122. Paokui's Return Home

The spring sunlight was bright and warm at the tactical shooting range.

Bang, bang, bang!

Three people stood in adjacent shooting lanes, holding pistols with both hands and frantically pulling the triggers.

Casing shells dropped to the ground. The flame-spouting muzzles rose, and the white smoke from the burning gunpowder stained the surrounding air white.

A moment later, the gunfire ceased.

Dean lowered his pistol, which had locked open on an empty magazine, glanced at the hostage target fifteen meters away, and nodded in satisfaction.

Fifteen rounds: twelve hits to the robber's head, three to the neck and shoulder. Absolutely perfect!

With his newly upgraded Level 3 Shooting skill, combined with a perception close to 13, he could now be considered a minor sharpshooter.

He checked his system interface.

Half a month had passed since the funeral. Time had moved into early March, and his attributes had made further progress.

Dean Lee
Character Level: 3 (300/400)
Age: 18
Physique: 15.6
Strength: 12.4 → 12.5
Agility: 13.7
Perception: 12.9
Spirit: 16
Willpower: 13.3 → 13.4
Perks: Intermediate Iron Man, Novice Supernatural Hunter
Abilities: 5/6
Combat Lv.2 (197 → 203/300)
Shooting Lv.3 (1 → 3/400)
Shadows of the Past Lv.1 (87 → 117/200)
Red Dragon Meditation Lv.2 (45 → 75/300)
Mimicry Lv.1 (4 → 20/200)
System Ability: God's Eye Lv.2 (Range: 20 meters)
...

The Red Dragon Meditation was indeed infinitely wondrous. Even with a severe imbalance in his mental willpower, after half a month of arduous practice by Dean, the nagging voice of the "North" had finally temporarily quieted down, and his inhuman physical attributes had also begun a slow growth.

It was mesmerizing.

He practiced meditation at home almost every chance he got.

Bringing his attention back to the shooting range, Dean turned to look at the big man's target.

"Thirteen out of fifteen hits to the vital areas. Even more accurate than me."

"Naturally. A man of my age doesn't live his life in vain, certainly not falling behind a brat like you who has practiced for less than a year."

Paquet turned and glanced at Rust on the far right. The shooting novice was staring intently at his target, his brows knitted together like caterpillars.

Fifteen rounds: five hit the ground and the air, nine struck the hostage, and the very first shot had blown the hostage's head off.

Paquet laughed heartily. "Don't lose heart, Rust. Let me teach you a phrase to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat: 'Listen up, kidnappers, I've already killed the hostage, so surrender immediately or I'll kill you too.'"

Rust's face was as dark as the bottom of a pot.

Dean shot Paquet a disapproving glare and encouraged his companion. "You hit the kidnapper at least once. That's not bad for a beginner. You must have inherited a bit of your father's police talent."

"Do I... really have talent?" Rust's expression softened slightly as he stroked the cold, hard pistol.

"Of course. Practice for another half a year, and self-defense will be a breeze," Dean comforted his friend. Over the past half a month, Rust had followed him and his uncle to shooting practice every day, gradually emerging from the shadow of his mother's death. However, he was clearly not as lively and cheerful as before, often wearing a gloomy expression like a philosopher.

"Practice is about done for today. Let's go, time for lunch!" Dean called out. The three of them left the range and entered the parking lot.

Next to the familiar Bronco sat a silver-white, aluminum-bodied DeLorean DMC-12, exuding a futuristic cyberpunk vibe.

During the search for Rust's mother last time, Paquet had test-driven the vehicle belonging to Tegen Frank, the lake-sunk casino broker, and had been unable to get it out of his mind ever since.

So, Dean had spent around twenty-six thousand dollars to buy the exact same model as a homecoming gift for Paquet.

...

The four of them found a Chinese restaurant on the Strip.

"After this meal, I should get moving this afternoon," Paquet said, grabbing a braised spare rib with both hands and getting grease all over his mouth without a care for his image. "I've already let Jacob, Tanya, and Andre know. If you run into any trouble, go to them for help."

"Not staying a few more days?" Dean didn't speak, but Rust put down his chopsticks, his tone somewhat nervous. During this period of staying as a guest, the big Native American man had treated him with great care, personally preparing "nutritious and delicious" meals for him every day, almost treating him like a nephew.

