Chapter 475: Unlock

"What exactly is going on? Where are we going?"

"Run this way! Follow me!"

In the dim brick corridor, footsteps came in a dense, hurried flurry.

Masked VIPs from all over the world, led by bodyguards and security, ran in panic.

Among them were hedge-fund CEOs, chain hotel moguls, Latin American billionaires, Middle Eastern princes. Anyone worth less than a hundred million US dollars wasn't even qualified to take part in the underground winery's slave auction.

The lights went out, leaving only the wavering beams of flashlights. Gunfire rang out from time to time in the distant corridor, and every shot made the VIPs shudder all over.

Compared with those young people, born with silver spoons in their mouths, who naively believed that power and wealth came from inherited bloodlines and thought themselves favored children of heaven,

the older VIPs, who had truly fought it out in the business world, had even more fear in their eyes.

They knew perfectly well that this was a dog-eat-dog world, that the essence of power was violence, and that bullets would not ricochet off just because they were aimed at billionaires.

"We're here!"

The security man at the very front slammed on the brakes in front of an alloy security door, took out an access card, jammed it into the reader and swiped hard, then entered a password.

No response at all.

The security man was stunned for a beat, then realized what was going on and raised his wrist to check the time.

Influenced by the fashionable trend of so-called high-end, cutting-edge security systems, the underground winery had recently replaced its security door, and the password was reset on a fixed schedule every day.

So although the security door ran on a built-in battery and wasn't affected by the power outage, without today's latest password it still couldn't be opened.

"Fuck!"

The security man slammed his fist into the brick wall; surging adrenaline made his heart pound, while his hands and feet went cold and numb. He turned to look at the VIPs and said in a low voice, "Wait here. I'll go back and get the password."

"Wait, don't—"

The VIPs reached out but couldn't grab the guard, and could only watch him, gun and flashlight in hand, disappear around the dim corner.

The atmosphere was unbearably oppressive; the remaining guards and bodyguards raised their guns toward the darkness, nervously swallowing.

The shrill screams echoing back from the distance seemed to take on substance, like blades carving into the VIPs' bodies.

Most of the doors on both sides of the corridor were open. On the left was a row of luxury suites—beds, bathtubs, wardrobes, all fitted with top-grade furniture.

On the right, by contrast, was a row of ring-shaped rooms, each with a huge one-way floor-to-ceiling window set into the wall, allowing the VIPs to look directly into the central room and see the "auction items" on display.

There was no essential difference between the sixteenth-century black-slave trade and today's slave auctions.

Only the variety of slaves had grown—from women lured from Eastern European countries like Romania, Ukraine, and Estonia, to illegal immigrants smuggled in from Southeast Asian countries like Cambodia, Thailand, and Vietnam.

"Wait,"

a middle-aged noblewoman with deep nasolabial folds and splendid jewelry on her face suddenly changed expression and asked in a low voice, "Do you hear that? Someone is singing."

Hmm?

Everyone pricked up their ears, and from the faint wind they really did catch a thread of song, there and not there.

"1, 2, Freddy's coming for you"

A young girl's voice, innocent and pure, clear and pleasant.

"3, 4, better lock your door"

Many of the VIPs' faces changed at once. What kind of nursery rhyme was this? It was plainly the classic score from the 1984 horror film *A Nightmare on Elm Street*.

As the innocent singing echoed through the corridor, the sound of a sharp blade scraping against brick and stone followed.

As if a real demon, Freddy, were using his metal claws to gouge through the walls, slowly walking toward them.

"Harvey?"

The middle-aged noblewoman's voice trembled, and everyone turned to look at a pot-bellied middle-aged white man.

Harvey Weinstein, founder of Miramax Films, the famous Hollywood producer. Films he had produced and distributed had received over 300 Oscar nominations and over 70 wins; he was hailed as the king of the awards chase.

In the real world, this man was a sex addict; in 2017 the Hollywood MeToo movement, ignited by the victims he had assaulted, dragged his name through the mud and ultimately the fallout reached Epstein.

"Don't look at me, I don't know!"

Weinstein growled in a low voice. Miramax had produced horror films like *Hellraiser*, but *A Nightmare on Elm Street* was a New Line Cinema production.

"5, 6, grab your crucifix"

The innocent nursery rhyme drew closer and closer; just then a burst of dense gunfire rang out and the singing stopped dead.

Half a minute later, the security man who had run off to get the password limped into view.

He was drenched in blood, the muzzle of his gun still smoking; three fingers of his left hand were broken off, and the remaining two pinched the access card with great difficulty.

"D-done. Someone was carrying a speaker, trying to scare us with tricks."

The security man staggered forward, swiped the access card hard across the reader, and as he re-entered the password, said rapidly, "The attackers are armed personnel—probably relatives of the Eastern European slaves sold to the island, old Soviet soldiers, that sort. We need to move fast, get out of here."

Click.

A pistol muzzle was pressed against the back of the security man's skull.

The one holding the gun was a Southeast Asian bodyguard, short, with a vicious face, hired by the Sultan of Brunei, Bolkiah. Bang!

The Sultan's bodyguard pulled the trigger without the slightest hesitation; the bullet spun out of the barrel and punched through the security man's skull.

