Chapter 67: Extortion

While Officer Lu Ka was scrambling to identify the deceased, and Lans’s agency had just opened its doors to a flood of clients, Mr. Chobaf encountered his own troubles.

Mr. Chobaf’s office was located at the very center of the Imperial District.

Though not the literal “city center,” it was unquestionably the busiest place in the entire Imperial District.

Almost every imperial tourist who had visited Jincheng City would tell their family back home about it—

Even if you had no acquaintances in the Federation and were utterly unfamiliar with the environment, you could still live well there, because some neighborhoods gave you the feeling you hadn’t left your homeland at all!

In his luxurious office, a young man sat on the leather sofa before him.

He had green hair, wore an orange shirt, blue pants, and a pair of white leather shoes.

What annoyed Mr. Chobaf even more was that those shoes were resting on his three-thousand-credit coffee table, leaving a layer of dust across its surface.

When his secretary told him Jimi had come to see him, he immediately instructed her not to say he was in, and had already begun preparing to hide—but it was too late.

The solid wood door, worth fifteen hundred credits, was kicked open; the secretary stood helplessly behind Jimi, while the young man strolled in, smoking a cigarette, arrogant and brazen, and plopped himself down on the sofa.

This was Jimi, a senior officer of the Brothers’ Gang, one of the three major crime syndicates in the Harbor District.

“Chobaf, I heard you’re avoiding me?” he said, flicking ash casually; the ash landed on the plush carpet, making Mr. Chobaf’s stomach turn.

But he couldn’t show his displeasure—he kept a cold face, paused a moment, then shook his head. “How could that be?”

“We’re good friends. I have no reason to avoid you.”

Jimi pointed at him. “You’d better be telling the truth,” he said, glancing around the office. “Still as lavish as ever—makes me jealous, old Chobaf.”

He pulled a two-credit bill from his pocket, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it over.

The bill struck Mr. Chobaf, then fell to the floor; the plush carpet kept it from rolling or sliding, leaving it perfectly still.

The assistant, who had just arrived, saw this, smiled nervously, greeted Jimi, picked up the bill, smoothed it out, and returned it to him. “Mr. Jimi, you dropped your money.”

Jimi glanced at the assistant, sizing him up, then burst out laughing. “I really like you. Why don’t you come work for me? You’ve got no future sticking with old Chobaf.”

The assistant bowed. “I haven’t thought about changing jobs yet.”

Jimi shrugged. “I heard you think I’m a deadbeat. So today I came specifically to pay you back.”

“You know, business hasn’t been good lately. The protests have turned the Harbor District into chaos. I just can’t come up with that much right now.”

“Here, I’ll pay you two credits first. You don’t mind, do you?”

“You don’t think I’m a deadbeat, do you?”

Both Mr. Chobaf and the assistant froze. The assistant glanced at his boss; their eyes exchanged a swift, silent understanding. The assistant took the money. “Of course not. Two credits is still money. You’re definitely not a deadbeat!”

Jimi grinned triumphantly—he knew these imperial fools would never resist.

That only made him greedier. He’d lost a lot recently at the Koda family’s casino.

He’d always suspected the croupiers were cheating, but he’d never caught them at it—so why did he keep losing?

This loss was especially troublesome, because two ten-thousand credits of it came from gang funds.

That sum had to be handed to the accountant before October 7th, or his boss would make his life hell.

Many called Jimi a madman, but Jimi knew he wasn’t mad—his boss was the real lunatic.

If he didn’t want to die, he’d better deliver every single credit to the accountant before October 7th!

Raising two thousand credits in a short time might be possible—but twenty thousand? That was a real problem. Then it struck him: the banker Chobaf, whom he’d extorted three ten-thousand credits from before.

What kind of damn banker was this? How dare he call himself a banker?

The thought gave him the idea to return—and now he was acting on it.

The assistant tried to ease the tense atmosphere. “Mr. Jimi, would you like something to drink?”

