Organ Trafficking

Lin Mo couldn't be bothered to deal with any of that.

The mess in South Korea? Let the South Koreans clean it up themselves. They could do whatever they wanted—it had nothing to do with him.

He kept descending.

Six levels underground.

The moment his spiritual sense touched this floor, Lin Mo stopped in his tracks.

Cold.

Not the kind of cold from temperature, but a chill that seeped out from the marrow of his bones.

This floor was larger than any of the ones above, divided into many separate rooms.

Each room was equipped with surgical-grade shadowless lamps, stainless steel operating tables, floor-to-ceiling refrigeration units, and professional medical equipment.

The air purification system ran twenty-four hours a day, with its own dedicated exhaust ducts completely isolated from the floors above.

It wasn't odors they were afraid of leaking.

It was the heavy stench of blood that might waft up and disturb the idols singing and dancing upstairs.

Three people lay on the operating tables, their abdominal cavities already opened.

Doctors in white coats worked methodically, their movements practiced—extracting organs with the same casual efficiency as tightening screws on an assembly line.

The refrigerators were neatly stocked.

Hearts, livers, spleens, lungs, kidneys.

Each label bore blood type, matching data, and preservation dates.

More meticulously organized than the files of those trainees upstairs.

Lin Mo frowned.

Upstairs, there were songs and revelry. Downstairs, it was a living hell.

In between were the parking garage, the casino, and the drug den—a series of buffer zones layering evil from least to worst. The filthiest, darkest things were always buried at the very bottom.

The faces of the three people on the operating tables were young.

Too young.

One of them still had traces of incompletely removed makeup.

"Hurry up, pack the goods and ship them out. The clients are waiting to use them."

"Got it."

Several people in surgical scrubs swiftly sorted the organs into insulated boxes, their demeanor as casual as if they were sorting pig entrails at a market.

Whose kidney, whose liver, whose cornea—just stick on a label, seal the box, pack it up. Assembly line work.

Lin Mo stood in the corner, invisible to everyone.

He watched their every move clearly.

The lead surgeon was even humming a tune.

A Korean pop song.

Lin Mo revealed himself.

Without any warning, he took two strides forward and grabbed the lead surgeon by the head.

His five fingers closed like crushing a ripe watermelon.

"Who... who are you!"

The surgeon's voice went shrill.

Lin Mo replied in fluent Korean, "I'm a demon back from hell to take revenge!"

Crack.

The sound of a skull shattering was unmistakable in the operating room.

Brains and blood mixed together, dripping down through Lin Mo's fingers.

His expression unchanged, he yanked out the surgeon's soul.

No need for mind extraction—that was too gentle.

Direct soul-search gave him violent access to the memory, and the extracted soul would suffer immense agony.

For someone like this, a little suffering was letting him off easy.

The assistant beside him went weak in the knees and turned to bolt for the door.

He took two steps.

A suction force yanked him back.

His feet left the ground, his limbs flailing in the air like a chicken being grabbed by the neck.

Lin Mo reached out and clamped down on his throat.

He didn't use much force.

The windpipe shattered instantly.

The assistant's mouth hung open, no sound coming out. His eyes bulged wide, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth and nostrils.

Lin Mo dropped him to the floor and began sifting through the lead surgeon's memories.

The more he uncovered, the darker his expression became.

The three young people on the tables were an undocumented immigrant, an orphan, and a laborer lured from Southeast Asia on false promises.

No family, no social ties. If they vanished from the world, no one would even file a missing person report.

And this wasn't the only operating room.

There were twelve in total on this floor.

More than forty live victims were being held captive.

The organ trade didn't just serve the South Korean domestic market—it was export-oriented.

Fixed client channels in the Middle East, Europe, and North America.

Each transaction involved sums so absurdly large that the profit margins were higher than drug trafficking.

Lin Mo had previously extracted memories from the Chai family's disciples. Those memories were dirty enough.

But compared to this place, the Chai bunch looked like kindergarten kids playing house.

Lin Mo suddenly felt that the Chai family seemed pretty damn wholesome by comparison.

He kicked the assistant's corpse into a corner and glanced back at the three people on the operating tables.

They were already dead.

Three young people, their insides hollowed out. The oldest couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

Lin Mo waved his hand.

The organs scattered in the insulated boxes flew back, precisely returning to their owners' bodies.

Hearts reattached, livers reattached, kidneys reattached.

The incisions closed on their own, skin and flesh reknitting without even a scar.

A revival technique.

Just as their chest cavities fused shut, Lin Mo drew a talisman in the air.

Summoning the souls back into the bodies.

Three wandering souls nearby were forcibly pulled back and stuffed into their respective shells.

The three on the tables opened their eyes almost simultaneously.

The undocumented immigrant sat up first, looked down at his intact chest, then at the two unrecognizable corpses on the floor, his expression shifting from confusion to terror, from terror to ecstasy, finally settling into an indescribable daze.

"If you don't want to die, leave now." Lin Mo tossed out that line as he already strode toward the door.

He still had an entire floor to clean.

Pushing open the operating room door, he ran straight into two thugs in black suits in the hallway.

These two were built solid, their waistbands bulging with handguns. Seeing an unfamiliar face emerge from surgery, their first instinct was to reach for their weapons.

Their movements were fast.

But not fast enough.

Lin Mo couldn't even be bothered to lift a hand.

He just twitched his finger.

Blood began to seep from the surface of the two thugs' skin. Not flowing out—it was forcing its own way through the pores.

A trickle, then another, then a sheet of it.

Their blood peeled away from their bodies, coalescing in the air into two crimson threads that flew toward Lin Mo's palm.

"People like you," Lin Mo cursed in Korean, "you really aren't worth regretting. Sibal."

Playing the Korean role—how could you be convincing without a couple of "sibal"s?

One thug was still struggling, his hoarse voice crying out something, his fingers already gripping his gun.

But his fingers no longer had the strength to draw it.

The speed at which their blood was drained was too fast.

Their skin collapsed and withered at a visible rate, like a sped-up specimen preparation process.

In less than five seconds, two desiccated corpses hit the floor.

A massive cloud of crimson blood hovered around Lin Mo, rolling slowly under the lights.

The rumble of hurried footsteps and clattering metal came from the end of the corridor.

The screams had drawn more people.

Security on this floor wasn't weak—after all, it guarded the building's darkest secrets.

Seven or eight heavily armed figures poured out from the corner, handguns already raised.

The leader, a bald man, had a booming voice: "Don't hesitate! Shoot at anything that moves!"

Behind him, a shorter man kept cursing, "Aish, sibal, who the hell—"

A blood-red dagger shot through the air and pierced his throat.