99. Consideration

Early morning.
A two-story house on South Street, Las Vegas.
Looking through the window into the dim light, a kind-faced, silver-haired old woman was listening intently to a black-haired young man telling a story by the sofa.
The young man spoke slowly, weighing each word, his voice shifting between excitement and cold detachment. His bloodshot eyes flickered with a mix of exhilaration and bewilderment.
The old woman held a thick, brand-new book. As she opened the crisp white pages, she transcribed the story into elegant prose and vivid, lifelike illustrations as she listened.
After a long while, the woman set down her pen, rested her elbows on the table, and propped her chin on her interlocked fingers.
"The world is vast and endless, filled with one unsolved mystery after another. Nightwalkers, Midian—I have never heard of them. I am sorry, but I cannot tell you where Midian is."
She adjusted her glasses and looked at Dean, who was deep in thought across the sofa.
"But there must have been many other Nightwalkers who left Midian over the years, interbreeding with humans across the globe, leaving behind their bloodlines and gradually forming various bands of hunters."
"Some of these hunters will inevitably possess information about their ancestors and their homeland."
"Find them, and you will find Midian."
Dean nodded. "I don't quite understand... Westhurn said he was driven out of Midian because he violated the Iron Law. What exactly is this so-called Iron Law?"
"Try to imagine," Tribeca said. "A place exists that harbors a massive number of deformed monsters. They have iron bones and muscles, speed and strength far exceeding ordinary humans, and they even possess various dangerous abilities."
"Yet, legends about them are extremely rare; almost no one knows they exist. Only one situation could lead to such a state."
Dean’s eyes shifted, and he interjected, "Midian forbids them from leaving the vicinity, forbids them from harming humans, and perhaps even prevents them from communicating with humans at all."
Tribeca smiled in agreement. "Exactly. Only by remaining isolated from the world can Midian continue to exist safely. Otherwise, human armies would have wiped out this large concentration of monsters long ago."
Dean nodded. Judging by his current experience, no matter how powerful a monster might be, it would be reduced to ashes in the face of human nuclear weapons.
If they want to survive, they must remain low-profile and "live under the shadow of others."
Dean took out the hollowed-out golden invitation and handed it over. "Do you recognize this?"
Tribeca examined it with her reading glasses for a long time before shaking her head. "Perhaps it is something new? An old antique like me cannot fathom it."
...
The lights flickered, and the soft morning light outside the window grew brighter.
The old woman and the young man discussed for a while longer, perfecting the description of the Nightwalkers as much as possible.
Tribeca finally closed the thick book with satisfaction and handed it to Dean.
"From the Soul-Eater last time to this Nightwalker clan now, only two or three months have passed. The frequency with which you encounter supernatural creatures is terrifying, so I have prepared a separate collection for you in advance."
"It will faithfully record every supernatural creature you have encountered, are encountering, or will encounter in the future. You can come and consult it at any time. And rest assured, your real identity will not appear in the book."
"Then I shall trouble you with this."
Dean stroked the exquisite hardcover, a faint sense of accomplishment rising in his heart. In the half-year since he had transmigrated, he had already killed three kinds of supernatural beings.
He should count as a qualified monster hunter.
"By the way, you’ve been in a bad state since you walked in... have you been suffering from insomnia lately?" Tribeca set the book down and scanned his bloodshot eyes, heavy with dark circles. "If there is anything bothering you, feel free to tell me."
Dean fell silent.
After leaving the Stone family estate, it was as if he had been cursed. Every time he fell asleep, he dreamed of the Stone family, the snake-haired man, and the previous Soul-Eater—the cruel and bloody scenes of their feeding.
His own face was mixed into those blood-stained faces.
Furthermore, the poem the snake-haired man recited at the end kept popping into his mind, leaving him in a trance even during the day.
Dean began to suspect whether all these supernatural monsters possessed some kind of spiritual curse triggered upon their death.
"I am just a bit too tired."
"Get some rest. Do not push yourself too hard."
"Yes, take care of yourself."
...
Dean left the house, got into his car, morphed into a different face, donned a black trench coat and a wide-brimmed black hat, and drove south, preparing to continue the business he hadn't finished over the past few days.
...
A dilapidated two-story building in southern Las Vegas.
"Give me one more month," a blonde woman in a thin red sweater pleaded over the phone. "Next month, the rent will be paid in full, not a penny less."
"NO! I’ve already made an exception and given you a six-month extension, plus I waived three months of rent, all because you’re a widow with a child," a frustrated male voice came over the phone. "But I’m a poor man too; I have a wife and children to feed. I’ve been considerate of you, but who is going to be considerate of me!"
