Chapter 470: Upper Class

Classic old cartoons often had this setup—two children stacked on top of each other, wearing adult clothes, pretending to be adults, or going to see PG-13 or NC-17 movies, or riding amusement park rides with minimum height restrictions.

At this moment, Li Cheng and Shen Yu felt much the same.

The two squeezed through the unlocked security door and climbed the stairs up to the surface lawn.

The sky grew duskier as the sunset sank into the horizon, merging with the golden sea. Several luxury yachts floated on the water, rising and falling with the waves.

Nearby, seventy meters from the underground prison exit, stood an open-air bar pavilion.

The pavilion played a song called "Party in the USA"; guests in loose beachwear sipped drinks, surrounded by a circle of handsome young men and beautiful young women—some adult, some underage—who served as "massage therapists."

Some people wore no shirts at all.

"Throw a brick down randomly, and you'd hit dozens of Oscars, Grammys, Emmys, Tonys."

Li Cheng marveled—the guests in the pavilion were all America's elite, the most recognizable being celebrities from the arts and sports worlds.

These big shots, who normally acted dignified on camera, revealed their true natures on this isolated island, each more depraved and vulgar than the last.

A famous female singer sang her own Billboard hit to entertain while letting a clean-faced Mexican boy sit on her lap and drink Elion Milk.

An Oscar-winning actor known in Hollywood as a devoted family man seriously discussed his upcoming film, while a massage therapist fed him fruit mouth-to-mouth.

A certain director with a shoe-last face—Quentin Tarantino—poured champagne over a massage therapist, letting the liquid trickle down their neck, then knelt on the ground and sucked the therapist's foot into his mouth.

Uh—wait, that last one doesn't count; it fits his persona perfectly.

"Hey! Stop!"

Outside the pavilion, a security guard noticed a guard clutching two bundled quilts and walked over, frowning: "Bob, where are you going?"

As an entertainment venue gathering America's top elites, the island's security system was extremely tight—cameras everywhere, patrols constant.

It was to prevent fearless reporters from sneaking in to film, or the island's slaves from secretly boarding a billionaire's yacht and escaping.

The two players had anticipated this scenario; Shen Yu promptly lifted the quilt bundle rolled like a burrito, face calm, voice steady: "Mr. Epstein just used the radio to order me to deliver these two SVIPs to their designated rooms. Any problem?"

In the Killing Field system, the Charm attribute is the sum of appearance, speech, demeanor, and social skills.

Some people aren't particularly refined-looking but have strong charisma—they get along effortlessly with anyone and become friends easily; that's high Charm.

If judged purely by appearance, a Charm value of 5 is roughly average for a normal person.

A Charm value of 6 exceeds the average passerby—slightly attractive.

A Charm value of 7 surpasses campus beauties and studs—draws stares from everyone on the street; with a little makeup, they could debut as idols.

A Charm value of 8 is essentially the top-tier beauty or handsomeness randomly drawn from normal genetics—cosmetic surgery would be vandalism of human cultural heritage.

By the way, even the goblin bar attendants at the Nightclub under Eke Alliance's control have a Charm value of 8. They even receive employee training to cultivate posture, demeanor, and persuasive sales tactics to encourage customer spending.

But due to the unchangeable nature of their underlying code, many goblins still steal guests' fruit platters or make meaningless cries like "Ooh-hoo-hoo-ohhh!" while singing in KTV, so their actual Charm value usually only reaches 6–7.

Li Cheng and Shen Yu's current roles both have a Charm value of 8—definite SVIPs. Hence, special detention.

"Is that so? I didn't get any notification."

The security captain frowned and instinctively reached for his radio to verify.

Shen Yu timely added: "Mr. Epstein is currently in a private meeting with several top clients and doesn't wish to be disturbed."

The mission briefing clearly stated that at least eight SVIPs were on the island, their status far beyond Hollywood celebrities.

As expected, the security captain hesitated, then put the radio down: "Then hurry up and deliver. Tonight's a big night—don't wander off."

Shen Yu's mind stirred; she controlled the guard's face to form a bitter smile and added: "Even on a big night, they don't raise our pay much." According to real-world leaked records, Epstein and his mistress lured underage minors to the island under the guise of hiring massage therapists, paying $200–400 per session for wealthy clients.

At early 2000s U. S. price levels, that wasn't low—but compared to the billionaires' fortunes, it was negligible.

Massage therapists were like this; the perimeter security guards certainly didn't earn high salaries—they were just lower-tier staff.

Bob's words clearly struck a nerve with the security captain, who grumbled: "Hmph, true. Sultan? Prince? Hedge fund founder? No matter how big the title, the tips never reach us. Fine, go on."

"Uh."

Shen Yu carried the two quilt bundles, walked down the path into the woods, eyes scanning, ears alert, soon finding a secluded spot, pretending to crouch and tie her shoe.

In reality, she picked up a stone, snapped—hit the surveillance camera mounted on the treetop, knocking it askew, then stowed the quilts into her backpack slot.

Shen Yu exhaled, lowered her voice: "Did you hear that?"

"Yeah, heard it," Li Cheng said. "The Sultan likely refers to Hassanal Bolkiah of Brunei. Brunei has only 400,000 people but grew rich from massive oil exports. Bolkiah's personal wealth was around $10 billion in 2020."

He was once sued by Miss America 1997 for illegal detention.

As for the Prince, it could be Andrew of Britain, or Pierre of the surviving German royal family, or a prince from some Gulf monarchy.

As for hedge fund founders? There are too many.

Shen Yu frowned: "Could these people be SVIPs?"

"Possibly VIPs, but SVIPs? Doubtful. Power can bring money, but money can only buy power at the right moment."

Li Cheng said: "My suggestion: first locate the island's server center, use the surveillance cameras to find the other five players' positions."

After a brief discussion, they stepped out of the woods—and were immediately called out.

"Hey, you there—pick up this box and follow me."

A young white man in swim trunks stopped Guard Bob; four burly bodyguards trailed him—clearly wealthy and powerful.

"Me?"

Shen Yu hesitated—time was short, and she had no patience for this rich kid. But considering Bob's security uniform, she paused, then walked over and lifted the plastic box.

Inside the box lay a full set of intimate products: whips, animal masks, handcuffs, candles, lubricants—all present, reeking of overpowering perfume.

The two players, playing the role of guards, silently followed the rich kid upstairs into a townhouse.

Epstein had installed soundproofing in the villas specifically to please elite guests—even if someone screamed inside, no one outside could hear.

The rich kid ordered his four bodyguards to stand outside the room; he treated Guard Bob not as an equal, but as an object to be used: "Put the box down and you can leave."

"Yes."

Shen Yu set the box down and glanced inside—dim lighting filled the spacious second-floor bedroom; a young boy lay bound spread-eagle on a rocking horse, a towel stuffed in his mouth.

The moment he saw Bob, he struggled and moaned desperately; the rich kid pulled out a priest's robe from the box and put it on.

The Divine Edict was long accustomed to the corruption and decay of the upper class; she had no such sense of justice and immediately turned to leave, but Li Cheng grabbed her arm.

Li Cheng peered out through Bob's navel, and the more he looked, the more familiar the boy seemed; he ventured,

"Joker?"

Wow, it really is you!