Chapter 14

Weasel looked at Noah Clover, speechless, thinking to himself how thick-skinned this guy was.

"I've got what you wanted," Weasel said, pulling out a folder and placing it in front of Noah. "This is your new identity. It's got everything—fake ID info, driver's license, medical records, Social Security number. As long as you don't mess with the IRS, you should be fine. Under normal circumstances, no one's going to notice anything."

The IRS—the Internal Revenue Service, also known as the most feared government department in the U.S. Even the FBI and CIA take a backseat to them. There's a reason people say the only certainties in America are death and taxes.

Noah couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. Does he have to pay taxes on stolen goods?

Still, he had to admit, Weasel was good at his job.

A few days ago, Noah had scraped together enough cash for the down payment and asked Weasel to forge a fake identity. It was done quicker than he expected, which was a huge relief. Without a legal identity, navigating life in the city would have been impossible.

Noah tucked the folder away and casually asked, "How's Wade doing?"

Weasel shrugged. "I'm not sure. Last I saw him was two days ago. He was covered in blood—looked like he found some underground group tied to Francis. You know how he gets."

Weasel didn't elaborate, but Noah understood. "Yeah, Wade's been pretty busy lately. He's been holding back for a while, so it makes sense he's blowing off steam."

Noah knew exactly what Weasel was implying.

As Wade's friend, Noah was well aware of how much Wade had suffered in the institute—mentally and physically. Wade was left scarred, and if it weren't for his iron will, he might've gone insane. So, Noah completely understood Wade's need to go on a rampage.

In fact, Noah had become a little unhinged himself. If someone had told him before that he'd one day be taking lives, he wouldn't have believed it. Now, he did it with unsettling ease.

But Noah knew his limitations. Unlike Wade, who could throw himself into danger headfirst, Noah wasn't ready to face someone like Francis. Sure, the experiment gave him a Regenerative Healing Factor, but that didn't make him a fighter. Against regular people, he could hold his own, relying on his self-healing to wear them down. But against mutants like Francis, Noah would be little more than a punching bag.

That's why his focus was on unlocking the next achievement. He needed new, high-level talents to stand a chance.

"Enough about that. Got any new commissions for me? I'm itching for a fight!" Noah said excitedly, clutching the black box. Criminals needed to be put in their place, and he was ready to do it.

But Weasel's answer wasn't what Noah expected.

"Honestly, there aren't any commissions that match your criteria."

Noah's excitement vanished. "You're kidding, right?"

Weasel sighed. "You have to understand, these jobs come from employers. Unless someone has a personal grudge, no one's going to pay to take out a bunch of gangsters."

Most mercenaries would get a break between jobs, at least a few days to rest. But Noah? He was finishing a job almost every day, more diligent than anyone out in the field.

If this kept up, other mercenaries might soon find themselves out of work.

Hearing what Weasel said, Noah Clover felt a wave of disappointment. He'd been planning to choose the easiest commission to complete the system's unlocking conditions, but things weren't going as smoothly as he hoped. He still needed to eliminate eight more sinful villains to meet his target.

Noah was starting to feel the pressure.

Thinking quickly, he tried to tempt Weasel again, leaning in with a grin. "Come on, don't you want to try my villain training tool? It's a lot of fun."

"I'm gonna have to pass," Weasel said, his eye twitching.

He'd already pieced together what Noah's so-called "villain training tool" was used for, and he wanted no part of it.

"Fine," Noah sighed, giving up. "Just recommend me some commissions where the targets are gangsters."

Weasel quickly sorted through a stack of black cards, handing a few over to Noah. As Noah flipped through them, one commission in particular caught his eye.

"This one," Noah said, pulling out the black card. "I'll take this job."

"You sure about that? Just a heads-up, it's not going to be an easy one."

"I don't take fights I'm not ready for," Noah replied confidently. "Oh, and by the way, I need to buy something."

"What are you looking for?"

"C4."

...

That night, fog crept through the streets of Brooklyn, casting an eerie glow under the streetlights. A heavy truck sat parked on the side of the road, its engine idling quietly.

Under the dim lights, a group of burly men climbed out of the truck. Without hesitation, they opened the rear compartment and pulled out automatic rifles. Unconcerned about prying eyes, they left one man outside to stand guard while the rest swaggered down a dark alley.

The sharp sound of boots splashing through puddles echoed off the alley walls. Mud and filthy water splattered across the pavement as one of the men—a stocky guy with a cheap cigar hanging from his mouth—grumbled in thick Russian, cursing under his breath. He wiped the water from the metal box he carried and flicked the mud from his pants before leading the group to a large iron door.

The building looked like a frozen warehouse.

The Russian thug spat out his cigar, knocked on the iron door, and waited.

A muffled voice came from within. "Who's there?"

"Vladimir sent us to pick up the goods."

"Hold on."

The rusty iron door creaked open with a screech.

The group of Russians stepped inside, rifles ready.

The warehouse was cramped, a small square room of about 40 square meters. Frozen pork hung from hooks in the ceiling, swaying gently. Around a metal table in the center, several men sat playing poker, chips and banknotes strewn across the table.

Seeing the Russians enter, the men at the table set down their cards.

One of them stood up and, without a word, walked over to one of the slabs of frozen pork. Pulling out a dagger from his belt, he sliced through the meat, revealing transparent packets of crystals hidden within.

"The goods are all here," the man said.

"Good," the lead Russian grunted, casting his eyes over the warehouse. There were about a dozen slabs of frozen pork, all stuffed with drugs. He nodded in approval.

He then opened the metal box he was carrying, revealing stacks of cash neatly arranged inside.

"Here's your twenty million."

The man in charge of the warehouse stepped forward and checked the money, flipping through the notes to ensure everything was in order.

Satisfied, he nodded. "Pleasure doing business with you."

The Russian thug smirked. "Likewise." He signaled to his men, who began loading the slabs of pork onto the truck.

Suddenly—

Boom!

A loud knock echoed from the door outside.