"You must pay the rent by tomorrow, or get out!"
"I can't do it, please."
"There is no room for discussion this time."
"For the sake of your brother, please help me again!" the woman begged.
"His sake? Penny, there’s something I haven’t told you." The man’s voice on the phone erupted in anger. "Before Amos disappeared, he owed me three thousand dollars. I haven’t come to you for it, and I let you live here for free for so long—I’ve already done my duty. Now let me beg you: move out."
*Beep... beep...*
The woman hung up the phone, walked back to the living room in a daze, picked up her giggling son from the stroller, rubbed her cheek against his smooth little face, and began to sob wearily.
"I’m so tired, I can’t hold on much longer. Where on earth did your heartless father go?"
*Knock, knock...*
*Knock, knock...*
Sudden knocking sounded at the door.
Penny’s expression changed. She wiped her tears with her sleeve, put the baby down, and trotted over to open the door.
"Who are you?"
The blinding sunlight revealed a stranger at the door holding a briefcase.
He was slim and upright in a black trench coat, wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, with sunglasses and a mask covering most of his face.
The man’s magnetic, steady voice rang out.
"Ma'am, do you know Amos Milson?"
Penny pursed her lips, and a pallor spread across her prematurely aged face.
"He is my husband. He has been missing for a year. If you’re here to collect a debt, I’m sorry, I don’t have a single coin. I’m six months behind on rent and have a child to raise. For God’s sake, don’t make things hard for me."
"You misunderstand." The man opened his black briefcase, took out a brown paper parcel, and handed it over. "Jack borrowed some money from me a while ago. Since he’s missing, this money belongs to you."
The woman’s mouth fell open, and a look of disbelief shone in her red-rimmed eyes. She knew exactly what kind of man her husband was—he’d go drinking as soon as he got his paycheck, leaving only meager living expenses for poor little Jack.
The odds of him lending money to an outsider were lower than winning the lottery!
But the woman didn't clarify. Gritting her teeth, she reached out and took the brown paper bag. She peeked inside and gasped—two stacks of greenbacks.
"Keep the money safe. And let me give you a sincere piece of advice: look forward."
The man tipped his hat, turned, and walked away.
"After paying off your debts, take your child and leave this place. Start a new life."
"Wait, sir! How should I address you? How can I contact you in the future?"
The man waved his hand without turning his head, disappearing behind the trees after a few long strides.
...
On the side of the road, Dean returned to his car, took off his mask, grabbed a chocolate bar from a bag of high-calorie snacks on the passenger seat to steady his nerves, and then took out his notebook to cross out the name "Amos Milson."
Before this name, there were ten others; half had been crossed out, and the other half were marked with question marks.
After leaving the estate, Dean had visited the addresses in the photos one by one. He only managed to contact a very small number of victims' families, to whom he had swiftly handed over a hundred thousand dollars.
Most of the rest were impossible to find, and these were merely the tip of the iceberg of the Stone family’s atrocities. Ninety percent of the victims had been completely swallowed by history.
"I have done what I was supposed to do."
Dean’s bloodshot eyes looked at the winding road outside the car window. It was indeed a bit foolish to give away this money in such a thankless manner.
"I am a human being. I won't be a saint, but I must never lose my bottom line and principles, or I will turn into a 'monster'."
Dean muttered to himself, his gaze turning firm again.
"I’ll send the remaining photos anonymously to the LVPD. Let the police help the victims seek justice from the Stone family."
As for the rest of the money, he planned to keep it for himself.
With this, his savings would reach a staggering 110,000 in cash plus one hundred gold bars.
However, since the money was ill-gotten, Dean didn't dare put it in a bank, lest he be targeted by the IRS.
...
After settling this matter, Dean arrived at the Combat Domain Shooting Range.
After scanning his card, he brought a pile of firearms to the shooting lane, gripped his Colt tightly with both hands, aimed at the chest target fixed fifty meters away, and pulled the trigger repeatedly.
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
Bullets tore through the air; casings flew.
Holes appeared in the target.
His hands showed almost no vibration, steady as a steel frame.
After emptying two full magazines, Dean exhaled.
"Twelve shots, not a single one missed the target, and eight hit the vital area."
"I have finally achieved perfect marksmanship."
After practicing with the pistol, Dean switched to a fully automatic AR-15.
His shooting skill possessed a miraculous comprehensiveness. Once the rifle was in his hands, the Level 2 Shooting skill flooded his brain with a massive amount of knowledge regarding rifle marksmanship.