“Whiskey. No ice. A large glass.”

The assistant’s scalp prickled. Mr. Chobaf moved to sit on the opposite side of the sofa. “Give me one too. With ice.”

Ice was added to dull the burn—that’s how most people drank.

But no ice, and a full glass? That wasn’t just a drinking habit—it was a message.

The assistant hurried to pour the drinks. Mr. Chobaf tried to appear calm, but couldn’t resist a small jab. “You didn’t need to come all this way for two credits. You could’ve called—I’d have sent someone to collect it.”

Jimi had come to provoke. He laughed inwardly, but his face twisted in fury. “Are you mocking me?”

Mr. Chobaf hadn’t expected this so-called high-school dropout, son of a whore, to be so sensitive. “How could I?” he denied instantly.

“It’s so hot outside. Whether it’s two credits or twenty thousand, I could send someone to fetch it. You didn’t need to risk the heat.”

Jimi’s eyes grew chilling. “Don’t you dare mock me, old Chobaf. You know me—I’m ruthless even to myself.”

Mr. Chobaf forced a dry laugh, saying nothing.

At that moment, the assistant returned with a tray—not just drinks, but sliced banana, apple, and cherries.

Jimi pulled his legs off the coffee table, picked up a cherry, popped it in his mouth. “Look, I’ll just be straight with you—I’m short on cash right now. Lend me another fifty thousand. I’ll pay you back by year’s end.”

Mr. Chobaf’s gaze locked onto the cherry pit Jimi had spat onto the carpet—bright red, as if coated in fresh blood.

The assistant quickly jumped in. “Mr. Jimi, we’re short on cash too…”

Jimi stared at him blankly. “And that concerns me how?”

Both Mr. Chobaf and the assistant thought the same thing: this man was a pure, unadulterated scoundrel.

But sometimes, when faced with such a scoundrel, you had no recourse at all.

Mr. Chobaf knew he had to speak now. “I don’t have that much. And you still owe me twenty-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-eight credits from your last loan. Until that’s settled, I won’t give you another cent.”

Jimi smirked, lifted his glass—but didn’t drink. He stared at Mr. Chobaf. “Why didn’t you put ice in mine? Do you look down on me?”

The two men, already familiar with Jimi’s scoundrel nature, were stunned anew by his brazenness, shamelessness, and bottomless audacity.

The assistant rushed to smooth things over. “My fault—I forgot the ice. Let me fix that right away—”

Jimi hurled the full glass of whiskey at Mr. Chobaf’s bookshelf. Glass shattered everywhere; the shelf’s surface was gouged with deep scratches.

The rare, antique books he’d collected from around the world were soaked in whiskey.

Even Mr. Chobaf himself was splattered with liquor.

He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped the liquor off, then glared at Jimi. Jimi drew a pistol from behind his waist, chambered a round, then flipped it over and slammed it onto the coffee table, shoving it toward Mr. Chobaf. “I know you hate me. Maybe even despise me. Now I’m giving you a choice.”

“Either pick it up and shoot me.”

“Or give me the money. I’ll never show my face here again. Choose, old Chobaf.”

Mr. Chobaf’s inner rage surged—he wanted to pull the trigger and blow this son of a whore away. He clenched his fists. The assistant rushed to his side, whispering soothing words.

After a long moment, he slowly unclenched his fists. “I don’t have that much.”

Jimi wore a victorious grin. “Thirty thousand. Final offer.”

…

After watching Jimi leave, Mr. Chobaf, who had maintained his composure all along, smashed something for the first time—though it was worthless junk, it revealed his fury.

The assistant scolded the curious staff, shut the door, and returned to the room in silence.

“He’ll come again. And again. Forever. We can’t keep living like this!”

“We must strike back!”

He paced back and forth. “Find a killer. Go find me a killer. I’ll kill him. I must make everyone know—I’m not to be trifled with!”