Why is his holy light red?

Chapter 128 Unreliable Prophetic Abilities

With only a few hours left before his midnight meeting with "the camera," Mercury returned home from the association right on time.

It was a peaceful and cozy dinner time, and the Anderson family of four sat around the not-so-spacious table, enjoying the rare warmth of family gatherings. Although Mercury usually did the cooking at home, when it came to culinary skills, his mother Anna was the best.

Now that her father, Al, is "unemployed," he has a lot more time to spend with his family. In addition, Mercury has recently brought in a lot of money for the family, so Anna finally quit two of her three long-term part-time jobs, which gave her the leisure to prepare a big meal for her family.

Mercury gently wiped the tomato sauce from his sister's mouth, then casually swallowed the grilled sausage the little girl was holding up with her fork.

The dim lighting and the family sitting idly together—this sense of security and comfort is the life that Mercury desperately wanted to protect.

Unfortunately, the house was still too small. Mercury had always harbored a luxurious vision: he wanted a huge sunken game room, with the left wall covered in game consoles from every generation, and the right glass cabinet crammed with limited-edition figurines and anime merchandise; a massive heated swimming pool, a floor-to-ceiling gym, and dozens of luxury cars gathering dust in the garage; and the ingredients had to be of the highest quality—

To achieve these goals, the only solution is money.

With Mercury's current savings, he could buy a small apartment in the Upper Town, enough for his family to live in.

But buying a house is just the beginning. Exorbitant property taxes, top-tier private health insurance, security, utilities, and property management fees—these vampire-like hidden bills can easily swallow tens of thousands of dollars every month.

With his meager two million dollars in savings, Mercury was still a long way from being able to settle down in the Upper East Side with his family.

After dinner, Mercury helped clear the dishes while casually informing Al, "Dad, I have to go out tonight."

"So late at night? Where are you going?"

"Next Life" bar. The association is tracking down the Black Olive gang of fugitives. I've arranged to meet with an information broker to see if we can find any leads.

Anna, who was wiping the table, immediately frowned upon hearing this: "What are you doing at a bar in the middle of the night, a child who's not even an adult yet?!"

"Mom, this is an official investigation mission." Mercury shrugged helplessly. "What hero doesn't take some risks? Besides, with my current skills, there won't be any danger."

Mercury was quite confident in his superpowers. As long as he didn't run into the terrifying clown from the Black Moon Circus, there shouldn't be anyone in the City of Pomegranates who could threaten him.

However, the elderly father, El, keenly sensed something was amiss: "Chasing down a fugitive? How could such a high-risk mission fall to you interns?"

"It wasn't supposed to be my turn. But on the list of escaped criminals, there was an acquaintance—to be precise, my friend's scumbag father." Mercury sighed and briefly recounted Vincent's suffocating family tragedy.

Hearing this, the Andersons couldn't help but sigh. Anna's eyes were full of sympathy, and she sighed with heartache, "That child has such a hard life. Mercury, bring him over for a meal sometime."

Mercury agreed, saying that his mother was always so overflowing with love.

Then, Mercury changed the subject, turning to his father: "By the way, Dad, you've been a war correspondent—cough, I mean, a war correspondent specializing in interviewing superheroes—for so many years, you've seen a lot. What do you think of superpowers like 'prophecy' or 'psychic abilities'? Is the future they see truly predetermined and absolutely unchangeable?"

El was taken aback by the sudden question: "Why are you suddenly curious about this? Did you encounter a prophetic superhuman?"

Mercury shook his head; he merely doubted that the camera's ability was prophetic.

All told, he had known this intelligence dealer for less than two years. But this guy, who never showed his face, was like someone with a cheat code, always able to accurately produce the intelligence he wanted. Then the two of them would split the spoils happily, one providing the intelligence and the other providing the force.

Mercury privately pondered whether this man had awakened some kind of twisted ability—"precognition" or "mind-reading"—otherwise, how could he be so prophetic every time? He even suspected that the camera had long since seen through his father's "Angel of Light" persona. But later indications suggested that this all-knowing camera seemed completely unaware of Al Anderson's true identity.

This made Mercury extremely curious.

