[One Month Later. New Babylon Upper Sector, Necromancy Guild Headquarters]

  This was the highest point in the city, the top-floor conference room of the Eternal Tower. Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, lead-gray clouds roiled endlessly. Inside, the air felt solidified. At the end of the long table, on a throne of obsidian symbolizing supreme power, sat the High Priest of the Necromancy Guild—Mordred.

  He wore an expressionless platinum mask. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the table, every tap sounding like a hammer striking the hearts of the executives present.

  "The losses have been tallied."

  Mordred's voice, processed through a modulator, was low and commanding.

  The Financial Director stood up, trembling, and projected a holographic spreadsheet. The string of red numbers was shocking.

  "Port warehouse completely destroyed. Direct economic loss: 200 million New Currency. Pluto-Class Mech prototype scrapped... R&D costs and tech leak risks are... incalculable. And Commander 'Butcher' is confirmed dead."

  "Most importantly..." The Director swallowed hard. "Our 'Deterrence Index' dropped by 15% following that single strike by John Doe. The rats in the Lower Sector are starting to disobey."

  Dead silence filled the room.

  No one dared to speak. Everyone knew that night's battle was an absolute humiliation for the Guild. An E-Class fugitive had single-handedly (well, with hacks) overturned the Guild's ace troops.

  "Enough."

  Mordred waved his hand, dismissing the report. He didn't explode in rage as expected; instead, he was unnervingly calm.

  " The cost of a violent solution is too high. Furthermore, there are clearly forces behind that variable [John] that we do not yet understand."

  He recalled Moriarty's advice. Instead of force, play by the rules.

  "We are legitimate rulers, not gangsters."

  Mordred's gaze swept over everyone.

  "Since he wants to play hero in the 13th Street, let's show him who actually owns the land."

  "Issue the order: Initiate the 'Old Town Redevelopment Project'. We are retaking the land of the 13th Street... all of it."

  "Use the law. Use contracts. Use bulldozers. I want him to watch helplessly as his 'home' turns into rubble."

  *

  [The 13th Street, John's Clinic]

  05:00 AM.

  As the first faint light pierced the smog, John Doe was already standing on the rooftop.

  Wearing a loose training suit (sewn by Margaret from old bedsheets), he stood with eyes closed, feet slightly apart, holding a bizarre pose.

  He was practicing the Five Animal Frolics.

  "Tiger Play... Stretch..."

  John mimicked the movement of a tiger pouncing. It looked clumsy, but he was deadly serious. With every breath, he tried to guide the meager Psionic Power in his body along the meridian map Daoist Singularity had left him.

  Sweat rolled down his forehead.

  For the past month, he had persisted in this routine. While he hadn't developed any god-tier martial arts, he felt his physical constitution improving. The palpitations caused by his hemophobia were actually being suppressed during his meditation sessions.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Hoo...

  John finished the set, exhaling a long breath of turbid air.

  "Boss! Done training?"

  Bone's voice drifted up from downstairs.

  John looked down. Bone was holding a leash, the other end tied around the neck of the Black Tortoise (Xuanwu).

  "Let's go! Master Turtle! Time for a morning jog!" Bone tugged the rope.

  Xuanwu lay flat on the ground, refusing to budge. Its beady eyes screamed, "I want peace" and "Don't touch me." As an ancient divine beast, being walked like a dog by a skeleton was a humiliation. But to keep its cover, it endured the disgrace and slowly crawled two steps.

  John smiled. This was his daily routine now.

  Back inside, the scent of herbal medicine filled the air.

  Grace's holographic projection floated in the kitchen, hacking the smart rice cooker to brew medicine.

  "Heat is perfect! Auntie Margaret, time for meds!"

  Margaret sat in her wheelchair, looking much rosier. She was talking to a floating screen, on which appeared an white-bearded TCM doctor (a remote expert from the Eastern Plane).

  "Yes, the tongue coating is still a bit white... sleep has improved. Thank you, doctor."

  Hanging up, Margaret drank the dark, bitter soup in one go.

  "This Eastern medicine is magical," Margaret sighed. "It's bitter, but I feel like my arm belongs to me again."

  John walked over and wiped the corner of her mouth.

