Chapter 48: Prayer, Then Pull the Trigger (7)

Watching Bres crack his knuckles and look eager to try again, the young man with rainbow-dyed hair visibly flinched—after all, he had just taken a heavy punch.

The leader, a red-haired young man, sat slumped on the ground, his legs trembling uncontrollably, but he still insisted, “We came to protest because we don’t like you! Nobody sent us!”

Hearing this, the rainbow-haired young man glanced at the red-haired one, a hint of resentment in his eyes.

At this point, still talking tough—looks like we have to use some force.

Bres stood in front of the red-haired young man.

The man instinctively closed his eyes.

However, the expected beating didn’t come.

Instead, he felt someone rummaging through his pocket.

Soon, he felt something being taken out.

He opened his eyes and saw Bres playing with the colored paint ball that had been taken from his pocket.

Bres tossed it high, then caught it steadily just before it hit the ground.

“What are you—”

Before he could finish, Bres grabbed his face with one hand and pried his mouth open.

“Mmph? Mmph!”

The man tried to struggle, but Bres had already shoved the paint ball into his mouth.

It only fit halfway due to its size, but that was enough.

“Enjoyed hitting me, huh?”

Bres grinned wickedly.

“Then let’s have a taste yourself.”

‘He really doesn’t look like a good guy when he makes that face,’ Joanne thought.

“This is the kind that bursts on impact, right? Let me guess—if I punch you in the face right now, will it do the same?”

The man shook his head like a rattle drum.

“No? Just because you say no doesn’t make it so. I’ll test it myself.”

His face turned pale instantly.

Bres was true to his word.

He started pantomiming the trajectory of a punch hitting his cheek.

“Ready?”

“Mmph! Mmph!”

“Three…”

“Mmph!!!”

“Two—huh?”

Before he could even finish the countdown, the red-haired young man collapsed to the ground.

His eyes rolled back like a dead fish, and white foam leaked from his mouth.

The four who were still conscious looked at each other in confusion.

“What are you looking at me for? I haven’t even hit him yet!”

Bres complained.

“I was just scaring him. Who knew he had such weak mental fortitude…”

With that, Bres turned his gaze to the still-conscious rainbow-haired young man.

“Eek!”

The young man covered his bruised face, trembling.

“The gods do not condone torture and forced confessions…”

Leila shook her head, seemingly sympathetic.

As if seeing a glimmer of hope, the young man’s murky eyes suddenly lit up.

But soon—

“But they don’t oppose others doing it either.”

Leila covered her eyes with her fingers spread wide—more of a symbolic gesture.

This time, Bres picked up the dagger from the ground.

“He hit people with paint balls, so I returned the favor. You tried to hurt people with a knife—what should I do with you?”

The gleaming tip of the blade reached toward the young man’s face.

Street thugs often emphasize the concept of “brotherhood code.”

“Between brothers, loyalty matters. Loyalty is more important than life itself”—they often say things like that.

But saying and doing are two different things.

Between loyalty and his own life, the moment his life was truly threatened, the young man made his choice immediately.

He sprang up like a carp leaping—

And knelt on the ground in an extremely standard posture.

‘Are you kidding? I want to live a few more years.’

He could tell which threat to deal with first: the one several streets away or the one right in front of him.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk!”

His body was still trembling uncontrollably.

A sigh came from above him.

“If only you’d done this sooner…”

Next, the young man honestly confessed everything he knew.

He belonged to a nameless street thug group: few members, few weapons, hardly any civilian prosthetics.

To be honest, it couldn’t even be called a gang.

They loafed around all day, mostly causing trouble and graffiti—both digital and physical.

That colored paint ball was their own invention, a prank tool aimed at victims who chased them and police patrol drones.

A few days ago, their boss, a gang leader named Laird, had mysteriously gathered them together.

Laird claimed he had gained the favor of a big shot.

If they completed the tasks assigned, they could be absorbed into a real gang and become members.

Laird painted a rosy picture of the job’s prospects, and everyone believed him.

They started carrying out these so-called “tasks” all over.

The task assigned to him and the unconscious young man named Parker was to find a way to drive the newly arrived Troken Church out of this neighborhood.

For this, they received a considerable “operating budget” and a pistol “for emergencies.”

And so, they came here dreaming of “joining the gang and becoming big shots,” only to get a thorough beating.

“Laird… Sister Leila, have you heard that name?”

Sister Leila thought hard for over ten seconds, but came up with nothing.

“That’s not surprising… If he’s telling the truth, then this Laird was also acting on someone’s orders… Hey, what’s your name?”

Bres kicked the young man’s shin.

“I-I’m Derek.”

“Good, Derek. Your brain’s normal, right? No memory loss or cyber psychosis?”

“Y-Yes! I’m perfectly healthy!”

The young man unconsciously straightened his back.

“Good. Then take us to your boss!”

“Okay… huh?”

Derek deflated instantly.

“What? He tricked you into doing these shady deeds, and you’re still going to speak up for him?”

“It’s not that,” Derek’s voice carried a hint of cowardice.

“He’s really good at fighting… I’m afraid that if I do this, I’ll end up being…”

“And you’re not afraid of us? Joanne!”

Joanne stepped forward as summoned, took the dagger from Bres, and then tied a slipknot with it.

“This?”

Bres shook the stunned Derek awake.

“One word: will you take us or not?”

“I will!”

“Alright. Joanne, let’s go.”

Bres interrupted Joanne—she was busy tying up the unconscious red-haired man like a dumpling, then trying to undo the knot she’d made with the dagger.

Bres was about to tell Derek to lead the way, when he suddenly remembered something.

He turned to Leila and asked, “Sister Leila, is there water in the church?”

“There is? What do you need?”

Sister Leila quickly replied.

Bres pointed at his own battered face.

“I need to wash up before we go.”

‘Hopefully the paint’s adhesion isn’t that good.’