Chapter 249: John Constantine

"What's going on?" Ma Ma Zhaodi looked at the dead man on the stretcher, his heart sinking: "This has never happened before."

【The force that caused his death was too strong and was not observed by you. If it cannot be observed, it cannot be understood, resulting in your current skill level being insufficient to block the death.】

"What if I level up?"

【If your skill level is ten levels higher than the lethal force, you can forcibly block it.】

Ma Ma Zhaodi sighed. Since reaching level five, the upgrade cost for "I have not killed anyone" had become two hundred thousand asset points per level; even using up all the one million points he had on him only just brought him to level ten.

That lethal force was very sinister; rather than using a skill to suppress it, it would be better to find a way to observe and understand it.

【Ding】

【You have a new gig available; please check it.】

【The Glutton Who Starved to Death】

Mission Description: For unknown reasons, a fat man turned into a thin man in a matter of minutes, a living person turned into a corpse in a matter of minutes, and a glutton starved to death in a matter of minutes—London, this place, never follows any logic. But as the saying goes, life will find a way; if the sky falls, there will always be someone tall enough to hold it up. This is a profound truth realized by a certain legendary magician.

Note: Of course, those who couldn't hold it up are already dead, but that is not the point. The point is that the solution to the problem is not how to become the tallest one, but how to find someone taller than yourself.

Status: Pending (0%)

Reward: Proficiency in Basic Occult Knowledge】

Ma Ma Zhaodi scratched his head. The system's mission prompt was very clear; he could see at a glance that this incident was related to the occult, in other words, it counted as a supernatural event.

And coincidentally, he did know that London, England, in the DC universe had a bunch of people related to the supernatural, and the most famous one was a seasoned wild magician whose real name was—

"Constantine."

On the drizzling streets of London, a taxi was stuck in traffic; the congestion on the road had lasted for twenty minutes, and it still couldn't move.

"Constantine, right?" The taxi driver was casually chatting with the passenger in the back seat to ease the boredom of the traffic jam: "That's your name, isn't it?"

The person in the back seat ignored him.

He sat in the back seat, watching pedestrians with umbrellas coming and going on the street, seeing them occasionally squeeze past the front of the car, and his irritability was even greater than the driver's.

"Damn it, it's because I have to make way for these bastards that it's so damn congested," he thought: "I can still faintly smell stale vomit in the back seat; I wonder which damn drunk bastard threw up in the car."

"I've had enough," he said: "Buddy, I'm getting off right here. If I had decided to walk earlier, I'd be damn well home by now."

The driver glanced at this scruffy, bearded man through the rearview mirror. He had a head of bright, beautiful blonde hair and wore a dark yellow trench coat over a suit, tie, and trousers. Although this set looked like quite expensive, good clothes, it seemed they hadn't been properly cared for in some time; they were covered in wrinkles and had some faint, uncleaned dirt stains. Clearly, this person had done a bit of face-saving work, but not much.

If it weren't for his beautiful blonde hair, his handsome face with a touch of roguishness and maturity, and his tall, well-proportioned figure masking the scruffy details of his appearance, the first thing anyone would do upon seeing him would be to frown and think he was an unkempt ruffian.

And actually, that impression was correct.

"Sixteen pounds, eighty pence, friend."

Constantine paid without a word, turned, and walked into the drizzle with his suitcase. He hadn't taken a few steps before stepping on trash in a puddle by the roadside; the musty smell rising from his feet reminded him of the faint vomit smell in the back of the car, and these sensations triggered his stomach, making the nasty airplane meal inside churn like a swamp, bringing him extreme discomfort.

Hoo—

The cold wind carrying raindrops blew into his neck. Constantine shivered, immediately pulled up his collar, and at this moment, he could no longer bear the discomfort in his heart, cursing fiercely.

"Damn airplane food, damn rain, damn England!"

Constantine cursed as he merged into the crowded flow of people, carrying his suitcase down street after street.

This city was often rainy; although unlike Gotham, there were times when the sun could be seen, it never gave a warm feeling. In Constantine's opinion, the entire city exuded a musty smell, rotten, broken, and on its last legs.

Of course, this wasn't entirely England's fault; when Constantine was in a bad mood, nothing pleased him.

Crossing the streets, passing the streetlights, after walking for more than twenty minutes, Constantine finally arrived at the foot of an apartment building. He glanced at a van parked on the street bearing the logo of the "EcoClean" company—they specialized in pest control and house cleaning services.

Although somewhat strange in his heart, Constantine was exhausted at the moment and didn't want to do any extra thinking. He simply walked to the door, but when he reached out to take out his key, his hand suddenly stopped.

"Where's my key?"

A moment later, he remembered that his house key had been left in Bagotania.

"Damn it, does that mean I have to run all the way back to South America to get this thing?"

Constantine felt inexplicably depressed in his heart, so he simply reached out and pressed the doorbell.

"Who's there?"

"It's me, John Constantine."

With a crack, the door opened. The landlady, with graying hair, stood at the entrance, her expression quite displeased: "You left without a word, no news for months; where did you run off to?"

"I was just wandering around, Mrs. M, just wandering around."

Constantine casually made an excuse and walked into the apartment. Mrs. M shut the door behind him and muttered dissatisfiedly: "Wait a minute, child, I must have a word with you—"

Constantine sighed. The familiar smell of stewed cabbage wafted from the kitchen, automatically bringing to his mind the bland taste of Mrs. M's cooking.

Oh god, don't torture me.

"Have mercy, Mrs. M, I'm almost dead tired; let's talk later, okay?"

This was a lie; he simply didn't want to listen to the old lady continue her nagging. At this moment, he only wanted to hurry upstairs to find some peace and quiet—however, the old lady knew him too well. Seeing him about to go upstairs, she quickly continued speaking.

"I didn't kick him out because I know he's your friend—but this is wrong; this is a decent house."

"Friend?"

Constantine, who was climbing the stairs, turned back in confusion: "What friend?"

"A drug-addicted junkie, something like Lester or Gary—I don't remember."

(End of Chapter)