The door was flung open with force as a group of thuggish men with dirty dreadlocks pushed their way inside.
At the sight of the young Cohen, the one in front—sporting a shiny Grillz—paused for a beat.
"Where's the old priest?"
Cohen's eyes swept across the group. Out of the five men, four were marked in his system as Black Iron-level targets.
Trouble.
He shook his head. "Father Emma's gone on pilgrimage to the Vatican. He won't be back for a while. You looking for him for something?"
Grillz frowned. "And who the hell are you?"
"I'm the new acting priest. I'll be managing this church for the next three months. And you are…?"
Grillz twirled his dreadlocks with a smirk. "Kid, we're the Fire Crutch Gang. Didn't the old priest ever tell you the church needs to pay a little protection fee?"
Cohen blinked, a sinking feeling growing in his chest. He shook his head. "No, he didn't mention anything."
Grillz jabbed a finger into Cohen's chest.
"Then let me spell it out for you. This whole neighborhood? It's peaceful because we, the Fire Crutch Gang, keep it that way. You get that?"
"We charge a small protection fee. Nothing unreasonable, right?"
Cohen hesitated.
Peaceful?
He glanced back at the crucifix hanging behind him and pointed toward it.
"But I heard this place is already under His protection?"
Grillz scoffed.
"Shows what you know."
Grillz shook his head, dreadlocks swaying.
"He fights demons. I fight scum. We all do our part."
"Without us Crutch boys watching over this place, not even Jesus could keep your little church safe!"
Cohen scratched his head—then suddenly remembered the envelope in his coat.
He tried testing the waters.
"So… how much is your monthly insurance fee again?"
"Fifteen hundred dollars," Grillz said flatly.
You old bastard.
Cohen cursed in his heart.
Now I get why you ran off so fast, old priest!
System, you taking a nap or something? Why didn't you flag this geezer as a threat?!
He forced a dry smile.
"Uh… fellas, I really had no idea about any of this. I don't have any cash on me right now. Maybe you could come back… tomorrow? No—how about the day after?"
Grillz smiled—but slowly drew a pistol from his waistband.
"What do you think?"
Cohen clenched his jaw.
Sure, he was a trained fighter now, but taking on five armed thugs? That was suicide.
They might miss—but even one stray bullet could end him.
Patience. There's always next time.
He slowly pulled out the envelope and put on his brightest smile.
"Ah, silly me! I just remembered—I actually do have $1,500 in cash right here. Please, take it."
Grillz grinned, holstered the pistol, and clapped Cohen on the shoulder like an old friend.
"Now that's more like it! People who cross the Fire Crutch Gang never end up well."
"Kid, I like your style."
Cohen smiled back politely.
"Since I'm now officially under your protection, if I run into any trouble… where should I find you?"
Grillz waved a hand casually.
"End of the street. Flame Auto Garage."
"Take care, gentlemen. May God bless you."
Cohen courteously walked them to the door.
The five punks swaggered out of the church, laughing and chattering.
One of them cackled, "Knew it! That yellow-skinned monkey wouldn't dare resist. My gun was cocked—if he twitched, I would've dropped him right there!"
"Ha! We should come back more often…"
One young man laughed and said,
"Did you see his face? He was clearly pissed off but still had to smile like an idiot—just like those Neon freaks!"
Behind them, Cohen's rage surged instantly.
Neon freak? You're the Neon freak. Your whole damn family's Neon freaks!
Motherf— Cohen clenched his fists.
He had been willing to let that one slide since he was the only one the system hadn't flagged as a threat.
But now? You're on my list.
I declare you a target. Personally.
You're fing dead.*
Even Jesus can't save you now.
Cohen took a deep breath.
He shut the door gently behind them.
The so-called Fire Crutch Gang was a tiny street gang, barely a dozen people deep—bottom of the criminal food chain.
They had no hierarchy, no structure, and mostly did scut work.
Petty theft, mugging, scams, slinging street-level drugs—typical neighborhood thugs.
Compared to real gangs like the Mafia, Yakuza, or Triads, they were nothing.
But that didn't make them less dangerous.
These brain-dead punks had one defining trait—
They weren't afraid to die.
Late at night, five drunken figures stumbled out of the Flame Auto Garage.
They didn't get far before an egg fell from the sky—
Splat!
Right on Grillz's head.
He froze in place, yolk dripping down his face.