Before the VIPs present could scream in terror, the guard, his scalp blown open, slowly turned around, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a smile, and said in a clear, girlish voice, "Oh no, I've been spotted."

In the next instant, Li Cheng burst out of the guard's skin and flung his palm forward with force.

【Fog Concealment Art】, shrunk down to 【Atomizing Humidifier Art】, generated a patch of rapidly dissipating water mist ahead; although it couldn't completely block the line of sight, it could reflect the flashlight beams to the greatest extent, creating glare and interfering with the bodyguards' shooting from a distance.

As for the close quarters, Li Cheng waved his hand again, flung out and gripped the steel pipe hidden under his sleeve, and thrust it at the Sultan's guard.

Caught off guard, the Sultan's guard couldn't dodge in time, and his gun-holding arm was pierced through by the sharp steel pipe.

But he was trained in Southeast Asian ancient martial arts, having studied Khmer martial arts and Muay Thai since childhood; his ability to take hits and his tolerance for pain far surpassed that of American soldiers who only knew how to bully their own people back in the Middle East.

He didn't even blink, simply enduring the searing pain in his palm, clamped the steel pipe with his left hand, and at the same time whipped a roundhouse kick at Li Cheng's head, the leg cutting through the air.

A child's body ultimately had weaker stats across the board; Li Cheng leaned his torso back and narrowly dodged the roundhouse kick.

The Sultan's guard's movements flowed like water; he raised his thigh high and switched the roundhouse into a downward axe kick.

This move was powerful and heavy, swift and sudden, like a battle axe; Li Cheng crossed his arms before his chest, and at the moment of impact, his shoulders dislocated instantly.

At that moment, a rustling sound arose.

The Sultan's guard instinctively glanced sideways with the corner of his eye, seeing a silver slime emerge from the security guard's skin sack—it first compressed into a flat disc on the ground, then shot upward and smashed down with a hammer, shattering Harvey Weinstein's skull.

Using the recoil, the silver slime swung its hammer again, crushing the Sultan of Brunei's head.

No!

The Sultan's guard glared with bulging eyes; he was not unaware that there were Southeast Asian child slaves on the island, but the money the Sultan had once paid for his family's medical bills had already bought his morality.

Without hesitation, he threw himself forward, shouting a warning to the guards behind him, "Shoot!"

All of this happened within seconds; the guards snapped to attention and fired at the thickest part of the mist.

The bullets struck the Sultan's guard's body, their momentum unchanged, and all of them hit Li Cheng.

Yet he felt nothing, still holding his crossed-arm posture.

Beside his ear, system alerts chimed in succession.

【One VIP has died. Current player ability unlock progress increased by 2%】

【One VIP has died】

【One VIP has died】

【Current Qi limit: 76 points】

The long-missed transcendent power reclaimed more of its share; the shrunken version of 【Stony Rooting Art】 activated immediately, turning Li Cheng's front body into marble, effortlessly deflecting all bullets.

The bodyguards emptied their magazines; seizing the moment as they reloaded, Li Cheng calmly dispelled his petrified state, picked up the Sultan's guard's pistol,

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

After the gunfire ceased, all the bodyguards were dead or wounded. The surviving VIPs had their knees shattered by the gray rain, lying on the ground like livestock awaiting slaughter.

Creak—

The sound of a wheelchair approached from afar; Oracle pushed the wheelchair closer, behind her a small cart, on which lay a little boy in pink lace underwear, resembling a Christmas-wrapped gift, face-up.

His limbs were limp, yet his eyes spun wildly—he had clearly been injected with a potent anesthetic.

As for his identity—

"Oh? Isn't this Zhongtian Beiji?"

Li Cheng raised an eyebrow; he recognized the clean-featured boy as Gouchen's older brother, his old acquaintance Zhongtian Beiji.

"I found him in the VIP room," Oracle glanced at the guests. "What should we do with these people?"

Li Cheng said casually, "Finish them off together. More unlocks for power."

Power unlock had diminishing returns; granting the player group an additional skill was far more efficient than boosting a single player by 2%.

"Please, don't!"

A middle-aged man in a suit immediately dropped to his knees, pleading desperately to Li Cheng, "Spare my wife and child! They were brought here by me—they're innocent! I'll give you 70% of my fortune—"

No, all my fortune! Just spare their lives!"

The middle-aged man was a self-made bank speculator; tears and snot streamed down his face, while his wife trembled like a leaf, clutching an eight- or nine-year-old boy in her arms.

The entire family wore lion masks.

"Perhaps some who came to the island were coerced, but you all came to the underground slave auction—can you really claim innocence? Aren't you just here to pick out slaves as gifts for your child?"

Li Cheng shook his head and waved his hand. "Forget it. You may go. I always have principles—I never kill women or children."

"Thank you! Thank you so much!"

The middle-aged man nodded frantically, gesturing wildly to his wife and son to use their one good leg to support each other and painfully shuffle toward the corridor's corner.

Just as they were about to vanish around the corner—

Bang! Bang!

Two gunshots. Two bodies fell.

In the banker's dull, lifeless stare, Li Cheng blew away the smoke from his barrel and said lightly, "I never kill women or children—but your wife isn't a child, and your son isn't a woman."

(End of Chapter)