Chapter Forty-Nine: Warm-Up

The cheers nearly tore the entire casino apart! Once again, the tiny ball came to rest on “nineteen”—a miracle rivaling the work of the Creator! A festival ignited by a single marble swept through the casino. Dizzy with excitement, Ji Ning accepted a glass of champagne from a stranger, gave it a vigorous shake, and popped it open toward the sky. Under the gilded lights, the sparkling liquid bloomed with a brilliance more dazzling than gold coins—glory and wealth, the irresistible seasonings of life.

While he waited for the casino staff to verify his win, Ji Ning’s gaze drifted to the gamblers clutching dreams of overnight fortune or seeking the thrill of a modest wager. Their eyes fixed on him as if witnessing a miracle, like devout Christians witnessing the acts of Jesus—a piety rooted deeper than faith itself: greed.

Is this what it feels like to be a winner in life? He felt like fortune’s own favored child, convinced he could win even more if he continued. Yet, as this thought flashed by, cold sweat suddenly prickled his skin. He stood frozen, watching the strangers cheer, seeing the jealousy, envy, desire, and desperate hope rekindle in those on the brink of ruin, clutching for salvation.

Like parched, splintered bones, they pushed their last offerings onto the devouring tables. In this place, not even God could find a trace of the light he instilled in humanity; beneath the lavish attire lurked a wild beast’s madness. Unearned riches are the world’s eternal poison—though the bones of countless victims pile high, newcomers still drink the deadly temptation. Everyone believes they are unique, immune to the poison. Yet, we all know how the story ends.

Those who lost all day saw him as the start of their luck, kissing their chips madly before pushing them back onto the icy table. In just a moment, gamblers straddling heaven and hell found their fates. Some shouted and buried themselves in mountains of chips, venting endless desire; others sat ashen-faced before emptiness, as if staring at the ruins of their own lives.

Their faces twisted, all transforming toward the same mask: feral, frenzied, exultant, terrified, despairing—there could be no uglier visage in this world. At a single glance, Ji Ning was seized by an unprecedented nausea, nearly vomiting on the spot. The fans pumped out oxygen-rich air, but it brought no relief. He felt trapped in an endless hell, the urge to retch so violent he staggered to a chair for support. Someone approached swiftly, asking if he needed help; Ji Ning opened his mouth but could barely speak. Here in this crazed inferno, he was powerless—a spectator waiting to drown.

“Get out of there!” Qin Mo’s cool voice yanked Ji Ning back to reality. He gasped for breath, barely restraining the urge to kiss the girl speaking to him for eternity. Regaining his composure, Ji Ning was about to ask why, when he saw the manager smiling as he walked over.

“They’re going to search you. How will you explain the communicator and camera on you?” Katherine’s voice came through, issuing instructions to Zhao Tianxing. “Senior, go wait for Ji Ning at the casino entrance. As long as you both are safe, proceed with Plan B if necessary.”

Ji Ning wondered how anyone could cheat at roulette, then suddenly realized: before vast sums, everyone sheds their masks, revealing naked malice. Even if the Black House believed it was just luck’s prank, they certainly wouldn’t mind adding another foreigner to the bottom of the Moskva River.

Above Moscow, snow drifted like the Black House’s cigarette smoke; in the dazzling chips, dark red blood flowed.

Zhao Tianxing leaned against the wall, unmoving as snow piled on him like a snowman built by a mischievous child. When Katherine’s orders came, a bright light flashed under his cap. His breath fogged in the air, but he ignored the snow on his coat and strode toward the rendezvous, snowflakes dissolving into the cold night with every step.

Ji Ning was furious. He’d thought casinos had money to burn—who knew they were such sore losers? A body search? Ridiculous! Did they think he was easy prey?

Catch me? Do I look like a rookie on my first day at Hartwell Academy? Rule Nine of the Academy: Never let anyone else control the situation.

Ji Ning cursed under his breath but acted without hesitation. He grabbed a handful of glittering chips and scattered them into the crowd. Amid the commotion, he ducked low and slipped toward the exit. Seeing him flee, the middle-aged manager actually sighed in relief. The casino could afford to lose, but this sum was nearly several months’ revenue. Grumbling into his walkie-talkie, he turned to tidy up the table.

Leonid Sidorov, noticing Ji Ning’s escape, gave a faint, inscrutable smile and melted away into the throng.

At the entrance, two burly men raised the barrier after receiving orders. They stretched and waited for Ji Ning, their military backgrounds leaving them a bit eager for action. Security work was dull, but the pay was too good to pass up.

Soon, though, a voice interrupted their warm-up. “Excuse me, let me through.”

Gavrilsha glanced at the black-haired, dark-eyed man, exchanged a look with Yevgeny, then shook his head. “Nobody’s allowed in or out right now. Come back later.”

Zhao Tianxing trusted the Babel Fish serum’s translation perfectly. He turned away, then turned back, sweeping his gaze over them. “Now is later.”

Ji Ning, sprinting through the corridors and surprised no one pursued him, rounded a corner and saw Zhao Tianxing waving at him by the exit. Noticing the two unconscious strongmen on the ground, Ji Ning pretended not to see, stepping lightly over them.