For Rust, who had lacked paternal love since childhood, this was a novel and unforgettable experience, especially since the man had also helped him find his mother.

In fact, the big Native American harbored considerable prejudice against most white people and cops, but being able to make a white kid respect and idolize him also gave him a strange sense of satisfaction.

"I can't wait to go back and have a few drinks with old friends," the big man lowered his head to sip a bowl of chicken noodle soup, his eyes narrowing comfortably. "Hawkins, Indiana isn't that far from Las Vegas; it's not like crossing the east and west coasts. If you have time, kid, you can come visit me there. Or have Dean give you a ride."

"But while I'm away, don't let your wrestling skills slip. I'll test you when we meet next time."

Hearing this, Rust's hand holding the chopsticks twitched, and he instantly moved it behind his back to protect his rear.

Dean felt a bit of schadenfreude. Since Paquet couldn't beat him at wrestling, he had shifted his focus and energy to the much weaker Rust, and the grueling nightly sparring sessions lately had nearly battered the smaller guy's backside into a pulp.

"Oh, right, after I leave, remember to go charm Britney back," Paquet patted the boy's shoulder earnestly once more. "Though there are plenty of bitches in the sea, she's an exception—a perfect marriage material. You'll hardly find another if you let her slip away."

Rust lowered his head at those words. Ever since he decided to give up his bright future at the University of Arizona to prepare for the police academy entrance exams, Britney, the traditionally gentle and sweet good girl, had been sulking. For a full half-month, she hadn't spoken to Rust and treated him like air whenever they met.

"Yeah, I owe Britney a lot. I'll win her forgiveness."

...

After a hearty and satisfying lunch, Paquet went home to change into a brand-new blue suit, put on black sunglasses, and strapped a low-key yet luxurious dual-display watch onto his wrist. He looked tall, imposing, high-spirited, and radiating smiles—if he only chomped on a cigar and had a few gold teeth embedded, he'd be the spitting image of a nouveau riche.

"Don't hold back on my account when you get back, buy a big house," Dean winked at his uncle. "And leave a room for me."

After the Red Dragon Club incident, Dean and his uncle had fought side by side, so there was no longer any need for concealment.

He had directly handed over the one hundred standard gold bars retrieved from Leighton Stone's old mansion for Paquet to handle, exchanging them for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, with one hundred thousand going towards buying a house for Paquet.

After all, having a house in Indiana meant Dean could always run over there to lie low if he ever got into trouble in the future.

The remaining fifty thousand was kept by Dean. After deducting various expenses during this period, his personal savings still stood at one hundred and thirty thousand.

"You remember my words too. Don't play with fire just because you've got a bit of strength; I don't want to see a crippled nephew with missing limbs," Paquet wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulder, thinking of Gretchen whom Dean had brought home last time. "By the way, your current girlfriend is nice—pretty, big breasts, long legs, a great ass, and a straightforward personality. You should consider having a few kids with her, and eventually settle down with someone of Asian descent."

"I'm still young, I haven't had enough fun yet," Dean shook his head with a smile, glaring at that rugged face that still held a hint of mischievousness. "You hurry up and find me an aunt. When I graduate and visit Hawkins, I expect to see my future cousins already born."

"Get lost! It's only a few months from March to July, how do you expect a normal woman to squeeze out a baby in that time? Are you asking me to marry a sow?"

...

The two of them "cared" for each other for a good while before Paquet turned his attention to the skinny Rust and lectured him for ages as well.

Only then did he climb into the DeLorean, his muscular left arm extending out the window to flick a gesture.

Vroom, the engine roared to life.

Rust pulled back his reluctant gaze and turned to Dean.

"By the way, Baker invited everyone over to his house for dinner tonight."

"I can't make it for now, you go ahead. And try to smooth things over with Britney."

"How come I feel like you've been even weirder than me lately? You've skipped several invitations in a row. What are you worried about? Are you deliberately dodging them? Don't you want to be friends with them anymore?"

"Of course not, I just have some personal business to take care of," Dean shook his head with a smile. "Pass along a message for me tonight; once spring break is over, I'll treat everyone to a meal."