I am a necromancer, and I absolutely love America.

Chapter 173 Religion + Army, What is Owen Trying to Do?

Brooke sat in the corner, watching Irving treat the patient.

There were about ten people lined up at the outpost, mostly elderly people, with a few women holding children in their arms; they all looked poor.

On the folding table in front of Irving were a bottle of hand sanitizer, a blood pressure monitor, and an open first-aid kit filled with various boxes.

There were also several large glass bottles of medicine, all capsules, with the packaging torn off, so it was unclear what kind of medicine they were.

"Madame Mossang." Owen gestured for an elderly woman to sit down, rolled up her sleeve, and gently took her blood pressure.

Madame Mossant was about 70 years old, with thin arms and loose skin.

When Irving wrapped her in the sleeve, he added an extra layer of gauze to prevent it from hurting her, showing that he was very careful.

Brooke's eyes flickered slightly. Even nurses in private hospitals wouldn't be this meticulous.

While Irwin looked down at the readings, Madame Mossant was very relaxed.

"Your blood pressure is okay, five points lower than last week." After giving the number, Irving didn't immediately loosen the cuff, waiting a few seconds before doing so. "Did you take your medication on time?"

"I ate it. I remember everything you said."

Owen nodded, took a few pills from the medicine box, put them in a plastic bag and placed them in her hand, then gave her another box: "Take these for another week, then come see me when you're done."

"May God bless you." Madame Mossam took the medicine with one hand and patted Owen's hand with the other, as if patting a younger person she had watched grow up.

"Irving, you care about him more than my grandson. My grandson doesn't even come home once a year."

Irving didn't pull his hand away, letting her finish taking pictures, and said with a smile, "He's probably very busy with work. I'll be waiting for you here next week at this time."

Madame Mossam clutched the medicine box in her hand and left shakily.

A young mother squeezed through the crowd, holding her child. The child's cheeks were flushed, pressed against the mother's chest, and the child's lips were a little dry.

"He has a fever!"

Irving made her sit down, touched the child's forehead with the back of his hand to check her temperature, then looked at her throat, and turned to call out, "

"ALEX! How much anti-inflammatory medication do we have left?"

A chubby young man from Dongda University poked his head out from the pile of junk at the back: "Enough!"

The young mother asked anxiously, "Mr. Morris, he's had a fever for three days now. Should we take him to a big hospital?"

Before Irving could speak, Alex said, "Don't go. Not only do you not have health insurance and can't afford it, but they'll just give you painkillers there. The child has pneumonia; what's the use of painkillers? Give him fever reducers and anti-inflammatory drugs for a day. If the fever doesn't go down, come here tomorrow for an IV drip."

Alex handed over the pillbox, with the dosage written on it: "You must take it."

Irving added, "Sylvia, keep an eye on her temperature. Call me tomorrow and let me know her temperature. If the fever has gone down, you don't need to come; if it hasn't, then come."

"Thank you, Owen!" The young mother, Sylvia, stood up, holding her child, her eyes a little red.

"May the Lord bless you, Alex."

Alex shrugged: "I'm from Tokyo University, where God doesn't govern..." He realized his mistake halfway through his sentence and lowered his voice.

There are a bunch of devout believers here; saying such things is just asking for trouble.

Sylvia carried the child and quickly walked out the door.

Brooke understood; the doctors were mainly Irving and Alex.

Irving is alright, but Alex is more outrageous; he gives him anti-inflammatory drugs for almost every illness.

Judging from the patients' feedback, the results seem to be quite good.

Are anti-inflammatory drugs really that effective?

Is there some kind of technology added to the medicine?

Brooke was puzzled.

Alex placed the anti-inflammatory medication directly on the table: "Take it for three days. If it doesn't improve, come back. Of course, even if it does improve, you still need to come back for a follow-up check-up."

An old drunkard took the medicine, thanked him profusely, and left, saying, "You are such good people, such good people!"

After observing four patients, Brooke finally couldn't hold back any longer and asked Alex in a low voice, "Isn't it a problem to prescribe anti-inflammatory drugs for everyone?"

