I planted a sacred tree in Tokyo.

Chapter 131 Agent
"Thirteen cult members,"

"They all died from traumatic rupture of the carotid artery, resulting in excessive blood loss."

In a room where the bloodstains had dried, a group of forensic experts in white protective suits, holding cameras, were documenting the scene. They then placed the bodies into body bags and took them away, with two middle-aged men in suits standing nearby.

"A single, decisive blow, clean and swift."

"It's hard to imagine what kind of person or entity could have wiped out these cultists."

One of the men in a suit couldn't help but remark that the man, with his thick eyebrows, large eyes, high nose, and deep-set eyes, exuded an air of righteousness, practically screaming, "I am for everyone, and everyone is for me."

Despite the hype from the outside world, those on the inside know very well that the difference between so-called "kings of soldiers," "ace spies," and ordinary people is no more than a dagger.

Even the strongest human in the world can be easily stabbed to death by a thug!

There is a high wall between being unarmed and being armed.

Within seven steps, the gun is both fast and accurate!
However, something bizarre happened before their eyes: someone, who could be considered human, used a dagger to kill more than a dozen cult members who were armed with various weapons.

Many of these cult members were armed.

This is almost impossible, unless:
"He's an extraordinary being,"

Another man, also dressed in a suit but with a more casual demeanor, gave the answer.

“I’ve already reported it. The boss will send some ‘professionals’ to handle it. We’ll continue to follow up on the previous case.”

"Well, we really don't have any good solutions for these criminals with 'superpowers'."

The serious-looking man in the suit nodded.

He was just an 'ordinary' FBI agent, and dealing with ordinary criminals was a piece of cake for him.

But if you encounter a 'superhuman,' besides calling for backup immediately, all you can do is prepare your body for the afterlife and make sure you die with some dignity.

Their Glock 19Ms in their holsters are no match for those humanoid monsters.

"Let's go,"

"That tycoon's family is having a party today."

The two FBI agents left the bar and drove toward Bedford Street in Manhattan.

Soon after, they stopped in front of a lively mountain villa.

"Sir, please show me the invitation."

The meticulous, elderly white waiter stepped forward to inquire, but instead of an invitation, he received an open ID card:
“FBI agent,”

“We have an appointment with Mr. Alexander.”

"Gentlemen, you should choose another time to visit."

Luxury cars slowly drove by behind them, and the gentlemen and socialites inside glanced at the two detectives with inquisitive eyes.
This kept the white male waiter's expression unchanged, but his tone revealed a hint of displeasure.

"Haha, sorry."

"We were just held up by other cases, so..."

The casual FBI agent chuckled and then gestured towards the villa, indicating whether he could enter.

"You two, please come with me."

After all, they were the renowned FBI agents, so the white waiter didn't dare to give them a hard time. He turned around and led the two FBI agents through the lively party and swimming pool to the study of the mansion.

"Is it you again?"

Compared to the white male servant, the black man, who was leaning back in his chair, was not so good-natured.

"While I'm willing to continue cooperating with you, could you please stop bothering me with all these inexplicable things?"

While there is indeed a glass ceiling for Black people in America, it has loosened considerably since a certain Black president came to power: now, high-ranking positions such as Secretary of Defense and Mayor of New York City are held by African Americans.

The wealthy Black man in front of them was someone who deserved to appear in Forbes magazine, so naturally he could express his dissatisfaction by throwing a tantrum at the two FBI agents.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Alexander, it won’t take up too much of your time.”

After saying that, the serious FBI agent took out a photograph.

"Regarding the previous case of the missing girl, we have found someone."

The photo shows a young Black man lying dead on the side of the road.

"He was involved in the girl's disappearance case, and acquaintances of his told us that he mentioned the phrase 'big guy in Bedford' when he was drunk."

"Shit!"

The wealthy old black man swore.
Are there very few people living on Bedford Street?

"To those lower-class Africans in Nigeria, which of them isn't considered a big shot!"

After saying that, the old black man tossed a weekly newsletter spread out on his desk to the two detectives. This authoritative magazine, with its bold headline 'Alexander, Three Billion Dollars,' reported on one of the old black tycoons' business deals: it was filled with praise, with everyone believing that under this tycoon's leadership, these traditional industries would experience a second spring, and so on.
Of course, a three billion dollar business and personal income are two completely different things.

