Chapter 13 – In the Heavy Rain

The two continued forward, gradually approaching the deeper parts of the hotel.

At one point, Wei An and Gui Ling passed by a massive glass wall, through which they could see the plaza outside.

It was only three in the afternoon, but dark, ink-like clouds had spread across the sky. The clamor from the ground seemed distant, while the sky appeared ominous and desolate.

Countless windproof candles had been lit in the plaza, illuminating the dim photographs of memorial tributes. Yet, the sounds of revelry inside the walls were so exuberant and intoxicating. Standing by the window, it felt as if they were on the edge of two different worlds.

Just then, a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky outside, illuminating the layers of dark clouds.

The lightning was enormous, like heavenly tribulations, and the city’s lights dimmed instantly under its glare.

A thunderclap followed immediately, and rain poured down in torrents.

Wei An turned his head in surprise. In an instant, water connected heaven and earth, turning the plaza into a complete mess.

Everyone was caught off guard. Tongyun had a weather control system—wasn’t this supposed to be for atmosphere? Who would have thought it would actually rain?!

People scrambled into the surrounding buildings in panic. The rain battered the flowers, photographs, and flyers into disarray, turning the once-lively area into a scene of desolation.

Other guests were nearby too—some came to watch the downpour, others asked what was happening, some called friends downstairs, and further away, a child cried in fright.

Another bolt of lightning split the sky, as if the heavens had cracked open, illuminating the gloomy world below.

The security AIs opened their white canopy tops, but these were only meant for shade and were completely useless in this situation. The plaza was so vast, and under the dark sky and torrential rain, the canopies looked like frail white flowers swaying in the wilderness.

In such violent weather, the city itself seemed fragile, like an anthill.

Wei An planned to cut through the east wing, heading to the dessert shop inside the building, which would also bring him closer to the parking lot.

By now, they had reached a relatively private area of the Flâneur Hotel, called the “Forest Hound Hall.” The name came from a legend from The Great Dark Age—a tale about sacrifices made to a sinister forest.

But as the story passed down through time and reached the level of a luxury hotel, the name now only evoked a forest-themed opulence.

The decor here wasn’t much different from the rest of the hotel, though the plants were more abundant, with small privacy-oriented designs woven in. Even the erotic elements were tasteful, creating an overall “forest of desire” atmosphere.

It seemed some kind of adults-only party was being held here. The edges of the corridors were hung with decorative woven nets bearing signs that read, “By Invitation Only.”

Wei An had never been interested in such things. He couldn’t remember ever feeling infatuated with anyone or experiencing physical excitement toward another person. He found it hard to engage with what was happening around him—passion had nothing to do with him. All he wanted was a peaceful life.

The rain continued to fall.

Though the hotel was soundproofed, the scent of the heavy rain seeped into the sturdy structure.

Wei An passed through the area. Deep down, he knew that insisting on taking this shortcut would lead him to something, though he didn’t know exactly what. The omens were already obvious.

But he still came. Perhaps because the Prayer Assembly’s area was simply too large, with too many people—it wasn’t easy to just walk away. He wanted to check the situation further, hoping nothing major would happen.

And if something did happen, could anything still be salvaged?

Wei An stopped when he saw a bloodstain on the corridor’s wallpaper.

It was fresh, about half the size of a palm, and dark in color—definitely not a minor injury.

Following the smear of blood, Wei An found an expensive necklace pendant near a cluster of flowers. It looked like it had slid there under great force—certainly not the kind of jewelry someone would casually discard.

Not far from the flowers, a petal of “Rapid-spawn Hell” stood as tall as a person—a straight, slender form. Its tip was slightly open, like a small head.

It looked like a creature from hell, staring at something ahead.

Wei An walked forward and finally saw the corpse.

This was a “roadside garden,” planted with meticulously trimmed flowering trees that gave off a sparse, ancient artistic charm, suitable for small gatherings.

The corpse belonged to a middle-aged man. He was naked, his neck broken, his eyes like two black holes as he hung from a pale, smooth tree trunk.

Old wires twisted into sharp spikes coiled around and embedded into his body, suspending him in a casually grotesque pose—like a broken doll vandalized by a psychopath or an ancient deity’s warning to mortals not to trespass.

The wall behind the tree was pitch-black, swallowed by a larger black mass of “Hellflower petals” over two meters in diameter, growing up from the floor below.

It spread out among the foliage, its darkness deep and completely lightless—a primitive, technology-free blackness that concealed ancient gods unknown to mankind.

Wei An stood there for a few seconds before approaching the corpse to inspect it.

The deceased had no tattoos or wounds, and didn’t appear to be someone who exercised regularly. Traces of massage oil were still present on his skin. He was likely a hotel guest.

The wires weren’t the same as Li Yingquan’s; these merely coiled around him. His neck had been violently snapped.

As part of a civilized area in a grand hotel, the lighting here was bright, but two lights above the corpse had gone out, leaving a faint darkness.

