Why is his holy light red?

Chapter 73 Silencing

The nights in the tree root area are always exceptionally dark.

The municipal power grid, long neglected and in a state of near paralysis, is so dilapidated that not a single working streetlight can be found along several streets. But darkness is the cloak of invisibility for evil, and all illegal transactions always seem to go more smoothly under its protection.

Elm Street, this territory originally bore the sign of the Raging Waves Brotherhood. Ever since their unfortunate leader, who could unleash ultrasonic waves, was killed, it became prime real estate for surrounding gangs. After several rounds of clandestine and bloody battles, the "Cannibal Gang" ultimately triumphed over the carnage, seizing this lucrative territory.

Now, the bloodstains on the asphalt road have long been washed away, and Elm Street has regained its vitality.

The streets were lined with heavily made-up prostitutes, dressed in tattered clothes that resembled only a few straps. The smell of cheap perfume mingled with the musty odor of the sewers, fermenting in the air. A warm, ambiguous pink neon light shone from the tightly closed apartment windows. Compared to risking their lives to resell superpower drugs, this kind of prostitution wasn't extremely profitable, but it offered a stable income and virtually no risk.

Hannibal Lecter, the leader of the cannibal gang, is quite satisfied with his current income.

As long as they can maintain the street's cash flow, they can survive for another two years at most, and the cannibal gang's capital can double.

Just as Hannibal sat on the leather sofa, feeling smug and confident that he was only one step away from unifying the underworld of Root District, a strange and troubling event occurred.

Old Neil—the second-in-command of the cannibal gang, a ruthless character with more than a dozen lives on his hands—has been as listless as a drug addict these past few days.

When Hannibal asked, old Neil stammered that he had been having the same nightmare for six days in a row. In the dream, there was a blurry, ghostly figure that was getting closer to him each day.

"At first, that thing was standing in the fog a dozen meters away—" Old Neil, with dark circles under his eyes and a haggard face, spoke in a hoarse voice like sandpaper scraping, "but last night, that thing almost pounced on my face. Its features became clearer and clearer—it was fucking terrifying."

Six consecutive days of severe insomnia would break even a tough man. Hannibal irritably exhaled a puff of cigar smoke and turned to look at Loki, who was engrossed in typing on a calculator in the corner.

"Hey, college student," Hannibal said, tapping him with his cigar, "Do you know how to cure insomnia?"

In Hannibal's simplistic and brutal logic, a college graduate should have an encyclopedic mind. This is why, when Loki was desperate and sought a loan from loan sharks, he approved the loan without hesitation; he wanted to keep this rare high-IQ talent from Root District by his side.

As for whether Loki is trustworthy? That depends on Loki's performance, but at least so far, Loki is doing quite well. He has sorted out all the messy accounts in the gang, with no discrepancies in the inflow and outflow of funds, and has even uncovered several traitors who were lining their own pockets.

Hannibal was very satisfied and even planned to let the kid get involved in some core business in a while.

In the corner, Loki heard the sudden roll call, his fingers gripping the pen stiffened abruptly, and his heart clenched sharply.

He had just agreed to be Mercury's informant, and today this information about "Nightmare" came crashing down on him? What kind of bizarre coincidence is this?

Or perhaps—Hannibal, that suspicious beast, has already sensed something and is testing him with words?

A wave of extreme panic washed over Loki, but he forcefully suppressed it with reason.

Tonight is the day to close the net. There's no need for him to risk his life for this intelligence. He can just pretend nothing happened and wait for Mercury and the others to appear.

He looked up, adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, and replied in the most nonchalant tone, "Boss, I studied finance in college, not medicine. Insomnia—if all else fails, just down a few bottles of alcohol, or take a few sleeping pills?"

Hannibal didn't detect any flaws in his story and thought the logic made sense. He opened a drawer, grabbed an unopened bottle of fine wine, and tossed it into Old Neil's arms.

"Did you hear that? You don't need to watch the place tonight. Find a place to get drunk and have a good night's sleep."

Old Neil, too weak from his nervous breakdown to think clearly, unscrewed the bottle cap, tilted his head back, and gulped down several large mouthfuls. The high alcohol content and extreme fatigue quickly produced a chemical reaction, and before long, the old man collapsed onto the leather sofa next to him, emitting a deafening, muffled snore.

Hannibal didn't mind and let the old man get a good night's sleep. The only sound in the office was Loki typing on the computer.

The office fell silent again, but not long after, a commotion suddenly erupted outside on Elm Street.

Cursing and shouting filled the air, followed by the sharp crack of shattering glass, then a series of rapid gunshots, like firecrackers exploding inside a metal barrel. Immediately afterward came screams, piercing and short, then muffled by something.

Loki was taken aback. Could it be that Mercury had already arrived?

No, the agreed time is not now.