  "Mom, as long as you get better, any bitterness is worth it."

  "Don't overwork yourself." Margaret looked at her son's firming muscle lines (though still faint), feeling both relieved and pained. "You haven't slept well all month."

  "I'm not tired." John shook his head. He couldn't be tired. The 500,000 Merit debt wasn't paid off, and the Guild's threat remained. He had to stay alert.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Suddenly, a rapid, rude knocking shattered the peace.

  John's eyes instantly turned cold.

  He signaled Bone and Grace to protect his mother, then walked to the door and opened it.

  Standing there was a fat man in a floral shirt with a face full of greasy flesh. It was the building's sub-landlord, known as "Vampire Bob." Usually, he would detour to avoid John (fearing Bone), but today, he was arrogant, waving a red notice in his hand.

  "John Doe, right?"

  Bob didn't wait for John to speak; he slapped the paper onto John's chest.

  "Just letting you know. Rent's up."

  John picked up the paper and frowned.

  [Rent Adjustment Notice]

  * Original Rent: 800 New Currency/Month

  * Adjusted Rent: 3200 New Currency/Month (300% Increase)

  * Effective Date: Immediate

  "Three thousand two?!" John's voice dropped. "Bob, are you crazy? This broken shack leaks when it rains, and you want 3200? This is the slums, not the Upper Sector!"

  "Too expensive?" Bob picked his teeth, looking like a total scumbag. "If it's too expensive, move out! No one's begging you to stay!"

  "Let me tell you the truth, kid. The development rights for this area have been reclaimed by the Guild. Orders from above: 'Old Town Redevelopment'. They're tearing this place down to build... what was it... a 'Shared Columbarium'!"

  "Shared Columbarium?"

  "Yeah! Apartments for the dead! A single urn slot sells for 50k! Way more profitable than renting to you poor ghosts!"

  Bob pointed behind him.

  John realized the alley was plastered with demolition slogans. Several surveyors in uniform were pointing at the building, and a massive bulldozer was parked not far away.

  "So, either pay the 3200, or..." Bob made a 'please' gesture. "Take your sick mom and that pile of monsters and get the hell out!"

  "You..." Bone wanted to rush out but was stopped by John.

  "Is this the Guild's order?" John asked.

  "Duh! Who else has that kind of money?" Bob sneered. "I know you can fight, John. But this time it's the Demolition Office. It's the Law. It's the Contract! No matter how hard you fight, can you fight a bulldozer? Can you fight a property deed?"

  John crumpled the notice, his knuckles turning white.

  He understood.

  This was Moriarty's counterattack.

  Not assassination, not mechs. But the most legal, rogue, and powerless way—Capital Crushing.

  He wanted to use high living costs to squeeze John out of this only shelter. To make him live on the streets, watching his mother with nowhere to go.

  This was worse than killing him.

  "Well? Pay or scram?" Bob urged impatiently.

  John took a deep breath. He silently recited the Cleansing Heart Mantra, suppressing the urge to throw the fat man out.

  "I'm not moving."

  John tore the notice in half and threw it at Bob's feet.

  "I rented this house, and the contract hasn't expired. You want to raise the rent? Follow the contract law process!"

  "As for demolition..."

  John looked up at the bulldozer parked at the intersection, a ruthless glint in his eyes.

  "You want to demolish my home? Let's see if your teeth are hard enough."

  "You! You're refusing a toast only to drink a forfeit!" Bob was exasperated. "Fine! You wait! Tomorrow! I'm bringing the forced demolition team tomorrow! Don't blame me for being heartless then!"

  Bob stormed off, cursing.

  John closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a long breath.

  Inside, Margaret looked at him worriedly. "John... is something happening again?"

  "It's nothing, Mom."

  John turned around, a smile back on his face.

  "Just the landlord wanting a bit more money. We'll ignore him."

  He walked over to Bone and whispered:

  "Bone, stop walking the turtle. Get ready to work."

  "Grace, contact that... Civil Engineering Expert for me."

  "We need to... renovate."

  John looked at the dilapidated home, his eyes firm.

  "Since they want to demolish it, I'll turn this place into a fortress that no one can tear down."

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