"What's the problem?" Alex asked, looking surprised. "It's too cold. These people are basically all suffering from pneumonia. They're practically burning up. What could be worse than death?"

Brooke opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

He found himself unable to find a point of rebuttal.

"Where did these medicines come from?" Brooke asked curiously.

Alex's expression froze for a moment, and Brooke realized he had asked too many questions.

Irving, without even looking up, changed the gauze on another patient and said, "We have the channels."

Brooke shrugged: "OK, I understand."

He made a mental note: drug smuggling.

The medicine may have come from South America, or it may have come from Tokyo University.

New York is full of people from the University of Tokyo, so getting a batch of medicine wouldn't be difficult.

But why would a charity buy medicine through illegal channels?

Can't buy it through official channels?

Too high a price?

Or is it for some other reason?

Brooke hasn't officially joined yet, so it's not convenient to ask too many questions.

Irving worked for almost two hours and finally finished seeing all of the dozen or so patients.

He stood up, stretched his shoulders, sat down opposite Brook, and handed him a bottle of water: "Brook, why do you want to join TK?"

Brooke took the drink and sipped it: "Unemployed. I used to work as a dockworker, but they laid off a bunch of people last month."

2

Brooke pouted: "My family is Catholic. I heard that you provide meals and wages here, so I came."

Irving didn't respond immediately, but just looked at Brooke's hands, which were rather slender and didn't seem like the hands of a porter.

Irving didn't say anything: "TK is the Thorn Knights, there might be personal danger involved. Are you sure you want to join TK, and not CMCS?"

Brooke nodded: "I'm sure. TK pays a lot, $100 a day, and I need the money."

"Hmm." Owen suddenly asked out of the blue, "'You must enter through the narrow gate,' what's the next part?"

"The Bible?" Brooke didn't pause. "For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter into it."

Irving asked a few more questions, which Brook answered fluently.

Irving was very satisfied.

Brooke may have lied about his identity, but he was indeed a devout believer, and that was enough: "God loves the world, whether you are a dockworker or any other job, He loves you."

Brooke gripped the water bottle tightly, a little nervous. He understood that Owen was suspicious of his origins.

It's probably because my appearance gave me away.

Unfortunately, there aren't many FBI agents living nearby who are also Catholic.

Just then, a series of hurried footsteps came from the doorway.

A young man in a gray hoodie rushed in, panting, and shouted, "Owen! The Latino gang is attacking! They're at the east end of the block!"

Irving glanced at the young man at the door to make sure he wasn't injured, then folded the blood pressure cuff, put it back in the medicine box, and closed the lid. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were clearing the table after dinner.

Then, he bent down and pulled a baseball bat from under the table, coldly saying, "Let's go!"

Brooke: ? ? ?

He stared dumbfounded at Irving's hands gripping the baseball bat, hands that had just been taking blood pressure and writing dosages on medicine boxes.

Now he's holding a baseball bat, which has black stains on it, probably from leftover blood.

"Brook, you're coming with me too."

"OK!" Brooke immediately stood up and ran out after him, still thinking about the scene from earlier.

This feeling is so strange.

It's like a refined, kind-faced priest who's examining a sick person, and suddenly pulls out an AK and starts fighting with the gang for territory.

As Brooke left, he glanced back at the table.

The first-aid kit was still open, with boxes of anti-inflammatory drugs and gauze scattered on the table. Only Alex was calmly tidying up, seemingly used to it.

"Aren't you going?" Brooke asked.

Alex waved his hands repeatedly: "I'm not a member of CMCS, I'm just a friend of Irving's who came to help."

CMCS and the Latin American gang faced off at the east entrance of the block, separated by a dozen meters.

On Irving's side, use the same baseball bat.

Three dilapidated secondhand cars were parked across the street, with twelve or thirteen people standing outside. Some were holding steel pipes, some were holding folding knives, and only one person in the front row was carrying a sawed-off shotgun.

Brooke glanced at them and immediately understood that these were the lowest-ranking gangs, perhaps not even having the courage to fire a shot.

