Chapter 518: Immigration Customs Inspection

"What exactly do you want to do right now?" Yu Lin's gaze fell ahead.

Several robbers were being pinned to the ground by the arriving police, their wrists cuffed in reverse.

The loot was taken out piece by piece from the bulging black trash bags—Computer, phone, tablet, and some electronic devices whose names could not be identified.

Shop owner Aidewen stood at the shattered storefront, hunched over, his expression numb as he watched everything.

His lips moved a few times, as if to say something, but in the end nothing came out.

"Really want to go to Heaven?"

Yu Lin turned his head, looking at Divine Jesus, who had somehow been sitting at the other end of the bench.

Jesus said nothing.

His gaze passed over the chaotic street, the flashing police lights, the onlookers, and settled on the grayish sky, indistinguishable between smog and rain clouds.

"No," he finally spoke, his voice calm:

"That is not my purpose."

He paused.

"All I want to do is make this land... a bit cleaner."

His tone did not fluctuate, yet Yu Lin sensed the heavy weight behind the words.

"Just like back then, Father let you use Hong's flood to wash it."

Jesus turned his head, looking at Yu Lin: "The land today is once again filled with violence."

He paused even longer.

"... but he does not want to," he said softly:

"So... I will say I don't want to involve you."

"I don't want to put you in a difficult position."

"Hmm, fine, then I won't make it difficult," Yu Lin replied, his face showing little change, only a slight nod to indicate he understood.

He rose from the bench, leaving a line:

"You go ahead, I'm not letting any water out anyway."

He walked forward, passing the shop being photographed for evidence, passing Aidewen's figure, passing the scattered loot and the robbers being shoved into police cars.

The police who had originally intended to brush it off.

Suddenly felt they had to be more attentive..............

Behind, the white silhouette on the bench gradually faded, like thin snow melting in sunlight, like mist dissipating at dawn.

In a few breaths, he vanished.

Yet he was everywhere.

Yu Lin kept walking.

The afternoon in Chicago South District was dimly sunny, like lemon juice diluted with too much water.

He passed a smoke shop with iron fences, a wall painted with gang symbols, and an alley entrance piled with trash bags.

Police sirens rose and fell, sometimes a few blocks away, sometimes whistling past his ear.

He walked for a long time.

So long that the lead‑gray clouds at the horizon finally split, letting down strands of golden‑red twilight.

A black‑painted Chevrolet screeched to a halt before him without warning, its tires dragging a harsh screech across the asphalt.

The door opened, and three men and a woman filed out in single file.

Deep‑blue tactical pants, black wind‑proof jacket, a silver emblem embroidered on the left chest—ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

The leader, sporting a prominent protruding belly, was around fifty, his sparse blond hair clinging to his scalp, his face lined with horizontal flesh that reflected the professional arrogance cultivated by years of Deterrence Mission.

He surveyed Yu Lin from head to toe, his gaze moving from the Oriental face, across the plain, somewhat cheap casual attire, finally landing on the pair of black eyes.

"Hey," he said, his voice sounding like a long‑caught cough, in short, unpleasant:

"Show your Permanent Resident Card, or your visa."

He paused, letting the weight of the sentence sink fully.

"Otherwise you wouldn't want to test our methods."

Yu Lin did not move, merely watching them.

One of the tallest, most muscular middle‑aged officers, his brown hair standing up like steel wires, grew impatient.

"Fulen," he called his superior's name:

"I think his shabby look doesn't belong here; just grab him, interrogate him all night, he'll spill everything."

"And waste what more words?"

Fulen didn't turn around, merely waved his plump palm: "Wat, the procedure still has to be followed."

He turned his gaze back to Yu Lin, bringing his already impatient face a few inches closer, the pressure palpable.

"Alright, do you have it or not? If not, come with us."

Yu Lin still didn't move.

He faced Fulen's aggressive stare, a smile slowly blossoming on his face.

The smile's curve was slight, even gentle, yet somehow made the hairs on Fulen's nape stand up.

"Sorry," Yu Lin said, his tone sincere:

"I left it at home; shall I go back and get it?"

"At home?"

Wat, like a lit firecracker, brushed past Fulen, stepped forward, the gleaming stainless‑steel handcuffs at his waist already released, jingling as they dangled between his fingers.

"That means you don't have it!"

He stood almost pressed against Yu Lin, his 1.9‑meter height like a moving flesh wall, looking down at the yellow‑skinned man who dared to smile before him.

"Grab him and take him back for questioning!"

The iron rings of the handcuffs had already opened, snapping toward Yu Lin's wrist—

Yu Lin did not dodge.

He just stood in place, looking at Wat's face, which, from being long granted "law‑enforcement" authority, was unaccustomed to being offended.

He was still smiling.

That smile made a savage instinct in Wat's blood completely break its reins.

Especially now that many onlookers were already present.

It made him feel he had lost face.

Especially in front of those damned yellow‑skinned and black‑skinned people, he felt he had lost face!

"Fuck!" he growled low, left hand in a cuff, right hand clenched, his entire right arm drawn back like a drawn bow:

"You laugh your mother—"

The fist's wind whistled.

The next second, the fist brimming with rage did not strike any target.

A hand clenched Wat's wrist tightly.

"Stop!"

Charging forward was a white priest, about forty‑five or six years old, his short golden hair neatly combed, a SilverCross pinned to the collar of his dark shirt, glinting faintly in the sunset.

He was solidly built and very strong, at least enough to keep Wat from breaking free.

Wat strained so hard his face swelled to a pork‑liver hue, still unable to break free, and could only curse:

"Who the hell are you?! Interfering with law enforcement?!"

"Want to eat bullets, huh?"

To be honest.

He actually wanted to draw his gun at once.

But who knew whether this priest in front of him would use Holy law?

The priest released him, saying lightly, "I am Anthony Vilarcos."

"I am also the priest of this region."

"You cannot be so rough with him."