Like phantoms, the two slipped through Moscow’s silent night streets. Zhao Tianxing matched his pace to Ji Ning’s limit, even explaining his choice of escape routes. “Always pick a street-facing road. If you’re lucky, a vehicle slowing down—like a car pulling over—can be your key to escape…”

“And most importantly—the biggest mistake rookies make out of fear—you must shake your tail before heading to the rendezvous. Never let danger follow you to your unsuspecting teammates.” Zhao Tianxing glanced back. “In this kind of situation, circle around with your pursuers. Don’t panic. Have you ever fished? It’s like playing a fish—keep the line steady, hold your speed, and when they’re distracted—reel in and accelerate.”

Ji Ning nodded, only to suddenly find himself seized by the shoulders. Before he knew what was happening, his senior had thrown him toward a wall. The timing was perfect—Ji Ning reached out and grabbed the top of the wall, and in a flash, Zhao Tianxing leaped up as well, pulling his struggling junior to safety.

Zhao Tianxing landed lightly from the two-man-high wall; Ji Ning followed, rolling to blunt the impact. Once upright, Zhao Tianxing listened for any pursuit on the other side, then said impassively, “Or, if you’re confident you can take down your pursuers, find a secluded spot like this without cameras and neutralize the threat at the start. If you’re even more daring, you can use the pursuit as a shortcut—they’ll lead you straight to your target’s lair.”

Ji Ning glanced back and quickened his pace. “Senior, let’s not. I’m squeamish and can’t take blood. How about we just head back to the hotel and plan our next move there?”

“Alright.”

Ji Ning sighed in relief—those men weren’t coming to politely return his winnings. Who brings a fire axe to make a polite request? Go to the Black House’s base? Forget it—plans are one thing, but only within reasonable risk. These Slavic brutes wouldn’t bother with a translator; he’d wager that, caught by them, he’d be at the bottom of the Moskva in minutes, competing with the bass to see who can blow the biggest bubble. Senior or not, he wasn’t risking it.

Chases are about speed—but in the Russian snow, running against locals, the outcome was clear from the start. After Ji Ning tripped a second time, Zhao Tianxing stopped instantly, hauled him up, and drew his sword defensively, eyes on the Russians closing in.

Ji Ning thought he felt a faint warmth surround him as Zhao Tianxing pulled him upright—a spell, perhaps, though he hadn’t yet begun his arcane studies. Whatever it was, it steadied his nerves.

Just as Ji Ning thought Zhao Tianxing was about to unleash a dazzling sword display, the Russian leader drew a Desert Eagle. Zhao Tianxing calmly lowered his weapon and raised his hands in surrender; the motion was so swift it was all over before Ji Ning registered what happened. A burly man kicked him to the ground—not painfully, but the fluid surrender shocked Ji Ning to his core.

“Senior! Aren’t you a B-rank? Why surrender to a bunch of Russians with guns?”

Zhao Tianxing remained calm. “How do you know they only have one gun? If you weren’t here and they were close enough, I’d try. But now, waiting and watching is best. Besides, I can teach you the simplest, most effective way to handle a pursuit.”

At the Izmailovsky Beta Hotel in Moscow, Qin Mo paced anxiously. Katherine stared at her laptop; Avra sat beside her, face stern.

“The signal stopped near the Kazan Cathedral residential area.”

“Should we head out?” Avra buckled on her tactical belt, its grenades like ripe fruit. Since receiving Hartwell’s new gear, she’d been itching for action. When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

Katherine shook her head. “We’re just support. I’ve received Zhao Tianxing’s signal—he says everything is under control.”

Qin Mo was flustered, her training in calmness abandoned. “Aren’t they prisoners? They could be getting pepper-sprayed or tortured. Senior is experienced, but what about Ji Ning?”

Avra shrugged, patting her shoulder. “Don’t worry. As long as they don’t reveal their identities, the Black House just thinks they’re cheating gamblers. They shouldn’t be in mortal danger.”

Katherine considered, then said, “In a way, their infiltration went well. Instead of spending months undercover, they’re already inside the enemy’s base.”

Qin Mo said nothing. She doubted Ji Ning could control the situation, but she trusted Zhao Tianxing—his swordsmanship during their last training drill was unforgettable: no flashy moves, just pure, honed strikes. Calmed, she believed he could handle any gangsters.

Still, she couldn’t help but worry.

“Senior, what do we do?” Ji Ning’s world was pitch black; the hood and ropes were standard for gangsters. He and Zhao Tianxing were tied back to back. He hated this—last time he was hooded, it had scarred him. Now, he felt like an insect tied to a string—though his senior was the kind that could break free and fly away.

“Wait,” Zhao Tianxing replied curtly, ignoring Ji Ning’s constant questions and closing his eyes to rest.

Finally, the hood was yanked off. Ji Ning squinted at the blinding lights, the impenetrable gray walls, the green-black floor tiles, and a second source of illumination—a bald head.

