Chapter 523: All the Evidence

Yu Lin is too lazy to wait for De Laike's drug effect to wear off naturally.

He raised his hand and snapped his fingers casually.

The sound was faint, yet it stirred an invisible ripple in the cramped chapel.

De Laike, who had been sobbing and babbling into the air, suddenly froze, as if an invisible hand had hit the pause button.

His expression shifted from fanatical devotion to bewilderment, then to terror.

Then his whole body seemed to have its bones pulled out, collapsing limp onto the floor.

The drug's aftereffects left his limbs weak, with no strength to even prop himself up.

He could only tilt his head back, gasping heavily, sweat mixing with lingering tear stains smearing his face.

Yu Lin looked down at him and said:

"Since your gang is the biggest in the South District, then..."

"The rich in the Rich District must have deep collaborations with you, right?"

De Laike's pupils constricted again.

But he dared not hesitate, let alone conceal.

His intuition told him that under Yu Lin's calm gaze, any lie would be a path to death.

"Yes... yes," he swallowed hard:

"There are... there are many—Chris of Gui Gu Technology, Pineapple Company's... that... that..."

"Enough," Yu Lin interrupted him, not letting him finish the long list:

"I don't need you to read it to me."

He paused briefly.

"Compile all the people you've dealt with, the deeds, times, locations, amounts, methods—into a data disk or documents, and deliver them to me."

He leaned down, his gaze level with De Laike's.

"One hour, understood?"

De Laike met those eyes.

There was no threat in those eyes, no discernible emotion, and precisely because of that, a chill rose from the marrow.

But De Laike knew that whether he refused or delayed, it would only lead to the same outcome.

"Under... stood!"

His only thought now was to make amends for his mistake.

Counterattack? No joke.

Not to mention the Blood Wolf Gang; even if all the gangs of America were added together, they'd be nothing but lambs awaiting the slaughter before him.

Moreover, this area alone has seven churches—seven!

Any of those Bishops, priests, or nuns, whoever steps forward, would be enough for them to drink a pot!

Their gang's cyborgs and psychics are no match for the Holy See at all!

De Laike braced against the wall, staggered out the door, rolling and crawling.

Yu Lin neither pursued nor urged him.

He simply sat on that chair, back to the cross, closing his eyes to rest.

Forty‑seven minutes later.

De Laike burst in, panting heavily.

His complexion was paler than before, sweat beads covering his forehead, cradling a palm‑sized Black Hard Disk in one hand, while the other clutched a stack of printed documents with ragged edges, clearly torn in haste.

"Saint... Saint Yu Lin, sir," he bent over, handing the items forward with both hands:

"Everything's here; the disk contains raw data and backups, the documents are... the Core List and Key Events, etc."

"All... all is here."

Yu Lin opened his eyes, took the disk and documents, and casually flipped through the stack of papers.

A dense list of names, dates, amounts, and red‑inked notes—"Drug Distribution," "Money Laundering Channel," "Underage," "Firearms Supply," "Organ Matching"........

He closed the documents.

Then, under De Laike's tense stare, he bent down, picked up the silver‑plated Desert Eagle from the floor, and handed it to De Laike.

De Laike was stunned.

He stared at the gun, then looked up at Yu Lin's face, completely clueless about its meaning.

Yu Lin placed the gun in his hand, letting his fingers grip the grip.

Then he stood, walked past De Laike, and headed toward the doorway.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Then a light, airy voice came from the doorway:

"If you have no sin, then you may live tonight."

De Laike's heart clenched sharply.

He turned, intending to chase after and ask for clarification—

But Yu Lin's figure had already vanished into the night outside.

Only the final sentence drifted in, as if carried by wind:

"Of course, you wouldn't expect me to act personally."

De Laike stood frozen, gun in hand, staring at the empty doorway.

Night wind poured in from outside, carrying the stench of street trash and homeless bodies.

De Laike's hand began to tremble.

He lowered his head to look at the gun in his hand, at the Cross Mark he himself had carved into the grip, now worn and somewhat blurred.

He remembered many things.

He remembered the dagger he used when he first killed someone at age thirteen; he remembered shoving a disobedient subordinate into a mixer at age twenty with his own hands; he remembered the Mexican couple who ran a grocery store three years ago, who, for refusing to pay protection money, had gasoline poured on them by his men—

His fingers began to bend uncontrollably.

The gun barrel rose.

It pressed against his own temple.

He didn't want to.

He really didn't want to.

But his fingers wouldn't obey, as if being controlled by another hand.

"You don't want me to act personally."

Those words echoed in his mind.

De Laike's tears welled up.

He opened his mouth, wanting to shout, to beg for mercy, to pray to God—but this time, no blue liquid was injected into his veins, no holy voice from his hallucinations answered him.

Only his own fingers.

In the moonlight, he slowly pulled the trigger.

Bang.

A short gunshot.

Then came the sound of a heavy object falling to the ground.

A muffled thud, like a sack of cement falling from a height.

Afterwards.

There were more gunshots.

The next day's news reports and investigation.

The police could only attribute it to gang warfare.

The Blood Wolf Gang was no match for rival gangs, was utterly annihilated, and even the gang leader couldn't escape their clutches.