What exactly is this "camera"? And what are its superpowers?

Mercury hadn't expected the camera to actually agree to meet him. He now only hoped that he would see himself in the bar, not another client he had tricked into making a deal.

With only a few hours left before the appointment, Mercury's anxiety and anticipation intertwined, making him want to seek advice from his father.

"I just can't figure it out. Look, the association's database has so many people who claim to be able to predict the future, but why is it that every time a world-class crisis breaks out, everyone is caught off guard? Like this crisis with the immortality technology, no one gave any warning in advance. If it weren't for luck, how could we have discovered the secret laboratory of the immortality technology in advance?"

This is also what Mercury can't understand the most. If he has the ability to predict the future, how come he can't foresee such a major event as the destruction of the world?

"Because the ability of 'prophecy' is mostly useless." El pondered for a moment, then explained seriously, "From the prophets I've encountered, their ability triggering mechanism is extremely random. It's impossible to actively seek out the future you want to know, like watching a movie on demand. The more fatal problem lies in the accuracy rate."

El shrugged. "The same shattered image can be interpreted in many completely different ways by different people. Moreover, the future is never absolutely unchangeable. There was once a somewhat famous prophet who made several incredibly accurate predictions; his abilities were absolutely genuine. But twenty years ago, he confidently stated that the 'Angel of Holy Light' would definitely die in that epic battle against the volcanic rock."

El paused here with a strange expression, almost biting his tongue: "But you've seen the truth..."

Oh, right. Me—uh, that angel of light was still full of energy this morning, flying off to Southeast Asia for disaster relief.

"Oh, you mean the Dead Sea Prophet? I think I've heard that name before."

A prophet can indeed become very famous if his predictions are accurate.

This is the Dead Sea prophet. He once accurately predicted that the federal president would be shot, even seeing who the killer was beforehand. He also predicted natural disasters in certain regions, and he described them in great detail, not just making things up, with remarkably accurate timing and location.

But this guy, for some unknown reason, makes a prediction every few years that the Holy Angel will die.

But in fact, the Angel of Light has lived well every year, which has greatly diminished the reputation of this great prophet, resulting in his predictions of major events in recent years being less accurate.

Everyone says that this is because the Holy Light Angel is immortal, which has seriously interfered with the Dead Sea Prophet's superpowers, turning him into a cripple.

Perhaps it is precisely because the predictions are unreliable that they seem so useless.

It cannot be triggered arbitrarily; what you see may not be accurate, and even if it is accurate, it may not be interpreted correctly.

To put it bluntly, this stuff is just like those suit-and-tie stock analysts on Wall Street—it sounds impressive, but believing it could bankrupt you. In terms of accuracy, it's probably not even as accurate as a random scribbling on a document by our incompetent federal president.

"If predictions are truly based on Schrödinger's probability, then how can the 'camera's' ability be so precise? And—it seems to have absolutely no cooldown period; it can be used however it wants!"

Mercury found it increasingly absurd. Back when he teamed up with the camera to "hunt" for profits, this guy could accurately place a huge order almost every week or two. Each time, he meticulously crafted the script behind the scenes, waiting for Mercury to systematically reap the rewards. What's the difference between this high-frequency, 100% accurate prediction and a cheat code?

If someone truly possessed such extraordinary precognitive abilities, why would they need to painstakingly share the spoils with him in a dark alley? They could have already achieved financial freedom by simply buying lottery tickets! Although the federal government is rotten to the core in every aspect, the lottery center actually pays out real money; at most, it's just that paying taxes makes you feel like you're going to die from the pain.

In any case, if this meeting can successfully bring the cameraman into his team, it would be an absolute game-changer. In the future, when faced with similar perplexing problems, the cameraman should be able to offer valuable advice.

Filled with anticipation, Mercury finally endured the restless night. As soon as the time was right, he set off, speeding towards the "Next Life" bar in the Roots district.

A dense, red holy light enveloped him like leaping flames. Mercury's legs strained, and he charged through the night like a red cheetah. With his current abilities, he could reach speeds of two or three hundred kilometers per hour at full speed, but in that state, he would be completely reckless and difficult to control.

