Chapter 130: Candidates and Choices

“Sit.”

The chief of the Jincheng City Police Bureau gestured for Officer Lu Ka to sit; the latter walked to the opposite side of the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

The chief’s office had no sofa, no bar—just a simple office.

He looked about sixty, having held this position for over a decade.

Starting as a patrol officer and rising all the way to chief of the city police bureau, he was something of a legend in Jincheng’s law enforcement.

The old chief’s name was Charlie—a very, very common name for a Lianbang citizen. He looked clean, not the usual messy old man.

“The Presidential Office has decided to form the Tobacco, Alcohol, and Dangerous Goods Administration. Have you heard?” A simple opening, but it sent a signal to Officer Lu Ka.

He already had a hunch: “I’ve heard of it, but what does it have to do with me?”

Chief Charlie spoke slowly, his voice gentle—something that seemed at odds with his decades as a cop.

Many who’d heard of him expected a burly old man whose voice would grind like two I-beams scraping together.

But in truth, he spoke softly, slowly, calming anyone who listened.

“The Ministry of Justice, the Ministry of Finance, the Tax Bureau—even the Lianbangdiaocha Bureau is rumored to want a hand in it. But no matter what, they’ll form this new agency to make prohibition more than just a report’s success.”

“It has all the powers we have.”

“And more than what we don’t have!”

“A friend in the state told me they’ll have a dedicated Sifa Bureau office, staffed twenty-four hours a day, just to make it easy to obtain legal documents.”

“It’s too powerful, Lu Ka. I don’t oppose more enforcement agencies entering our lives.”

“The Lianbangdiaocha Bureau, the Drug Supervision Bureau—I don’t object. Their presence makes our lives better.”

“But this time is an exception!” Chief Charlie pulled out his pipe, opened a tobacco box, and packed damp tobacco into the bowl.

Officer Lu Ka smelled a strong odor of alcohol—the tobacco had likely been sprayed or soaked in strong liquor.

After packing it, Chief Charlie used a silver tool to tamp it down, then picked up a long match—about ten centimeters long and thick, each one burning for a long time.

As the flame drew into the pipe, the damp tobacco ignited.

Not burned outright—but definitely ignited.

He puffed twice, then looked at Officer Lu Ka: “Its power is too great. I agree with many: prohibition is a piece of shit policy.”

“We’ve drunk our whole lives, and now they tell us drinking is a crime? Those who peddle this nonsense in Congress should be sent to the electric chair!”

Officer Lu Ka couldn’t help chuckling twice: “Yeah, electrocute him!”

Chief Charlie said, “Thank you. I’m glad you understand.”

“Because these people desperately want to prove their proposal right through prohibition, the next while might get very bad.”

“Jincheng isn’t some remote backwater. It’s a metropolis, connected to the world.”

“Gangs, the Five Families—I don’t want them to arrive here and turn everything upside down on day one!”

“Lu Ka, I want to give you a new job: join this administration.”

He took another puff. The tobacco in his pipe was raw, mixed with other ingredients to create a more complex flavor.

Some even added chili powder and peppercorns!

Everyone’s tobacco blend differed. Chief Charlie’s smoke didn’t sting as much—perhaps because of his age.

“A powerful new enforcement agency, promoted across the entire Lianbang, must rely on local strength to be built quickly.”

“I’ve heard rumors: the first batch of mid-level enforcers will be recommended by local authorities.”

“I’ll recommend you.”

“Detective Chief, Senior Investigator, even Special Agent—whatever they assign, I guarantee you’ll lead your own team.”

“Besides your official duties, there’s one other thing you must do.” He spoke several sentences, then brought the pipe to his lips and drew another puff.

Chief Charlie stared into his eyes. As he opened his mouth, the smoke he’d just inhaled escaped with his words: “Don’t let them run wild in this city!”

Officer Lu Ka didn’t answer immediately. After a moment’s thought, he asked: “Why me?”

Chief Charlie seemed to expect the question. He praised him with a tone of approval: “Because you have principles. And the others...” He forced a fake smile. Both understood what he meant.

He’d already agreed inwardly, though a part of him felt reluctant: “I still have some cases unresolved.”

“Criminal cases? Or gang-related?”

“Both.”

“Then you have even less to worry about, Lu Ka. You know well: the harder we crack down, the higher the profits for criminal groups.”

“These blood-hungry dogs rushing in won’t abandon such a high-return illegal business. They’ll definitely get involved.”

“You’ll still be able to investigate them—and with greater power!”

After a long silence, Officer Lu Ka agreed: “I’m fine with it.”