At the sight of the burly, bald man, Ji Ning almost believed Professor Theodosius led a double life of crime. But as the man turned, revealing a scar running from his eye to his neck, Ji Ning was reassured of his professor’s innocence. Theodosius was the type to polish his guns while wearing a face mask—he’d never allow a scar to mar his features.

Zhao Tianxing’s hood was removed by a Black House member. He too surveyed the room, then fixed a calm, piercing gaze on the bald man. Though a prisoner, his composure made everyone hold their breath, like soldiers before a king.

Only when the light faded from Zhao Tianxing’s eyes did the bald man seem to remember he was in charge. He glared at his men and looked away from Zhao Tianxing as he spoke. “You can call me Dmitry. I run the casino.”

Ji Ning forced a polite, pleading smile. “My name is Ji Ning—a law-abiding citizen. Whatever happened is just a misunderstanding.”

He paused, then added, “This is my cousin—he’s an even better man than I am.”

Dmitry eyed the babbling youth suspiciously but ignored him, signaling his men to search Ji Ning. Finding nothing, Dmitry produced a metal detector. “Whoever said muscle and brains can’t go together?” This was the last thing Katherine heard through the communicator before static cut in.

She ignored it, eyes glued to her computer until the file transfer completed. “The structural plans have been sent. Prepare for extraction. The nearest parking lot is a kilometer away. Qin Mo, Avra, pick a car.”

Qin Mo took the headset from Avra and hesitated. “Can you drive?”

Ji Ning watched his communicator crushed under a boot, feeling a wave of shared misfortune. He nudged Zhao Tianxing. “Senior, think of something! Otherwise, we’ll be dead before we even get started.” He was reluctant to use SCP-CN-655—it was too unstable. If it guaranteed escape, he wouldn’t have met it at the Foundation.

Zhao Tianxing signaled him to stay calm. His black eyes were now overlaid with a holographic membrane, displaying the building’s layout.

They were in the basement; above was a study or bedroom. Past the hallway was the second floor, with many rooms—likely the Black House’s main quarters. Above that was the top floor, smaller, only two rooms at the corridor’s ends.

After a quick analysis, Zhao Tianxing set his sights on the top floor. The Black House wouldn’t have stolen the statue just to display it in the lobby. In the right-hand room on the top floor, a hole in the wall suggested a safe—certainly something important. The statue was almost certainly there.

Dmitry drew a long, triangular dagger, muttering as he traced a line on Ji Ning’s right hand. Just as Ji Ning was about to call on SCP-CN-655 for help, Zhao Tianxing spun, slamming Ji Ning to the ground. The noise was loud but not painful. Zhao Tianxing had freed himself at some point, pulling his frail junior up and turning with a cold stare at the stunned Black House members.

Ji Ning wisely rolled behind him. If the atmosphere weren’t so tense, he’d have done a dance to cheer his senior on.

Dmitry waved his men back, cracking his shoulders with a sinister grin, joints popping like roasting beans. The Russian cold forges bodies built to endure, the bulk disguising explosive muscle under a layer of fat—a combat physique Sylvia once described to Ji Ning. Such men only need a single opening to tear an opponent apart.

Zhao Tianxing was unfazed, the muscles at his jawline sharpening into blade-like lines. Ji Ning never even saw him move; by the time he realized, Zhao Tianxing had already thrown a punch, direct and unadorned, the sleeve snapping with a sharp crack. Who would have thought this scholarly senior could punch with the force of a nuclear explosion?

Dmitry dodged, then kicked a chair aside like a cannonball. Zhao Tianxing didn’t meet force with force; the instant Dmitry moved, he was already in close, inside the chair’s arc. From Ji Ning’s perspective, his senior dodged, then the chair flew.

As Zhao Tianxing’s momentum slowed, Dmitry roared and charged like a raging bear, Russian Sambo at its peak. True offense isn’t just brute force—timing is lethal. Dmitry was elated and scornful: closing the distance just to dodge a chair? What a foolish way to die.

In close quarters, he never lost. In a second, as in countless battles, he could snap the pretty boy’s spine.

With Ji Ning helpless behind, Zhao Tianxing had no way to retreat. He braced for Dmitry’s tank-like impact; the combined weight and speed slammed him to the ground like a hurricane hitting Georgia. But before Ji Ning could mourn, the mountain of flesh convulsed, then was shoved aside by a hand. Blood burst like a flower, spreading along the marble cracks.

Ji Ning recalled his academy professor’s trauma lectures—this was classic arterial rupture. The blood spurted bright red and fast; the wound needed to be bound, and quickly.

Seconds later, Zhao Tianxing rolled to his feet as if nothing happened, a tactical knife in hand, its groove stained with blood. Only then did Ji Ning realize how he’d freed himself—he’d cut the ropes, so fast no one had noticed.

Zhao Tianxing’s gaze swept coldly over the Black House. To join such an outfit required ruthless hearts; these desperadoes feared nothing, least of all death—especially not someone else’s.

Knives flashed out in the harsh basement light, gleaming with bloodlust.

Words have never been humanity’s true language. Violence is.