To avoid attracting attention, Mercury deliberately restrained his strength, keeping his speed at around 70 or 80 kilometers per hour. With the blessing of the Holy Light, he arrived at "Liberty Moon Square" with ease.

Liberty Moon Plaza has barely reopened after the disaster. Unfortunately, the Root District has just suffered an undeserved calamity, leaving countless poor people penniless and with very few wealthy enough to come to such a place for revenge spending. The entire district is shrouded in a chilling atmosphere.

There was a sense of desolation.

Mercury skillfully made his way into the back alley, and just as he arrived at the neon-lit door of the "Next Life" bar, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

He stared in disbelief at the familiar figure at the door—a man with a meticulously combed slicked-back hairstyle, wearing a sharp black suit, and a security badge hanging on his chest.

It was John!

Mercury's forehead vein throbbed, and he couldn't help but step forward and retort, "Seriously, buddy, are you out of your mind?! Was that consultant salary I paid you just a pittance?! You, a top agent, are working as a security guard here in the middle of the night?!"

John rolled his eyes, his gaze filled with disdain for the "let them eat cake" mentality: "What? Can't working people have their own hobbies? Did I skip work? Did I not meet my sales targets? In my private time after work, even the boss can't tell me how many part-time jobs I can take on!"

"Are you sure this is after get off work?" Mercury raised an eyebrow. He'd bet his entire future fortune that this King had definitely released several clones, using his superpowers to frantically work part-time all over the city at the same time.

John puffed out his chest and retorted confidently, "Never mind what methods I used, as long as I didn't slack off when I was clocking in with you!"

Mercury, too lazy to continue his nonsense, stepped forward and was about to push open the bar door.

As a result, a strong arm stretched out from nowhere and stopped him.

"No, why are you stopping me?" Mercury asked, looking bewildered.

John put on a stern face and adopted an extremely professional, businesslike attitude: "Minors are not allowed in. Didn't I warn you about that last time? My job here is security, not your employee. Stopping any violators is my duty right now."

Mercury took a deep breath, pulled the Hero Association badge out of his pocket, and shoved it right up to John's nose: "Official business, I'm investigating, okay?"

Looking at the badge that symbolized official privilege, John reluctantly withdrew his arm, making way for the door, and muttered a reminder behind him, "Behave yourself in there, don't cause trouble, boss, give me some face!"

Without even turning his head, Mercury simply flicked the middle finger and forcefully pushed open the heavy door.

Waves of heavy metal electronic music, each louder than the last, filled his ears instantly, making Mercury's brain buzz. He utterly loathed this kind of crappy place with the subwoofer blasted at maximum power; the resonant frequencies made one's heart churn.

However, tonight's task is to find the security cameras, so no matter how annoyed I am, I have to grit my teeth and bear it.

With his exceptional physical abilities, Mercury managed to squeeze through the group of wildly writhing and dancing drunkards and reach the agreed-upon location.

Just like last time, some people had already taken their seats in the booths.

The dim neon lights swept across table number eight. A girl with pale skin, heavy smoky makeup, and dark lip gloss sat cross-legged in the shadows.

She was dressed in a black, punk-inspired bodysuit, her face cold and expressionless as she poured a strangely colored cocktail into her mouth.

The moment Mercury saw that figure, a chill ran through him, and an unnamed anger surged to the top of his head.

It's happening again!

He got tricked by that "camera" bastard again! This is definitely another client that guy dug up from who-knows-where, and this dark and unconventional death gothic style is exactly the style Mercury finds hardest to accept.

Mercury stormed over, angrily saying to the goth girl, "Tell me, what did the camera send you here for?"

"What kind of deal does he want me to help him complete?"

The goth girl didn't even lift her eyelids, slowly swallowing the last sip of her strangely colored cocktail before turning her head away.

She looked Mercury up and down, then said in a flat tone, "You look much worse in person than in the videos. Why do you always use such heavy beauty filters?"

Mercury frowned, his eyes instantly turning wary: "Who exactly are you?"

"What do you think?" The girl smiled, extending her right hand, adorned with black nail polish, to Mercury. "Let's get to know each other again. I'm Hathaway Jones. Of course, you're probably more familiar with my other codename—'The Camera.'"