But news is all about sensationalism: when readers glance at the news, it's as if this tycoon casually pulled out three billion US dollars, making the shock and sensationalism incomparable to what they expected.

"Okay, sorry to bother you."

The shock was equally profound for the two FBI agents.

Faced with the staggering figure of three billion US dollars, and knowing the power of capital, they did not continue to argue and turned to leave.

However, the two did not rush to leave the mansion, but instead went to the buffet counter.

"Haha, you're in charge of driving tonight."

The casual detective picked up his plate to eat, then took a bottle of red wine from the waiter's tray and joked with his colleague.

"I'll enjoy the wine."

"Whatever you want,"

The serious FBI agent picked up a truffle salmon sandwich and took a bite.

The reason they came at this time was because they knew the other party was having a party: as a billionaire with a net worth of billions of dollars, the host didn't care about the food and drinks they were eating and drinking; but for ordinary FBI agents, it was a rare luxury.

"The way people are looking at me makes me uncomfortable."

"Haha~~ Don't mind it."

"Those who can attend this banquet are either tycoons or celebrities; countless people pay to see them."

While pouring drinks, the casual detective wrapped pastries in tissues, eating and taking them without caring about the stares of those nearby.

Regarding this partner's personality,

Even the serious FBI agents couldn't say anything.
After eating something casually, I told the other person to leave.

"Next, let's go investigate the George Church on 114th Street."

New York City boasts over 760 churches, demonstrating the abundance of Christian denominations: during this period, hundreds of people claimed daily to have received "divine revelation," though these were later found to be pranks and delusions. However, the massive daily influx of people into churches still proves that the majority of people are indeed "faithful" in Christ.

? !
Snapped,

The donut fell from my hand.

The casual detective froze for a moment, then asked in return as if nothing had happened.

"why?"

Going to church in the middle of the night

“The Black criminal who ‘committed suicide’ has several records of visiting George’s Church, and I think it’s necessary to investigate those.”

"That's not good,"

The detective picked up the donut, took a big bite, and muttered casually.

"Let's finish this quickly, I want to go back and catch up on some sleep."

"Feel sorry,"

Thinking his partner was angry because he had been pulled away from the party, the serious detective spoke apologetically as he drove.

"When I'm on vacation, I'll treat everyone to a strip club."

"Come on, you have a wife and a daughter."

The casual agent took another big bite of the donut.

"I don't need you to treat me, and don't work too hard. Just do it for them."

"It's just a job,"

The serious detective casually replied, and the black vehicle drove through the night, unnoticed by the crow on the roof.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

"Hey, we don't have a search warrant."

"Why are you suddenly being so rigid? Don't worry, I'm just going to check on things."

Calling to his reluctant partner, the serious detective took the lead and crept towards the church in front of them.

As the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) of America, they enjoy the highest priority investigative powers in five areas: counter-terrorism, drug/organized crime, foreign counterintelligence, violent crime, and white-collar crime. They can even operate on the fringes of the law; of course, without a plausible reason, they will face accountability if they fail in their duties.

Simply put, as long as you handle the case well, the higher-ups will be willing to take responsibility for you.

This time, the two agents were clearly 'very lucky'.

"Look what I found?"

After sneaking into the room behind the church and conducting a professional search of everything, they found a way to break into the room.

Using the dim light of the test pen in his hand, the serious detective's face lit up with joy.

"These hairpins should never be in a church, unless—"

"Who is there?"

Click,

The lights came on, and the two turned around abruptly to see a priest standing in the doorway.

? !
"Father George, we are FBI agents!"

With practiced ease, the detective pulled out a pistol with one hand and his identification with the other, opening it as he pointed both the identification and the gun at the priest.

"You are suspected of child abduction. Please cooperate with our investigation."

After saying this, he kept his eyes on the priest at the door while gesturing to his colleagues behind him.

"Compton, hold on—"

Snapped,

A sound like a book falling to the ground was heard, and the detective's body suddenly swayed.

"you"

He turned around in disbelief, only to be met with the complicated looks in his colleagues' eyes and the muzzle of a gun fitted with a silencer.

"Mike, I've been telling you not to push yourself so hard, but you just won't listen."

???

Serious Detective Mike, who had been shot, wanted to argue.
But the blood gushing from his back took his life at an alarming speed, causing him to collapse to the ground, his vision going black.