This godforsaken place is so poor that even the gangs can't squeeze much money out of it; they can barely afford bullets.

Standing at the front was a tall, thin man wearing a black vest, his chest covered in tattoos, holding a shotgun, who cursed at them a few times.

Brooke didn't hear what the other person was cursing; he was carefully examining both sides' weapons.

If he had a gun, Brooke would definitely stay far away.

He's just an FBI employee who came to work, why is he risking his life?

After confirming that it was indeed that one shotgun, Brooke relaxed a little and asked in a low voice, "What happened?"

A TK member glanced at him: "Newbie? Those two brats have been spraying graffiti on our streets several times now."

Brooke saw the wall to the west, where two young thugs were squatting at its base. The wall was covered with spray paint markings of Latin American gangs, and the two men were pinned to the ground, not daring to lift their heads.

This is a typical gang turf war process, one that Brooke is very familiar with: one side sprays a marker, and the other side crosses it off.

They would blacken up the painting, draw insulting pictures, then scrape it off and spray larger blocks of color. This cycle would repeat several times before they would actually take action.

Irving yelled, "This is our neighborhood! You're not allowed near here anymore! Now, get out of here!"

After saying that, he took the lead and walked towards the other person.

Two or three TK members spread out to both sides, forming a flank that appeared spontaneously. Without anyone giving orders, they found their positions on their own.

Brooke's eyes narrowed slightly.

This formation isn't your average gangster setup; it's way too professional.

The tall, thin man in the black vest looked a little nervous: "Get lost! This is Latino territory! You white pigs!"

No sooner had he finished speaking than a brick flew out from behind the crowd on TK's side, hitting the tall, thin guy with the shotgun hard in the face.

Snapped!

The tall, thin man collapsed without a sound.

The shotgun also fell to the ground.

With a clang.

Irving didn't look back to see who threw the brick; he rushed over without hesitation.

"Charge with me!"

"Kill them!" The others immediately rushed forward. Andrew, who was the fittest, overtook Irving in a few steps and rushed to the front.

The person on the other side was equally defiant, wielding a steel pipe and charging over.

A few seconds later, the two sides were locked in combat.

Blades and sticks flew everywhere.

"FXXK!"

"Dry them to death!"

"Go to hell!"

"Get out of here!"

Irving struck the knife-wielding man's wrist with his club, sending the folding knife flying out of his hand, hitting the wall, bouncing, and falling to the ground.

In the chaos, someone picked up a shotgun and fired another shot, hitting one of TK members in the calf. He screamed and fell to the ground.

Andrew immediately rushed over and hit his hand from the side with a baseball bat.

Click!

The gunman screamed and collapsed to the ground, clutching his hand.

The shotgun fell to the ground.

Brooke stood on the edge watching, without joining in.

He noticed that as soon as someone fell down, someone ran over, dragged the injured person away for examination, and another person took their place at the same time.

The entire process was seamless, as if it had been rehearsed many times. No one needed to give orders; everyone knew where to stand, who to watch, and where to fill in.

Redundancy filler!

This is a typical military maneuver; nobody in the underworld would do that!

And it's obvious that this isn't something someone who just learned; they've at least practiced for a while.

Brooke was increasingly surprised.

The conflict lasted approximately three minutes from start to finish.

Eight people were lying on the ground, bleeding from their heads and groaning. The remaining few people were lying on the ground, clutching their heads, too afraid to move.

One person fell down on TK's side, and another unlucky guy had a cut on his arm, with blood dripping down his fingers. The people next to him were bandaging it with a strip of cloth.

Brooke stared at Irving.

Irving stood in the middle of the crowd, his baseball bat already lowered.

His face showed neither the excitement of finishing a fight nor the smugness of "I won," as if he had just finished a task that needed to be done.

He glanced down at the bloodstains on the stick, then turned to Andrew and said, "Clean up the scene."

OK!

Some people began to count the weapons and gather them in the corner.

Someone went to check on the injured person who had fallen to the ground to see if they were still conscious.