The old chief smiled contentedly—he knew he would. “I’ll draft a report later. Be prepared—your transfer might come quickly.”

“And before that, you’ll likely need training.”

“As for your cases, I can have them transferred. But I repeat: don’t let them run wild in this city. Notify me immediately if you hear anything.”

Officer Lu Ka agreed, then left the office. The old chief leaned back in his chair, smiling, bathed in sunlight.

Unintentionally, as he reached for his pipe, a glint of gold flashed from his sleeve.

Having principles means they can be exploited.

For Chief Charlie, Officer Lu Ka might not be the best—but he was the most suitable.

Appoint corrupt cops to a more powerful department?

With the capitalists’ and the Five Families’ gold-plated assault, he didn’t think those corrupt cops would last long.

Take the assistant chief of the Harbor Division, nicknamed “Vulture”—even Chief Charlie had heard that before becoming assistant chief, he’d thoroughly looted his patrol zone.

That kind of man, sent to the Tobacco, Alcohol, and Dangerous Goods Administration, would corrupt faster, side with those people, and forget Charlie entirely.

But Officer Lu Ka—principled, still unyielding to this society—was now the most suitable candidate.

Officer Lu Ka rarely took bribes. He remained wary of capitalists, the Five Families, and criminal gangs. These virtues and professional integrity left him with little support in this city.

If you don’t take money, how can capitalists trust you to grow stronger?

If you don’t collude with the Five Families or criminal gangs, they’ll fear you—afraid you’ll reach out and hurt their profits!

If you don’t stand with them, don’t wear a false mask and play the game of fame and fortune, how can you become friends?

You’re not even friends. Why should you expect them to help you?

Especially when you might be investigating them.

So after joining the new administration, the greatest support Officer Lu Ka could rely on would be his old superior.

He didn’t know how officials and enforcement agencies elsewhere felt. To him, it was terrible.

A new enforcement agency, capable of challenging the old order, was being born.

In the afternoon, the nephew of Mr. Qiaoba’s assistant had just left his uncle’s place—his uncle told him to go into hiding for a while.

Returning to the Empire was impossible—he’d be sent to the front lines.

Going to another country... seemed a good option, as his uncle suggested: vacation on Sumuli Island, or visit Glae to see the so-called origins of the Lianbang.

Actually, continuing south to countries near Yalan, where there were many women, it was supposedly enough to promise to take them away from their miserable countries to the Lianbang.

Then those fiery, passionate women would do anything for you, anywhere!

All good options—but ultimately, the assistant’s nephew chose to stay within the Lianbang.

He knew nothing of those countries. Since he could remember, he’d lived here.

He never felt like an immigrant or second-generation. He felt he was a Lianbang citizen—even if Lianbang citizens didn’t acknowledge it.

He knew this place well. Familiar surroundings gave him more security—even though he knew there was danger, he still needed it.

Going elsewhere was easy—but in a foreign country, if trouble arose, he wouldn’t even know who to turn to.

Add language barriers, communication difficulties—he might truly never return.

So he decided: go nowhere. Not even leave this city.

He knew it well. He could definitely hide here.

He returned home, packed lightly, said goodbye to his family, then went to Xilin District—north of downtown, Jincheng’s oldest district, rich with daily life.

As the city developed, its vitality clearly lagged behind the times, becoming a relatively slow-paced place.

Some old Empire immigrants lived here, but mostly elderly. The young had moved to livelier, younger areas.

Here, you often saw old people sitting on wicker chairs by the roadside, chatting, reading newspapers, or dozing off in the afternoon.

You couldn’t even tell if they were sleeping—or had suddenly died.

Old shops, goods no young people liked—life here was simple.

Mr. Qiaoba’s assistant had bought two houses here, but never lived in them—just left them empty.

He always thought he’d use them someday. Now was that day.

Beforehand, he’d sent someone to clean all the houses—routine cleaning, tidying up on schedule, just as always. No one would suspect.

Under cover of night, the assistant’s nephew arrived at one of the houses.

The house had been cleaned. Not as luxurious as his villa, but at least it was safe.

It wasn’t large—a two-story building by the road, totaling about 150 square meters.

In the old district, such houses were everywhere—ancient buildings.

Though small, he liked it. In danger, the smaller the space, the greater the sense of security.

After settling in, he picked up the phone and dialed his uncle’s number.

“I’ve settled in. Everything’s safe. The blankets and sheets are new—smell like flowers.”

The assistant fell silent for a long time: “On the attic, there’s a statue of the Virgin. Move it aside. Beneath the base is a lion pattern. Twist it—the base will drop a box.”

“Inside is a pistol, two magazines, and two boxes of ammunition.”