If there were any changes, Mercury should have sent a coded signal.

His mind was still racing when he caught a glimpse of Hannibal standing up from his chair and walking towards him. The cannibal boss walked at a leisurely pace, seemingly unconcerned about the unexpected events outside. The sound of his leather shoes clicking on the floor felt like a countdown to Loki's own life.

Loki's heart was pounding like a drum, as if it were about to burst out of his chest.

Had I been exposed? Had Hannibal become suspicious? What should I do now?

Hannibal walked up to him, looked down at him with disdain, and said, "Look at you, so afraid of dying. You break out in a sweat at the slightest gunshot? Did that last stab kill you?"

Loki then realized that his forehead was covered in sweat, which was sticky and dripping down.

When he first joined the gang, he happened to be caught in an assassination attempt targeting Hannibal. In the chaos, he was stabbed and nearly lost his life.

But thanks to that one strike, he gained Hannibal's initial trust.

Hearing Hannibal mention it, Loki breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed his boss didn't suspect him yet. He quickly explained, "Boss, I'm really scared. Can I leave now?"

Although Hannibal was somewhat disdainful, he didn't think Loki was the type of henchman henchman, so he said impatiently, "Get out of here yourself, wait for my call."

Loki felt like he'd been granted a pardon. He lowered his head and began tidying up the ledgers spread out on the desk, his hands trembling like a cowardly idiot. Once he had stacked the ledgers and stuffed them into the drawer, Loki ran out of the office through the secret passage without hesitation.

Hannibal glanced at old Neil, who was fast asleep on the sofa, drooling, but didn't wake him. He then pushed open the office door and walked out by himself.

Footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. The gunfire outside had stopped, leaving only sporadic shouts and footsteps.

Hannibal reached up and straightened his collar, then stretched his neck, making two crisp cracking sounds.

He wanted to see which fool dared to provoke his Cannibal Gang at this critical juncture.

Hannibal walked outside the apartment, and the scene before him instantly enraged him.

Elm Street, which used to be bustling with activity every night, is now eerily silent.

His once-proud cannibalistic gang members lay sprawled on the road like rag dolls. Two of them had even used their beast-transformation abilities, yet their heads were still crushed like bugs, their deaths gruesome.

In the center of this blood-stained and chaotic scene, only three people stood.

The three men's attire was utterly absurd—they wore gaudy jumpsuits that looked like they'd just stolen from a circus, and their faces were covered with exaggerated painted masks. The only thing they all had in common was a striking black crescent moon tattooed on their chests with black thread.

Hannibal frowned.

This was clearly a premeditated attempt to disrupt the event, but you would never find a gang with such an exaggerated style among the gangs in the Tree Root District.

However, even though his elite troops had been wiped out, Hannibal showed no fear. He strode over the severed limbs and walked straight up to the three "circus clowns."

There were no threats, no bluffing interrogations. Hannibal simply drew his pistol and pulled the trigger.

Since blood has already been drawn, there's no point in wasting words. The most efficient way to communicate is to kill or maim the person first, then talk about anything else.

The piercing gunshot tore through the night, and the bright yellow bullet spun rapidly, heading straight for the face of the clown in the lead.

However, the other party didn't even try to dodge.

A dark purple light burst forth in front of the clown, instantly materializing into a lifelike giant turtle.

"clang--!"

The bullet slammed into the purple tortoise shell, only sending up a tiny cluster of sparks before being deflected and flying off to who knows where.

Hannibal paused, stunned. This strange purple light superpower—why does it look so familiar?

He had no time to recall what had happened; the purple light expanded and reformed rapidly like boiling liquid. In the blink of an eye, a gigantic phantom of a gorilla made of pure energy rose from the ground.

The purple giant ape let out a silent roar, its massive fist, the size of a water tank, tearing through the air with a suffocating whistling sound, hurtling towards Hannibal. The power of this punch far surpassed that of a real silverback gorilla.

Hannibal's body flew backward like a cannonball, crashing through two thick brick walls before slamming heavily into the depths of the ruins, kicking up clouds of dust.

"Tch—" A contemptuous laugh came from behind another clown's mask. "I thought this cannibal gang was something special, but they're just a bunch of thugs. No wonder they sent us to silence them instead of taking them away. This kind of trash is really useless."

But the clown who had just punched Hannibal away showed no sign of smugness. He ripped off his comical mask and slammed it heavily onto the blood-stained ground.

"You went through all that trouble to get me out of there, just to make me do this kind of low-level, dirty work?!"

The dim, flickering streetlights on Elm Street illuminated the face that was slightly distorted by humiliation and anger.

That was none other than the superhero who had once enjoyed immense glory in the City of Pomegranates, but had vanished as if evaporated from the face of the earth for a long time—the Radiant Messenger.