"Compton, what's going on?"

The priest at the door asked,
how come? !

Compton, surprisingly.
"Father, don't be nervous."

As his vision went black, Agent Mike heard his partner's voice in his ear.

"He's just an idiot, I'll handle it."

Damn it, damn it!
Is this how it ends for me?

Just as Agent Mike was filled with resentment, a strange 'voice' rang in his mind.

Want to understand the meaning of life? Want to truly live?

Yes/Yes
?

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

吱、

A black Chevrolet Suburban was parked in front of the waste treatment plant.

This SUV is the official vehicle of the American FBI, and its power, handling, and off-road capability are in no way inferior to hardcore off-road vehicles.

Especially after being modified by special agents to be bulletproof and blastproof, it has become a sharp weapon in the fight against violence; when chasing after various bandits, a single "Iron Mountain Lean" can knock them down.

Now, the detectives who got out of the car are preparing to deal with their colleague's 'corpse'.

“It’s all your fault, Mike.”

The casual agent had been muttering to himself the whole way.
"I told you not to work so hard, I told you not to investigate the church. Why didn't you listen?"

Holding a Glock 19M with a silencer attached, the detective who had killed his colleague muttered to himself as he walked toward the trunk.

"This is the age of the extraordinary. Boss, me, and you all need to make changes. Otherwise..."

Will die!
Like something lying in the trunk—

Opening the trunk, what came into view was not a corpse, but a crouching figure and eyes filled with rage.

"Mike?!"

Thump,

Before the armed detective could react,

Mike, who had seemingly come back from the dead, suddenly lunged forward, and the two rolled into a ball.

Snapped,

With a soft sound,
The two figures, tumbling and wrestling, suddenly stopped.

After a few seconds,
A figure stood up.

"Compton, hang in there! I'll go get a band-aid."

"Cough cough,"

The one who was shot was Compton, who was holding a silenced pistol. He was lying on the ground and grabbed Mike's ankle as Mike was about to turn away.

"Are you stupid? Cough cough cough,"

"I just killed you, and you still—"

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Compton, lying on the ground, dropped his gun, raised his hand to his chest, and knew very well:
"I'm dead,"

Don't give up

"Listen to me, Mike!"

Death was imminent, and he grabbed Mike's arm as he crouched down.

The agent, whose wet patches on his chest quickly spread to his entire body, simply told them everything he knew.

"The boss and the bureau chief are both on 'the other side's' side!"

? !
"A supernatural organization has already taken control."

"No, it's that it has absorbed a large number of wealthy people, high-ranking officials, powerful figures, and celebrities, cough cough cough~~"

Blood continued to gush out, and Agent Compton, shot in the chest, continued speaking, fueled by his last ounce of adrenaline.

“The wealthy businessman we investigated, Father George, was a member of that organization.”

"Dispose of my body, let them think you are me. Go far away, and don't come back."

After saying all that in one breath, Agent Compton loosened his fingers, as if he had exhausted all his strength.

"Mike, I envy you."

“You’re a real agent, and I—”

He's just an ordinary person who would change his stance if threatened even slightly.

"Wait, Compton."

As the other person's arm fell limply to his side, Agent Mike froze.

He had just been 'killed' once by the other party, but to be honest, he hadn't thought about killing Compton immediately.

He also wanted to know why his partner had suddenly shot him in the back, and he wanted to know what kind of organization was behind the boss, the chief, the priest, and the wealthy businessman. But it seemed that even Compton probably didn't know.

Given the boss's personality, he definitely wouldn't tell them the inside story.

Holding the body of his colleague, the agent, who had just emerged from the 'nightmare space' and was ready for revenge, found himself lost and confused.

What should I do?
correct,

"Farewell, Compton."

Picking up the body from his arms, Agent Mike looked at the waste disposal plant in the night.

Dispose of the body and vehicle, then escape as 'Compton': such a thing as coming back from the dead is unheard of even in the FBI's supernatural files.

Thinking this, he turned his head slightly, trying to examine the wound on his back.

This is naturally invisible, but even if he can't see it, he can still 'feel' it.

Numerous black threads wriggled within the wound, stitching it up and even replacing some of his organs.

"The Blacklight virus enhancement is practically demonic power."

But it was precisely the power of the demon that allowed him to stand up again and be able to:

Investigate everything behind this!
(End of this chapter)