand? That is my money!”

Crack. The tough mountain rattan staff snapped in two. Blackjack shrieked and kicked Jennifer squarely in the chest, sending her flying backward onto the mattress.

Breathing heavily, his right arm throbbing with fatigue, the weakened Blackjack turned toward the brown-haired man who was still convulsing on the mattress, clutching his damaged groin. He smirked coldly and tilted his head. The operative, strong as a bear and still carrying the torn-off security door, strode forward, grabbed the brown-haired man by his hair, and hauled him up.

A surge of jealousy washed over Blackjack as he took in the man’s toned physique, especially those perfectly chiseled eight-pack abs. Blackjack instinctively patted his own soft, drooping stomach, then spat onto the man’s face in fury. “Damn you, you could seduce my women, I wouldn’t care; you could seduce them freely, I truly wouldn't care; but you shouldn’t have seduced Jennifer and stolen my money! If you had just seduced her and run off with her, I might have gifted you a few boxes of condoms, but you shouldn't have taken my money!”

Blackjack extended his right hand; a subordinate immediately passed him a large, lit cigar. Blackjack gnashed his teeth and sucked on the cigar a few times, working hard to make the tip glow bright red. Then, he violently pressed the lit end onto the brown-haired man’s groin.

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