After arriving in New York from Texas, Locke had already spent plenty of time familiarizing himself with the city through online maps.
He'd also prepared several contingency plans.
And now...
It was time to put one of them into action.
A fish... was about to bite the hook.
On the outskirts of New York, after crossing a bridge, Locke entered the rural stretches of New Jersey, just beyond Manhattan's edge.
Half an hour later.
He pulled into the parking lot of a large supermarket—and called for a taxi.
— Jersey Water Station.
— Got it.
Soon, Locke and the driver were on the road.
The Jersey Water Station was a long-abandoned site on the city's outskirts. These days, only curious teenagers ever ventured out there.
Eventually, the car arrived. Locke paid the fare and stepped out.
The taxi turned around and drove off.
Locke's lips curled upward as he watched it disappear into the distance.
I'm just a sweet sixteen-year-old kid. What kind of bad intentions could I possibly have?
He smiled, turned, and strolled into the derelict station.
Five minutes later.
The taxi returned.
Clack.
Inside the vehicle, a bald, middle-aged assassin nicknamed Butcher holstered his pistol and glanced at the driver.
— You sure you brought him here?
— Don't worry, I hacked his phone while he was in the car. Tracked the signal.
Butcher, freshly trained and with nothing to do after Wesley's initiation, narrowed his eyes.
— What's a sixteen-year-old transfer student doing here?
The driver shrugged.
He was bottom-tier Brotherhood. A rookie assassin.
One of those short-statured trainees barely able to hold a weapon straight.
Only full members of the Fraternity—masters of the gun, those who could curve bullets—got assigned to real missions.
But this guy? Two years in and still barely passed as a scout.
In the end...
He wasn't Wesley. He wasn't qualified to receive the personal mentorship of the Fraternity's boss. His job was simple: track, watch, report.
Butcher's thick lips twisted into a brutal grin.
— Stay here.
The rookie nodded.
Butcher stepped out.
He checked his surroundings, made sure the coast was clear—and moved toward the abandoned station.
Not once did it cross his mind that a sixteen-year-old could actually be an assassin. As far as he was concerned, this was just another dumb teenager poking around a creepy building.
Which meant...
He could go all-out and enjoy the kill. Not that he thought it'd take much effort.
He entered the station.
His pace slowed as he checked the phone in his hand—a red dot blinking steadily on the screen.
Locke's phone.
Suddenly...
Butcher froze.
There, lying on a rusted metal barrel, was the phone itself.
— What?
As he stared, a message popped up on the screen.
"I've been waiting for you."
What the hell?
Butcher's eyes narrowed. He spun around.
A flash of steel—
And then—
Boom!
Locke dropped from a steel beam overhead, his foot slamming into Butcher's wrist and sending the gun flying.
In the Fraternity of Weavers, Precision Shooting was everything.
Locke knew deep down—if he ever ended up in a straight fight against a Brotherhood killer, he'd lose.
So he made sure that bullet never left the chamber.
Not this time.
No chance.
Bang! Bang!
Butcher, already on high alert, dove to the side, narrowly dodging two shots fired at near point-blank range.
He wasn't just a brute.
The man's melee combat skills were impressive.
In fact, that's exactly how he'd earned his nickname.
Bang!
Bang!
Butcher cracked his neck, eyes locking onto Locke with a grin.
— I figured you were just some high school brat. You surprised me.
Locke smirked in return.
— I didn't expect the Fraternity to hunt me down the moment I got to New York. I'm deeply offended. Especially about losing my baby...
— That so?
Butcher let out a wild, guttural laugh.
— I'll take good care of you, kid. Real good.
He'd make him beg for mercy.
Bang!
— Huh!?
Butcher rolled aside again, narrowly dodging a third bullet. He scrambled to his feet—
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Locke's "Silver Dancer" roared to life, each pull of the trigger releasing another burst of fire. Bullet after bullet chased after Butcher, who—despite his size—was far more agile than he looked.
Locke had no intention of engaging him in hand-to-hand combat.
He'd just moved to New York, and he was already broke. He only had a few clean outfits left. No way he was going to get blood on his last good jacket.
Bang!
— Shit!
Butcher growled, rolling again. A bullet tore through his leg, forcing him to brace against a steel barrel.
He didn't hesitate—he drew a knife.
Clang!
The blade clattered to the floor.
Then—
Bang!
— Damn it!
Locke's eyes narrowed.
He barely dodged a surprise shot—butcher had pulled another gun out of nowhere.
Where the hell had that been?
— Kid.
Butcher barked, eyes sharp.
— You think I came here with just one...
Bang!
— Urgh!
Butcher's eyes flared in disbelief as a clean bullet hole opened in his chest.
How...?
Locke stepped toward the man, watching as he staggered—his head tilted down, staring in shock at the wound in his chest.
Locke's lips curled slightly.
— What, you didn't think I had that skill?
Butcher said nothing.
---
[Skill Steal Card]
Cost: 5,000 [Achievement Points]
Use: With a 10% [Store Coupon], the price is reduced.
Effect: Upon successful use, one skill from the targeted NPC is permanently transferred to the [Player]. The transferred skill will retain the same proficiency level as the NPC.
Success!
[Precision Shooting] — Rare (Blue Rank), Intermediate Level
An uncommon gun technique that seems ordinary at first glance, but offers exceptional accuracy and deadly efficiency.
---
But...
Locke had done his homework last night. Cross had defected. Wesley had just joined.
And yet, what did Locke get?
A mid-tier version of Precision Shooting. Not bad at all.
— You...
Butcher gasped for breath. His eyes flickered with shock—as if wanting to ask how Locke had the same ability as the Fraternity.
But judging from his condition, he clearly didn't have the strength to speak that many words.
Instead, he choked out:
— Who... the hell... are you?...
Locke crouched in front of him, stared straight into the dying man's eyes, and with a calm smile said:
— You want to know?
I'm not telling.
Then, without another word—
Locke raised his pistol.
Bang!