Someone took a spray paint can and marked the boundary line of the block. After they finished, someone took a picture to record it, but it's unclear what the purpose was.

Irving checked the injured person and, after confirming that it was just a superficial injury, felt relieved.

Brooke remained standing there, watching everyone else go about their business.

He found the scene strange, like a gang cleaning up a battlefield in a military style.

The police car arrived five minutes later.

Two unmarked Fords were parked at the street corner.

The sheriff got out of the passenger seat and slowly walked over, glancing at the person on the ground and then at Andrew.

Andrew walked to the police car and threw a roll of banknotes tied with a rubber band into the passenger window, where it landed on the sheriff's seat.

The sheriff didn't look down at the money; he just leaned against the car door and said lazily, "It's those Latinos again. These are familiar faces; New York is almost overflowing with them. They won't be locked up for more than a few days."

Andrew laughed and said, "Just follow the procedure. Someone from our side will go and collect the necessary documents later."

The sheriff nodded and waved to the officers behind him: "Take them all away."

When the people on the ground were lifted up and stuffed into the back seat of the police car, the tall, thin man had already woken up and was still cursing. The officers pressed his head down and shoved him in.

The sheriff sat back in the passenger seat, not looking at Andrew again, and added before rolling up the window, "Next time, let me know in advance if you need anything."

Andrew nodded: "Don't worry, I won't make things difficult for you."

The police car drove away, its taillights flashing briefly at the street corner before disappearing.

The crowd gradually dispersed.

Some people returned to their post to continue receiving treatment.

Someone put the weapons into a cabinet in the back room.

Brooke followed Irving back to the camp.

Irving wiped the blood off the baseball bat with a rag, put it back under the table, and then closed the first-aid kit.

Brooke thought to herself.

He was thinking about how this organization should be classified.

A Catholic mutual aid association that provides free medical care and medicine to the poor?

But what Catholic association would fight with gangsters for territory and even create a ridiculous order of knights?

Gangster?

It doesn't seem like it either.

He had seen how gangsters cleaned up crime scenes; it was usually fast, dirty, and some people would take advantage of the chaos to kick someone or steal something.

That's not what he saw tonight.

Everyone should perform their duties, and orders should be obeyed without question.

It feels like an army...

That's it! Brooke suddenly realized.

This is an army!

Even in its rudimentary form, it is still an army!

With the Catholic clique at the core of leadership, what exactly does Irving want to do?

Does he really want to replicate the Knights of the Ages from hundreds of years ago in modern New York?

That's ridiculous!

Hollywood, a film studio owned by Columbia Pictures.

"Click!"

"Today's filming is finished!"

The shouts of "Filming is over!" came from the loudspeakers, and the scene immediately fell into chaos.

Talia's shoulders relaxed immediately.

(Talia, appears in Chapter 94, a minor actress who luckily becomes the lead actress in the blockbuster film "Tides of Shadows")

She stood there, her fingers still in the same position from the scene, and waited two seconds before slowly lowering them, completely exhausted.

I filmed for sixteen hours straight, only eating boxed meals twice in between, and my knees are still a little weak.

The assistant jogged over and handed over a bottle of water, and also tucked in a portable chair.

Talia took the bottle, unscrewed the cap, took two sips, and finally sat down to catch her breath.

As of today, the filming in the studio has come to an end.

The subsequent filming was all done on location, taking place on outdoor sets.

Starting tomorrow, she will have about a week off, after which the filming on location will be even more tiring.

Director West walked past, holding a rolled-up script in his hand.

As he passed by Talia, he casually remarked, "Talia, you did a pretty good job."

Talia quickly stood up straight: "Thank you, Director."

West stopped and smiled, "Your body control is better than before, your expressions are still not subtle enough, but you've improved since the beginning."

West was quite satisfied with this young actor.

Her appearance and figure are average among celebrities, but she is hardworking, obedient, and has a little talent.

For directors, this type of actor is quite good to work with.

Talia's face showed gratitude, and her heart was filled with joy.

She had spent some time on set and had figured out West's habits.