Nephew was surprised, “I don’t need these now.”

The assistant raised his voice, “No, you do.”

“Remember, find it, carry it with you, until I call you again.”

The nephew stopped resisting, “Alright, I understand, Uncle.”

The assistant fell silent again, “Take care of yourself, and… I love you.”

“I love you too.”

After hanging up, the nephew sat staring blankly for a while, then went to the attic as his uncle instructed and found the statue of the Virgin.

She looked so compassionate, as if incapable of tolerating even the slightest cruelty. He stared at the statue for a long time, then murmured an apology and lifted the Virgin from her pedestal.

Then he spotted the lion emblem his uncle mentioned—a forward-facing lion’s head, barely less than a centimeter tall, with fine engraved lines beside it.

At first he didn’t turn it, but after pressing down slightly, it rotated.

Immediately, a click sounded, and the pedestal dropped away.

He saw the pistol, the magazine, and the bullets his uncle had mentioned. Considering his current lack of safety, he took the pistol with him.

This place was safe, stocked with enough food—he could stay here without leaving for two or three weeks.

What should he do?

He thought, but there seemed to be nothing worthwhile to do; reading might be one of his few options.

Fortunately, he had brought a few books with him.

He opened the book *Enduring Suffering*, and his emotions and thoughts began to rise and fall with the protagonist’s turbulent fate.

On the other end of the phone line, the assistant hunched over, hands covering his face, voice choked with tears.

Mr. Chobaf stood beside him, hand on his shoulder, “I killed them. They could’ve gotten more money, but they refused.”

“If money could solve this, you know me—I wouldn’t hesitate to spend a little.”

“But they didn’t want money.”

Mr. Chobaf sent Pete to talk with Poli; the feedback was terrible. Poli told him: one of his assistant or his assistant’s nephew must die!

Money wouldn’t help—this had nothing to do with money!

If we paid a few thousand to every failed assassin targeting him and his men, tomorrow, the line of would-be killers would stretch from his company’s entrance in the Harbor District all the way to his villa in the Bay Area!

This isn’t about whether they give Mr. Chobaf face—it’s a bottom line, a principle. Someone must pay with their life.

And even this concession was only because of the Mayor and Mr. Pete. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be some minor figure who died—it would be Mr. Chobaf himself.

In the end, he compromised: between his assistant and the assistant’s nephew, he chose the fool.

Of course, he felt some displeasure and anger inside—how could such a simple task go wrong? Perhaps his death was deserved.

But he wouldn’t show it. He tried his hardest to save the young man’s life—unfortunately, he couldn’t.

The assistant continued weeping bitterly. He had no son of his own, so this nephew was like a son to him, deeply cherished. Now, this loved one, so much like a son, was about to leave this world. Grief poured out uncontrollably.

Perhaps hearing the assistant’s sobs reminded him of his own fate, and feeling it so deeply, Mr. Chobaf was also heartbroken.

But this wasn’t the time for sorrow. He patted the assistant’s shoulder, “We will take revenge!”

The assistant wiped his tears and looked at him, “Can we really take revenge?”

Mr. Chobaf nodded firmly, “We absolutely will!”

A few minutes later, Poli hung up and handed a slip of paper to Jimmy, “This is where that Empire bastard is hiding now. Keep it quiet.”

Jimmy looked at the paper, slipped it into his pocket, then stood up, “I’ll handle it.”

Poli raised his hand to signal he could leave. Jimmy immediately called a few men and left in a car.

Though losing money was regrettable, regaining face and venting that rage felt good enough.

As for who gave Poli the address or how they confirmed the man lived there—he didn’t care. That wasn’t his job.

The car crossed the entire Empire District. He saw nothing of the sorrow unfolding on a floor of a building on some street—Mr. Chobaf and the assistant’s grief. His mind held only the coming revenge, and the fear that one shot had planted in him.

At around eight in the evening, the nephew, having eaten, lay in bed, half-asleep.

He had a habit: before sleeping, he liked to use the toilet, empty his bladder, then wash his face.

That way, he slept well.

He went to the bathroom, whistling softly, watching the ripples in the toilet bowl. Suddenly, he remembered a curious news story he’d seen.

In one state, after dark, it wasn’t just forbidden to stand while urinating—it was also illegal to whistle in the bathroom.

Federal people are crazy!

He chuckled twice, shook off, flushed, then turned to look at himself in the mirror—looking worn out.

He filled the sink with water, bent down, cupped his hands, and splashed water onto his face—repeating it several times, then scrubbed hard.

When he lifted his head again, his gaze suddenly locked onto a figure standing behind him in the mirror.

The dim bathroom light flickered…