Prone, sitting without support, side-lying, supine, kneeling...
And once he performed them, it was as if he had been practicing for a year or two.
Dean took a deep breath and raised the rifle in a standing position.
He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, parallel to each other.
He raised the gun while keeping his body relaxed: shouldering, gripping, supporting, pressing against his hip, and resting his cheek.
His right eye, the aperture sight, and the front sight formed a straight line. He breathed steadily, concentrating highly, sensing the pattern of the firearm's recoil.
*Da-da-da.*
The gunfire was like thunder, and the flying casings linked into a line.
The dark muzzle spat out flames.
The pale smoke carried a thick scent of gunpowder.
The target one hundred meters away shook as if hit by continuous electric shocks, and a large patch of bullet holes emerged.
A quarter of an hour later, the gunfire ceased.
Dean rubbed his slightly sore wrists and nodded with satisfaction.
With the Intermediate Iron Man support, he remained as steady as a rock even after using the rifle for a long time. The gun only shook within a tiny range, and he had perfectly mastered the rhythm of firing.
Additionally, since Shooting had reached Level 2, he gained 1 point of Perception. His vision, which was around 1.3 before, was now close to 2.0.
Combined with the improvements in agility and strength, his shooting standard had made a leap forward.
But compared to firearms, "Shadows of the Past" was Dean’s greatest trump card and his source of confidence when fighting supernatural entities.
"Once Level 1 Meditation reaches Level 2, my willpower will improve, my state will stabilize, and then I can add the upgraded attribute points to Spirit, enhancing 'Shadows of the Past'."
...
"Little Prince of Shooting, how many hundred rounds did you fire today?"
The shooting range owner, Andrei Novanov, walked up, glanced at the target in the distance, and reached out his hand.
"Average, about fifteen hundred rounds." Dean shook his hand lightly.
"I’ve run this range for so many years, and I’ve never seen anyone as diligent as you. You’ve been training like a madman for half a year, and instead of wrecking your hands, your level has skyrocketed to that of a veteran of five or six years," Andrei joked with a look of amazement. "Tell me, why are you working so hard? Is there a monster chasing you?"
"That's right. Vampires, werewolves, ghouls—it puts me under a lot of pressure, so I need fire support," Dean asked with a relaxed smile. "Can you provide a Desert Eagle?"
Through these two battles, Dean clearly felt that the M1911A1 and even semi-automatic rifles were somewhat inadequate for dealing with supernatural monsters. He urgently needed high-powered weapons.
"A Desert Eagle? I’ve heard of it... but it’s currently in development," Andrei shook his head. "It will be at least two or three years before it’s publicly available."
Dean sighed. Besides the Desert Eagle, the super-pistol he most coveted was the Smith & Wesson M500, which was powerful enough to kill a grizzly bear at close range and would definitely give any supernatural entity a hard time.
Unfortunately, in the 80s, that thing hadn't been born yet either.
"If you like high-powered pistols, then I recommend you get a Pfeifer Zeliska revolver for your collection. I can recommend a store for you if you need one."
Dean’s heart stirred. "How come I’ve never heard of that thing? Is it very powerful?"
"Powerful? It’s touted as the king of pistols in the world, just not very practical," the man touched his large nose. "It weighs several times more than an ordinary revolver, its size is no smaller than a rifle, and you can only load five special bullets at a time in the most ancient, slow way. Both it and the dedicated ammunition are quite expensive."
Dean quietly discarded the idea. If a pistol was too large and lost its concealability, he might as well carry a rifle or a shotgun.
...
"Andrei, do you sell guns yourself?"
"You’ve asked the wrong person. I run a shooting range, I don’t sell guns. If you want to buy guns, you should go to an outdoor supply store, a gun shop, or Walmart."
"Regular places won’t sell me the gear I want." Dean stared into the man’s eyes. "I want to buy fully automatic weapons, sniper rifles, explosives. You must have connections for this. Can’t you do a loyal customer and brand ambassador a favor?"
"Why are you buying these things? Don't give me that monster nonsense," Andrei put his hands on his hips and looked him over.
"I like firearms. Can’t I buy them for my collection?"
Andrei rubbed his beard and pondered for half a minute.
"Las Vegas has had too many major cases lately, and gun control has become very strict. My range has been checked repeatedly, and it’s not convenient to get stock. How about this: wait until your uncle, Pacqui, returns. The heat should have passed by then. When that time comes, you can pick whatever guns you want, but I’m not running a charity. Remember to bring enough money."