He doesn't overstate his words when praising someone.

"Not bad" means "I'm quite satisfied," and "You've improved compared to before" means "I might use you again next time."

Before leaving, West added, "Don't be late for the location shoot. Your makeup takes a long time, so you need to be on set by 5 a.m. It's best to arrive a day early to get used to the environment."

Talia immediately replied, "No problem."

She quickly went through the itinerary in her mind: rest for four days first, then join the crew three days in advance to familiarize herself with the venue, and then make a good impression on West.

West is a top-tier commercial director; as long as you can latch onto this powerful figure, you'll never lack for movies in the future.

West walked away, and his assistant poked his head out from behind: "Talia, Vincent is here and waiting for you in the lounge."

Talia wiped her face and went into the lounge to find her agent, Vincent.

"Finished filming?"

"Filming's finished." Talia sat down opposite him, leaning wearily against the back of her chair to rest. "What's up?"

Vincent quickly said, "I'm thinking of enrolling you in an acting class to focus on improving your weaknesses. Three lessons before the location shoot might help."

Talia's face was a little bitter, but she knew that now was the time to fight for her life, and she might only have a few chances like this in her lifetime.

"no problem!"

Vincent said with satisfaction, "There's one more thing. There's a large demonstration in New York. It's a joint effort by liberals and Protestants, targeting an extreme conservative Catholic group called the CMCS. I think you should participate."

"A march? Why would I participate in a march?" Talia frowned, completely unaware of CMCS. "Besides, I'm currently filming 'Shadow Tides,' and the director and producers probably don't want me to participate in this kind of event."

"They'll agree. The Directors Guild and Screen Actors Guild will be there too," Vincent explained. "Lots of actors and directors in New York will be there. You've just landed the lead role, but the market doesn't know you yet. You need more exposure, and you have to take advantage of this free opportunity. It won't take up much time on set, at most 1 minute..."

"We'll just take a picture and leave in an hour."

Talia then asked, "What did Mr. Williams say?"

Vincent said, "He also hopes you will go."

Talia nodded: "OK. I'll go. I'm leaving for New York tomorrow, staying there for two days to take some photos, and then rushing back to the location. I have plenty of time."

Her family is still in New York, and for her, staying in New York is easier than in Hollywood.

Vincent stood up: "If you want to participate, I'll talk to the organizers and arrange for you to walk at the very front of the procession. I'll also arrange for some cameras to be on you; someone will be specifically filming you. Just think of it as walking a red carpet."

"no problem!"

The door was pushed open as soon as he finished speaking.

Winnie peeked in from outside, wearing a loose hoodie and shorts, her makeup still on: "What are you guys talking about? Going to New York?"

Vincent greeted Winnie, then stood up and said with a smile, "Girls, you guys chat, I'm leaving now."

Talia said, "There's a parade in New York next week, and Vincent wants me to go and ride the wave."

Winnie walked in and sat opposite her, propping her legs up on the armrest of the chair: "What parade?"

Talia thought for a moment: "A demonstration against an extreme conservative Catholic organization. I think it's called—CMCS?"

Talia repeated the name uncertainly. She didn't care about the shit parade; all she knew was that she could ride the wave of popularity.

"Anyway, Vincent said a lot of actors will be going."

Winnie wasn't particularly interested in the parade. She was leaning back in her chair, about to scroll through her phone, when she heard the word "New York" and paused.

She remembered that night on the yacht, the force of Richard's fingers as he held her ankle, and the taut muscles in his arms as he lifted her out of the pit.

Later, she heard that a lot of things had happened on Hart Island. Connor, the scapegoat, died in the hospital, and then a president and several executives died. She wasn't sure if Richard had been involved.

(Winnie, appears in Chapter 115, West's goddaughter, Hollywood stamp collector)

Winnie licked her lips. "Come on, I'll go with you."

I just want to go home and rest... Talia saw Winnie's face.

Unfortunately, Winnie held a higher position in the crew than her. She was West's goddaughter, and even though she only played an insignificant supporting role, no one dared to treat her as a supporting character.

