Chapter 68: Killer

But in the end, Mr. Chobaf did not immediately contact a killer; instead, he called Koen, a senior officer of the Kamil Gang.

Koen and Mr. Chobaf came from the same state, making them half-countrymen, and it was thanks to Mr. Chobaf’s help that Koen rose smoothly to his position as a senior officer in the Kamil Gang.

In the Federation, even in this world, whether in politics, capital, or gangs, climbing upward requires financial backing.

Especially in gangs, if you want greater influence and more support, you must give people tangible benefits to attract more followers.

The two had maintained contact, though Mr. Chobaf’s relationship with the Kamil Gang was average at best.

When Koen received Mr. Chobaf’s call, he was reclining in his chair, a girl kneeling before him; he tilted his head back, eyes half-closed. “Mr. Chobaf, is there… something you need from me?”

“Mr. Chobaf” was his special way of addressing him—it felt warmer, more familiar.

Mr. Chobaf glanced at the receiver in his hand, finding it absurd. “If you’re busy, I can call back later.”

“Busy?”

“No no no, not busy at all—I’ve got both hands free!”

“What brings me the honor of serving you?” Koen’s words carried hidden meaning.

In the past, their contact had mostly gone through assistants—or even the assistant’s nephew—Mr. Chobaf avoiding direct communication with him.

This was perfectly normal: one was an upper-class figure among Empire immigrants, the other a stinking gang officer; even if they had ties, they couldn’t be direct.

After all, Mr. Chobaf’s goal was to enter the Federation’s upper class, not to sink into the sewer.

At least before truly joining the Federation’s elite, he must keep as few stains as possible on himself.

Gang banker? That was clearly the worst interpretation, the worst label.

So he rarely contacted Koen directly—this was reasonable, appropriate—but inevitably left Koen with a small resentment.

Perhaps when he was still a poor boy, just beginning to be funded by Mr. Chobaf, he hadn’t felt any discomfort.

But as his status in the gang rose, he gradually realized that even as a senior officer, he still didn’t earn Mr. Chobaf’s respect.

This complex emotion slowly settled, fermented, and intensified.

Mr. Chobaf, hearing the implication in Koen’s tone, cursed inwardly but held his temper. “I’ve run into trouble.”

Koen pressed the girl’s head deeper. “Any problem, you can just order me—it’s repayment for your years of support.”

“Jimmy.”

“Jimmy?”

Koen paused. “Jimmy from the Brother’s Gang?”

“Yeah, him.”

Koen, who had originally hoped to profit from helping, now realized this was messy. “What did he do to you?”

Mr. Chobaf fell silent for a moment. “He extorted me several times. Today he took another thirty thousand.”

Koen felt a strange surge of emotion. “Mr. Chobaf, everyone says you own millions. Thirty thousand is nothing—don’t stoop to the level of lunatics.”

“You probably don’t understand Jimmy and the Brother’s Gang. They were once the most notorious gang of street kids in the harbor district—almost all were from single-parent homes or orphans, raised to act without restraint.”

“Honestly, if it were someone else, I might help you do something. But if it’s Jimmy of the Brother’s Gang, I can at most arrange a meeting for you.”

“You meet him—not me.”

The harbor district’s street-kid problem had once made front-page headlines in the Federation Daily, covered across multiple consecutive editions, with the first and last both on the front page.

The harbor’s problems were complex: sailors and travelers from around the world, after long voyages, needed release, so many women offered services here.

Some were professionals—organized, disciplined, operating in designated venues with thorough safety protocols.

Others were desperate for cash, occasionally stepping in without preparation—or even awareness.

Add to that the unorganized streetwalkers, and the harbor’s industry was chaotic; people often got shot by accident.

Every year, many babies were abandoned here, no one knew their mothers, but most guessed their fathers weren’t locals.

These children were taken in by the Fuli Academy and raised.

Federation law permits child labor; these kids learned to form gangs early, quickly establishing power in the harbor district.

Even now, they still exist—though as the economy improved, the street-kid issue pierced the Federation’s fragile conscience, so the media stopped reporting.

It wasn’t gone—just unreported. People assumed it no longer happened, but it still did.

The Brother’s Gang was built atop these street kids—a gang whose members were all vicious, ruthless types; otherwise, they wouldn’t have survived this long.

These people had no families, raised under constant scorn, so they acted without restraint, without fear.

Even the police found them troublesome—they killed cops without hiding it. Other gangs might kill officers too, but only as a last resort.

These guys? They killed whenever they felt like it.

So when speaking of them, Koen no longer thought of profit—he didn’t even want to get involved.

Koen’s attitude nearly made Mr. Chobaf explode: Do you think I need you to arrange a meeting with him?

But now he had to stay calm. He took two deep breaths. “So I just let myself be extorted?”

Koen chuckled. “Mr. Chobaf, you wear expensive, proper clothes and move among the elite, while they’re mud-crawling dogs. You’re rich—why risk yourself over thirty thousand? Not worth it.”

“If it’s unbearable, you could relocate to another nearby city. The Brother’s Gang is different from other gangs—they only have limited influence in Jincheng’s harbor district.”

“And as I said, Mr. Chobaf, you have millions. If a few thousand can solve a problem, why bother?”

His words all urged him to let it go. Mr. Chobaf took a deep breath. “Fine. I understand.”

“Then…” Koen began, but saw only a dial tone on the phone. He cursed twice, then turned back to the girl before him.

In his office, Mr. Chobaf grew angrier by the moment. Was it his fault he was rich?

No—in the Federation, being rich was the right thing.

The fault was that he was rich but didn’t act like a rich man should. He looked at his assistant. “This must end in a result I’m satisfied with. Find a killer. Pay him. Kill Jimmy.”

“I don’t want the sixty thousand back—I’m going to make him pay for this!”

The assistant knew he was furious. After careful thought, he decided to honor his choice. “I’ll find a reliable killer. How much are you willing to spend?”

Mr. Chobaf’s lip twitched. “One… two thousand at most.”

The assistant left quickly—he had to protect Mr. Chobaf, for only then did he have value.

He found his nephew. “Under two thousand. Find a killer. Kill Jimmy of the Brother’s Gang. I’ll send you his photo.”

The assistant’s nephew was thirty, had long handled dirty work for Mr. Chobaf, and nodded repeatedly before leaving.

He had his channels. Soon, he found someone willing: a recently smuggled Imperial deserter.

To repay his snakehead quickly and prevent his family back in the Empire from suffering, he needed to earn twelve hundred fast. This job was perfect.

The man offered him five thousand—and a weapon—for one kill.

On the battlefield, he’d killed several men. This job was easy.

He didn’t hesitate. He accepted.

For a week, he prepared. Of the five thousand, he gave two thousand as a deposit, twelve hundred to the snakehead, five hundred to his family, and spent nearly all the remaining three hundred before beginning his work.

In his words: if he died, wouldn’t it be a waste to leave money unspent?

For days, he wandered the harbor district, mapping Jimmy’s routine. Today would be Jimmy’s last day on earth.

Thinking of it, he pulled out his flask and took a sip.

Federation liquor was real liquor. What he drank in the Empire? What the hell was that?

He touched the weapon in his coat, opened the door, and stepped out—the sunlight ahead, like a new life, opened its arms to him.