The others burst into howling laughter.
"Stop laughing! Shut the hell up!"
he shouted, red-faced, scanning the area furiously.
Splat! Splat!
Two more eggs hit. Three men down.
They finally spotted someone at the mouth of the alley across the street—a man dressed in black, wearing a red devil mask.
Calmly, the masked figure flipped them the bird—
Then disappeared into the shadows.
Furious, the five rushed across the street, not caring what might lie ahead.
But within a few steps—
Someone screamed and hit the ground.
Another man's leg slipped into an open grate.
Someone else tripped and cracked their skull on the pavement.
The last two barely had time to react—
Thwack! Thwack!
Two blunt strikes knocked them down cold.
The shadows echoed with a cold, taunting voice:
"Hmph. I am but a humble martial arts master… Do enlighten me."
A few minutes later, an old pickup truck rolled out of the alley and drove into the night.
Behind Emma Church, in the moonlit garden,
Cohen pulled back the tarp from the truck bed.
Five pairs of terrified eyes stared back at him.
They were gagged and tied up tight.
Anyone who's ever killed knows—
The killing's easy. It's the cleanup that's hard.
Cohen sized them up, then looked over at the deep pit he'd dug earlier that afternoon.
Too small.
He sighed and picked up the shovel again.
In the truck bed, the five thugs trembled uncontrollably, faces soaked in tears, eyes begging for mercy.
Cohen knew exactly what he was doing.
After completing last night's mission, he'd spent time analyzing the system feedback:
Ascension, cause of death, freshness, final emotion, and emotional intensity.
He didn't know what ascension meant. The word alone wasn't enough to decipher it.
But the other four…
Those, he could work with.
The method of death affects the freshness score.
That means the system actually encourages him to use creative and varied methods to "punish" his targets.
And the final emotion impacts the emotional intensity score.
Same logic—
The system wants its prey to go out in intense emotional states.
Fear was likely just one option.
Now?
Cohen was absolutely certain these five punks had just clocked a full five-star emotional rating.
As for their method of death?
Burial.
Alive.
He threw them into the deep pit—one by one.
The last to go in was the only gang member the system hadn't marked as a "target."
But Cohen knew that didn't mean he was innocent—
It just meant he was new, and hadn't racked up enough sins yet.
Cohen crouched down and patted his face.
"Honestly, I wasn't planning to kill you at first.
But you just had to call me a f***ing Neon, didn't you?
Do you even know what that means to a Chinese guy?
That's straight-up racist as hell, man.
Now get in there and have a nice long chat with King Yama.
Hope you get reincarnated into something decent next time.
And hey—come find me in 18 years if you want revenge.
Assuming you're strong enough to take me on by then."
The guy thrashed like crazy, but Cohen had tied him up tight.
He squirmed like a worm in a septic tank—
There was no escaping this sh*t fate.
Now five bodies lay crammed in the pit.
Before shoveling the dirt in, Cohen looked at Grillz and grinned:
"See? I told you this church was protected by God.
You just had to mess with Him and try to run your own little protection racket.
So here I am—
Delivering you to His front door by divine request.
Tell Him I said hi.
And if I ever make it to heaven, I expect this on my permanent record."
Rustle, rustle—
Cohen had just thrown in a couple shovelfuls of dirt when—
Bang! Bang!
Someone started pounding on the church door.
He froze.
Busted?
No way.
He left the shovel in the dirt and quietly headed upstairs, peeking down from the balcony.
No flashing lights, no cop cars.
Just a lone, tall, skinny figure, knocking and moaning:
"Open up… Open the door, Father… Please…"
Cohen really didn't want to deal with this—
but if the guy kept yelling, it'd draw attention eventually.
He made sure the guys in the pit weren't going anywhere, then opened the front door.
A bearded man, reeking of booze, stumbled inside and collapsed into Cohen's arms—
Then immediately hurled a full tank of vomit all over the floor.
For a moment, Cohen seriously considered killing him too.
The pit was already dug, after all. Easy disposal.
Maybe the guy sensed the murderous aura—because he suddenly burst into tears:
"Father… my life's hell…
I can't go home…
I have a wife I can't even see anymore…
Can't God help me out, Father…?"
Cohen rolled his eyes.
What a coincidence—
I was just sending people to meet God.
Want me to pass along a message?
Or would you rather… Go tell Him yourself?
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