I Wasn't Sensible Either

Tianle Group, Chairman Shin.

The moment those two words came out, Choi Jeong-woong knew exactly what kind of behemoth was backing YJJ.

Tianle Group was one of the top ten conglomerates in South Korea.

Its businesses spanned real estate, dining, retail, petrochemicals, insurance, and credit cards.

To put it simply, it was a giant that had a hand in everything.

And Chairman Shin was the head of the rope that held the entire profit chain together.

He had stepped on a metal plate—no, an alloy plate.

The man who had just spoken pulled a dagger from his waist.

The blade gleamed.

Choi Jeong-woong watched the tip of that dagger drive toward his chest.

His last thought was: Shibal, I should have dug the hiding spot under the bed a little deeper.

But then a voice suddenly rang out in the air.

"Hold on."

The voice wasn't loud, and the tone was flat.

But the man with the dagger paid it no attention; the tip kept advancing.

Those two words didn't make him stop.

Choi Jeong-woong was so terrified he squeezed his eyes shut.

But the dagger never pierced his chest.

Then a line of blood appeared out of thin air.

No, not out of thin air—it was too fast, too fast for anyone else's eyes to follow.

All they saw was the hand holding the dagger, along with half the forearm, fall to the floor.

The cut was so clean it didn't look like it had been severed, but rather as if it had never been attached in the first place.

The man looked down at his severed arm.

Before he could even scream, several flashes of cold light swept in from the doorway, so close in speed they seemed simultaneous.

A few soft hissing sounds, like fabric tearing, and five blood-red blades pierced the chests of five men.

The precision was brutal.

All struck through the heart.

All five collapsed at nearly the same moment.

Choi Jeong-woong fell too—not because he was hit, but because the man who had been holding him let go.

He landed on his backside in the narrow space beside the bed frame, staring up at the doorway.

The smell of blood spread quickly through the small room.

It's him!

It has to be him!

At that moment, standing outside, Lin Mo (in the guise of Piao Guochang) looked left and right.

A faint trace of blood hung in the corridor air.

"I can feel the flow of blood. Come on out."

His tone was casual, like calling out to a neighbor to pick up a package.

The door to the next room creaked open from inside.

An eighteen-year-old male stepped out, dressed in a black tracksuit, with a very short buzz cut, features that weren't bad, but his chin was held too high.

A flicker of jealousy showed in his eyes.

He sized up Lin Mo and blurted out, "So you're the one who busted the YJJ organ slaughterhouse?"

He paused, then added, "Looks like you've got something to you."

But his voice still carried that jealousy.

Kids, always thinking that if someone else can do it, they can too—so why's this guy getting all the glory?

Lin Mo as Piao Guochang stared coldly at this kid.

He had pored over all the intel about these people, even knew what this punk liked for breakfast.

But of course, he wouldn't let that show; when it was time to act, he'd act the part.

"Who are you?" Lin Mo asked.

The male didn't answer; instead, he tilted his head and shot back, "Asking me? Do you even deserve to know?"

"Oh."

Lin Mo raised his hand.

From inside the room where Choi Jeong-woong hid, the blood of the corpses was slowly drawn out—through the crack in the door, through the gaps in the floorboards, strand by strand, gathering around Lin Mo.

The blood circled and coiled in the air, dark red liquid carrying the smell of rusted iron.

"I think... you're getting on my nerves."

The male smirked, taking half a step back as he dropped into a fighting stance. "Looks tough, but there are plenty tougher than you."

He hadn't even finished speaking before he shot forward.

A flash of blue light exploded beneath his feet, accelerating him to a higher gear; the afterimage hadn't even faded before he had circled behind Lin Mo.

A speed-type?

Lin Mo didn't even turn his head.

"You think you're something special? But in my eyes, you're just—"

He never finished the sentence.

Several bloody spikes erupted from the blood surrounding Lin Mo, piercing precisely through the male's shoulders and thighs. Then the blood condensed into a shield and slammed him flying backward.

Thud!

The male's back crashed into the wall at the end of the hallway, sending white dust cascading down.

"Too much noise."

Lin Mo turned around. "Do you have to give a opening speech every time before a fight?"

The male lay on the ground, blood seeping from the wounds on his shoulders and thighs, teeth gritted in pain, refusing to cry out.

"Aishibal!"

Tough bones.

Lin Mo raised his hand. The blood coalesced into a spear, its tip aimed at the male's head.

He pushed his hand forward, and the blood spear shot through the air.

"Wait!"

A figure lunged from the stairwell, reaching out and grabbing the blood spear mid-flight.

The newcomer was a young man in his twenties, not tall but built solid. His palm shimmered with metallic luster—some kind of hardening ability, probably.

But in the next second, the blood spear in his hand liquefied, slipping through his fingers and flying back to Lin Mo's side.

The man's expression shifted, but he quickly steadied himself.

"Song Junhe." He introduced himself voluntarily. "From the Super Youth Corps."

Lin Mo glanced at him, unfazed.

"You two can come at me together if you want. I don't discriminate."

Song Junhe didn't take the bait. He walked quickly to the injured male, knelt to examine the wounds, then stood up to face Lin Mo.

"You're not one of those guys. And your target isn't Choi Jeong-woong."

Lin Mo raised his hand again. The blood around him kept converging; the corpses inside the room had already been drained dry.

Blood blades materialized—one, two, three.

More than a dozen blood blades floated around Lin Mo, spinning slowly in the air.

"Your target is me."

A thin layer of sweat appeared on Song Junhe's forehead.

It wasn't from the heat.

The assessment report from Intelligence had listed Lin Mo as B+ Grade—but the pressure this man gave off was at least A-Grade, maybe higher.

Those office-crawling wastes would get someone killed one of these days.

"We're from the official South Korean superpower organization, the Super Youth Corps."

Song Junhe tried to keep his voice calm. "We're not here to fight."

Lin Mo pointed at the whimpering kid on the floor.

"Then what was that, a dance rehearsal?"

Song Junhe's lips twitched. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and give that kid a few good kicks. Who told you to throw the first punch?

The mission briefing was clear: first make contact, then assess, then recruit—three steps, and he'd botched the first one.

"He's young, he doesn't know any better."

"I'm young too, and I don't know any better either."

Lin Mo took another step forward; the blood blades moved with him. "So you'd better give me a good reason not to kill you both."

Song Junhe took a deep breath and condensed his prepared speech into its shortest form.