Not wanting to offend Winnie, Talia immediately smiled and said, "Great, it'll keep me company."

"As long as that bitch doesn't block my view," Talia thought to herself.

The "plastic sisterhood" ended up being tiresome for a while.

Winnie said, "By the way, Talia, we don't need to buy plane tickets. West is going to New York tomorrow, and we can take his private jet."

Talia's eyes lit up immediately. "To be able to ride on the same plane as the director!"

Thank you so much!

Winnie is such a good person!

Winnie stood up, stretched, picked up her phone, and sent Richard a message: "Get clean and wait for me, little boy."

"Wash yourself clean and wait for me, little boy."

Richard frowned as he looked at the message, wondering what trick this bus was up to this time.

He didn't want to pay attention, so he simply ignored him.

Catherine's voice came from the operating room door: "Richard, get ready, you can start the surgery."

9

"OK! I'll be right there!" Richard put away his phone, changed into his surgical gown, washed up, and walked into the operating room.

Half an hour later, Richard pulled out the last syringe and placed the instruments on the tray.

Daniel took over and completed the remaining tasks.

Claire had an irrepressible smile on her face: "Both of today's procedures were autologous fat grafting. According to the current schedule, we can add two more next week."

After being poor for a long time, the hard times are finally over.

Oliver closed the anesthesia record without saying a word, but the corners of his mouth were turned up.

Catherine slapped the control panel: "We've made it through the hardest part, and things are finally getting better."

Richard took off his gloves and threw them into the trash can.

Catherine walked over, washed her hands in the sanitizing pool, and turned her head to the side: "Both machines are done. Are you going home for dinner tonight?"

Richard shook his head: "I'm busy, I have something to do later."

Catherine was a little disappointed: "OK."

A dozen minutes later, Claire had already wheeled the patient from the operating table to the recovery room, and Oliver was packing up the anesthesia equipment.

Daniel also came out and sat down next to him, looking very happy.

It feels so good to make money, and there's no more Eugene causing trouble!

He casually tapped on his phone.

A notification popped up on the screen from Freya, the wife of the state's deputy health minister, on social media: "Look at this! Recovery two days after liposuction! Stop saying Dr. Daniel Mason is a fraud! Dr. Mason is a liposuction genius!"

The accompanying photo is a side view of her abdomen that she took herself, where you can see a faint pinkish mark, which is almost invisible unless you look closely.

She added a comment under the photo: "I had the surgery myself. People who say Daniel is a fraud, come and see the results for yourselves. Can you recover like this in 7 days at other cosmetic clinics?"

Daniel's fingers froze.

WTF!

Is the deputy minister's wife really that free?

You actually posted a video!

Daniel stared at the photo for several seconds, then glanced at the number of likes—over a thousand!

Every time the comment section refreshes, new content appears: "Really that fast?"

"Where was it done?"

"Please provide your contact information!"

"The wife of the state's deputy health minister personally tested it! Now no one can say Daniel is a fraud, right?"

Daniel was helpless.

I really don't need a boyfriend!

The screen displays an unfamiliar number, with the location showing as New York State and the caller ID labeled "Governor's Office".

"Why does the governor want to see me?" Daniel's heart skipped a beat, and he quickly answered, "Hello?"

A woman's voice answered, speaking slowly and gently: "Are you Dr. Daniel Mason? I'm Lindsay, the First Secretary of the Governor's Office. I've heard your technique for ultra-fast recovery liposuction is outstanding. Several family members of colleagues in the Governor's Office would like to consult with you. Could we schedule a time to talk?"

"They've even taken their business to the governor's office?" Daniel's mouth opened slightly, then closed again.

If the governor's first secretary introduces a client, would he dare to refuse?

dare not!

"Who is it this time?" Catherine asked curiously.

Daniel respectfully spoke into the microphone: "—Okay, I'll arrange a time."

Daniel hung up the phone, placed it on the table, and said wearily, "The governor's office's first secretary, Lindsay, is planning to look into the situation and probably wants to introduce a few clients."

Catherine's face lit up: "Business is getting better and better!"

