Blackstone Code

The next day, several prisoners were beheaded in the square, blood pooling everywhere.

Onlookers watched the rolling heads with a mix of fear and excitement.

While the killing of one’s own kind brings uncontrollable sorrow, if the slaughter is merely a display of power within the same species, people feel excitement instead—envy and jealousy over not having that power themselves.

The city hall announced that these were the gang members who robbed and killed Mike’s group. Their heads were covered with sacks, so no one saw their faces.

People believed whatever the local government said—not necessarily out of true faith, but because opposing them would only bring trouble.

Still, rumors spread that those beheaded weren’t the real masterminds or killers behind Mike’s tragedy.

Everyone knew who actually did it and that those people were still alive. Lies were obvious.

But no one spoke up; offending the local government or gangs was foolish.

The matter seemed closed. The city hall officials even brought a camera to record the executions, supposedly to send to the Federation government as proof the issue was settled.

It sounded almost laughable.

The people of Sugra, who don’t see themselves as backward, felt proud. No matter how powerful the Baylor Federation’s international reputation, they were still mocked by this small, little-known country.

This strange sense of superiority made the crowd straighten their backs. Under the camera’s flashing lights, faces turned sideways for the shot became next week’s Federation Times front page.

Heads twisted oddly in the photo. In the center lay a dozen headless bodies neatly arranged, blood pooling beneath them, while children in the distance laughed and kicked a severed head.

That was the end of it.

The 1.8-meter-tall gang leader sat at his chair as his men counted stacks of money, binding them with leather strips on a large table.

The table was piled a foot high with cash, plus some gold and jewels near the leader. The money came from trading Federation goods.

The Federation refused local currency, but locals didn’t mind—some even preferred converting it to local money for easier spending.

That was only half. The rest remained unsold in the warehouse, reserved for future dealings when key connections needed to be smoothed.

No one refused wealth or fine Federation products, which would become harder to get later.

Since Mike’s shop was robbed and his gang killed, many Federation merchants had left.

Those remaining were downsizing.

The leader thought about doing it again.

It was addictive, highly profitable, and crucial to block the market for himself.

Only if Federation merchants stopped coming temporarily would his goods keep rising in value.

Four or five days later, around ten in the morning, the gang leader stretched and left his room.

As the door opened, a naked woman lay on the bed, covered in wounds.

She was Mike’s brother’s young lover. Like Mike said, there was no pure teenage love story between a girl and a man in his forties.

She just wanted to latch onto Mike’s brother to get a ticket out of Sugra.

For many girls in poor, chaotic places, any chance to escape and find shelter was worth any price.

Unfortunately, Mike’s brother was trapped. The dawn of better days had passed, and eternal night had fallen.

The girl on the bed was barely conscious. Her mind was empty, thoughts frozen.

Here, she was a toy for anyone.

When the leader found her interesting, he kept her for a while before handing her to others.

If unlucky and dead, she’d feed wild dogs. If lucky and alive, she’d wear revealing clothes and do degrading work for the gang’s profit.

On the day hope and life died, so would she and her soul.

The 1.8-meter gang leader looked toward the courtyard where people were running and smiled proudly.

By now, he was practically a small clan.

Wealth, followers, weapons, and enough ruthlessness kept most from challenging him.

A few more years running things, and maybe he’d be mayor or an officer.

In backward, brutal Sugra, power was never inherited but seized.

The people in the yard were his future capital—some newly recruited young men with fierce looks and reputations outside.

Yet before him, they all behaved obediently, like the girl in the room.

He approached the runners, who stopped. He pulled out a cigarette, and someone immediately came over, shielding the flame and lighting it.

He planned to say something to strengthen his status—a way to bond.

As the flame neared his mouth, he bent down to light the cigarette, but suddenly collapsed, rolling to the ground.

His large body fell slowly, his shattered mind struggling with one last stubborn thought:

Just lighting a cigarette—and it blew his head apart?

The sudden turn left everyone dumbfounded.

This gang leader had ruled the area for years.

Others tried to challenge him—all dead. No one thought to climb over his head to rise.

But now, at this moment, he was dead.

A single shot blew his head open, followed by a burst of rapid gunfire—though something felt off.

The gunfire didn’t sound like local homemade guns or imported foreign weapons. It was a continuous, steady rat-a-tat-tat, not sharp or loud, but clearly audible.

Those who had just stopped to catch their breath fell like wheat cut down by the reaper’s scythe, blood bursting from their bodies as they dropped, still unaware of what had just happened.

At that moment, three soldiers in heavy combat gear broke through the door. The ones pretending to be dead, and those inside the room, realized the attackers had been on the neighboring rooftop.

These soldiers were well-trained, moving in rotation. The fakers had no chance to escape. After entering, each person received a second shot—right to the head.

Some say hearts can be on the opposite side, but no one has ever heard of a head growing on the buttocks. Regardless of whether someone was playing dead, a headshot was a guaranteed kill.

Afterward, sporadic gunfire broke out but quickly ceased. Everyone in the surrounding rooms was eliminated—no survivors left.

Except for the girls who looked like victims.

They were herded together, trembling. Some vomited; others had fainted.

Yet the naked girl, sensing the sharp scent of blood, snapped awake. She shivered, and focus returned to her dull eyes.

She looked around in confusion, then fixed her gaze on the gang leader—the 1.8-meter-tall man who had half a head left.

She lunged at him, clawing and kicking, unleashing all her anger and despair.

The bodies of the executed were dragged to the center of the courtyard. Someone took photos of them and filmed their warehouse, taking all valuable and portable items.

From the first shot to the end of the fight and withdrawal, less than ten minutes had passed.

Ten minutes—while the mayor was still asleep and the police chief had just gotten out of bed.

In those ten minutes, some bold people gathered outside the courtyard, shooting at the heads inside.

“I swear we’re going to get punished for this!” one assault soldier casually said while chewing tobacco.

The thrill of killing faded quickly, replaced by nervousness. Chewing tobacco was a good way to calm down.

The captain glanced at him sideways. “Watch yourself. I’ll handle the rest.”

In the back of the vehicle, a girl wrapped in a sheet stared at them, dazed, unable to describe what she felt inside.

She had thought she had fallen into hell—only to climb back out.

As they were leaving, she suddenly said, “Take me with you. I know Mike.”

The captain agreed.

This woman was useful—that was the captain’s thought. To reach his rank at Blackstone Security and command a military operation required not only professionalism but also brains.

He knew what Mr. Lynch wanted. This girl was valuable.

He looked back at her. “We might need to take your photo later, if you don’t mind.”

She didn’t care about more people seeing her body. She had only one question: “Can I go to the Baylor Federation?”