The body hung there like a sacrificial offering from an ancient village in a horror painting—an image from humanity’s deepest nightmares, a human living in a tragic, grotesque, and foolish world.

Wei An took in the scene.

The tree holding the corpse had several freshly broken branches, hurriedly sanded down. Some areas might still retain fingerprints.

It looked terrifying, but a competent homicide investigation team would likely find plenty of evidence that wasn’t “supernatural.”

Wei An checked his phone again—black screen. There was energy interference nearby.

This was standard for large-scale conspiracies. After all, if someone managed to record something with their phone and uploaded it, the ensuing public outcry would be staggering, no matter when it happened.

Wei An studied the scene for a while, then took two steps back. He felt like he’d seen something similar in a movie before.

As he was thinking about this, voices came from the other end of the corridor.

Two men were speaking as they approached.

“Got enough bodies yet?” one asked.

“Not sure. Should be plenty—this place has at least a lot of waitstaff,” the other replied. “But when it comes to meat, more is always better.”

They chuckled, as if sharing an inside joke.

Wei An glanced in their direction for a few seconds, then drew a gun from his waist and walked toward them. Though it didn’t suit his current identity, given what was happening in Taoyuan, bringing a gun to a large event was only sensible.

The voices drew closer, accompanied by the faint sound of something heavy being dragged.

Gun in hand, Wei An stepped past the decorative wall and confronted the approaching men.

They wore nondescript casual clothes. The one in front carried a gun, while the one behind dragged a corpse by the leg with little care.

“Fuck, this is heavy,” the latter was saying. “I’m never eating steak again…”

His tone was casual—the kind of joke a “hitman” would make in private. People like this grew numb to matters of life and death; the job did that to you.

The moment Wei An saw them, they saw him too.

Wei An raised his gun and fired.

Two shots, lightning-fast. The man dragging the corpse collapsed before he could react. The other raised his gun but was too late.

Both bullets struck their chests, killing them instantly. Their eyes remained open, pupils slowly dilating.

Wei An walked over to inspect them, his demeanor no different from checking a document.

The dragged corpse was likely a hotel guest—a young man in a plaid suit, probably here for a party or to meet friends.

He had been dead for a short while, his neck professionally snapped. This method was horrifying, relatively bloodless, and likely convenient for hanging on trees.

The two men Wei An killed seemed professionally trained. Upon inspection, they bore no military tattoos, wore expensive clothes and accessories, and carried no identification.

Their weapons were untraceable—common models with suppressors, much like Wei An’s.

“Private militia,” Wei An declared. “From Cold Bird.”

He stood up and circled the bodies halfway.

Their affiliation was easy to deduce. Taoyuan’s power structure was relatively straightforward—Cold Bird was the largest private security group locally, an external asset of a major Federation family. Other than the regular military, they were Taoyuan’s most significant armed force.

“These guys aren’t low-level, and they’re not even trying to hide. Looks like they’re planning a large-scale purge,” Wei An said. “I always said letting big organizations amass this kind of firepower would lead to trouble. There’s an ‘Anti-Local Militia Act,’ but it’s never been enforced—too many interests involved. Private militias provide resources for too many shady dealings—”

Wei An casually holstered his gun at his waist and looked down at the bodies.

“These guys aren’t powerful enough to challenge the Central Army, so it’s all just political maneuvering in the end,” he said. “These private soldiers are built with top-tier resources, capable of large-scale cleanups—blockades, silencing witnesses, fabricating evidence. They can do things regular criminal organizations could never pull off. Their impact on our ability to access real terminal data is catastrophic.

“Let these people handle things, and half the time you won’t even get a proper victim list. Cases become impossible to investigate.”

He stared at the corpses with disgust, as if looking at garbage dumped in his pristine room, his gaze completely cold and repulsed.

After saying this, he turned and walked in the direction the men had been dragging the corpse.

He moved without hesitation, as if this were the only logical course of action.

Gui Ling said nothing—of course, there was nothing for him to say.

As they left the area, the hotel seemed to return to normal—thick, plush carpets, decor that gave off an air of elegance and taste.

Wei An grumbled a bit more about private militias. It was an old tradition from ancient times—powerful families back then had superhumans and other special bloodlines, divinely sanctioned private armies. The Federation had cracked down on it early on, but now the old ways were resurging. The higher-ups claimed it was unmanageable or unimportant, but the truth was they didn’t want to manage it—too much money involved, and so on.

“You don’t have to tell me this.”

“I should,” Wei An interjected. “Friends should share information.”

“If you want us to share information, I hear gunfire up ahead.” He continued, “But it doesn’t matter. I can help you with a large-scale cleanup. Any scale you want.”

Wei An’s expression chilled as he turned to look ahead.

He heard gunshots.

The hotel’s soundproofing was good, so the noise was faint, but it was unmistakably gunfire—coming from the direction of the Forest Hound Hall’s main area.

Wei An walked toward it, Gui Ling silently following behind.