"I'm not okay at all!" Daniel thought to himself, increasingly afraid that the truth would be revealed.

Just then, his phone lit up again.

This is an update notice for internal teaching materials from Queens Hospital. One of the technical explanations is marked with the title "Dr. Daniel Mason, Vice President of Queens Hospital, Principles of Ultra-Fast Recovery Liposuction Technique".

Below that quote was a line of smaller print: "Based on Dr. Mason's remarks at an internal meeting."

He recognized the passage; it was the fabricated story Eugene had made up to force him to go on stage.

Now, a bunch of fabricated stories have made it into textbooks!

FXXK!

Daniel was completely numb.

Richard glanced down at his phone screen, then said nothing, just patted him on the shoulder sympathetically: "Hang in there, bro."

Daniel sat stiffly in place.

After a long time, he began to think, "This can't go on. Should I really learn something?"

Otherwise, what if I get questioned on stage?

Daniel unconsciously opened his phone and searched for the term "liposuction surgery," then immediately felt ridiculous and closed it.

Should I take a closer look at the techniques I used to boast on stage back then, so that I can at least give a perfunctory answer when someone questions me?

Richard was about to leave when he changed into his casual clothes.

The fresh flesh and blood replenished to full in two hours, which put him in a very good mood.

My phone rang; it was WeChat!

"It's finally here!" Richard answered immediately.

A male voice with a heavy Henan accent came from the other end: "Hey? Is this Boss Li? This is Song Zhe. My cousin asked me to bring you the things. I've arrived in New York and just got off the plane."

Richard asked, "Which terminal are you in? Which exit? Don't move, I'm coming right now."

Song Zhe said, "I'm at Exit B, next to the luggage cart. I'm wearing a gray shirt and a black hat, easy to spot."

"Wait for me, I'll be right there." Richard hung up the phone, grabbed his car keys, and went out.

New York's highways were as congested as ever, and Richard was stopped and started in traffic for more than forty minutes before finally arriving at JFK Airport.

He parked his car and walked into the arrival hall. He glanced around near Exit B and saw a young man in his twenties standing outside. The man had dark skin, was wearing a gray hoodie and a black baseball cap, and was looking around nervously.

Richard walked over: "Song Zhe?"

Song Zhe sized him up: "Are you Boss Li?"

Richard nodded.

Song Zhe took out a package wrapped in several layers of foam and tape from his backpack. He didn't hand it over immediately, but first took out his phone, pressed a few buttons, and turned the screen towards Richard: "My uncle wants you to take a call."

Song Zhe was very cautious and had to confirm that it was Richard himself; he dared not be casual about such an expensive item.

A WeChat video call request appeared on the phone screen. After answering, the familiar Henan accent came from the other end: "Boss Li, the goods have arrived. Please check them."

Richard took the package and opened it in front of him.

Peeling away the layers of foam revealed a palm-sized metal box. Opening it revealed a dark gray crystal, about three fingers wide, with cut marks on its surface, reflecting a murky light under the fluorescent lamp.

Richard picked up the crystal: "Ding! Diamond detected, weight: 23.5 grams, purity: 99.96%."

"Ding! All the necessary materials for the construction of the [Skeleton Nest] are ready. Construction can begin at any time."

"Done!" Richard put the diamond back in the box, closed it, and said with satisfaction, "No problem! You must be tired from your journey! Come on, I'll treat you to a good meal!"

Song Zhe waved his hands repeatedly: "No, no, things here are too expensive. I only earn a few dollars a month, I can't afford it. I brought instant noodles, I'll eat them in a bit and then take the plane back. I've already bought my return ticket."

Richard glanced at his plane ticket; it was indeed a return ticket for an immediate departure. He could only say, "Okay, call me if anything happens."

"Goodbye, Mr. Li." Song Zhe nodded and returned to the airport waiting area with his empty backpack.

Richard didn't waste any time and immediately drove back to the dock.

The Wave Chaser was moored at its berth. He untied the mooring ropes, boarded the ship, started the engine, and headed toward Hart Island.