Chapter 8: The Weak Intellectual
The academic exchange concluded without further incident. Alhaitham did not linger. He stepped out into the cool evening air, bypassed the lingering crowds, and slid into the backseat of the black sedan arranged by the research institute. His destination was the hotel.
For the first few minutes, the ride was silent. Alhaitham rested his chin against his knuckles, his striking teal eyes tracking the blur of neon streetlights bleeding through the tinted glass. The urban landscape shifted, the towering commercial buildings gradually giving way to sparse, dimly lit industrial roads.
He turned his head slowly. "This is not the road to the hotel."
The driver gripped the steering wheel a fraction tighter. "This is a shortcut that only locals know, sir. It avoids the main traffic."
"Oh." Alhaitham let his gaze drift back to the window, his tone entirely flat, projecting the perfect image of a gullible scholar.
The driver's shoulders dropped an inch. The tension in the front seat eased.
In the next heartbeat, Alhaitham lunged. His hand shot forward, fingers twisting violently into the driver's hair. With a brutal, calculated yank, he slammed the man's skull directly into the reinforced side window. A dull crack echoed through the cabin. The driver's eyes rolled back, his consciousness snapping instantly as he slumped against the door.
The car veered wildly. Alhaitham did not waste a millisecond. He hauled the dead weight of the unconscious man over the center console, dumping him unceremoniously into the passenger seat. Reaching over, he stabilized the steering wheel with one hand and vaulted fluidly from the back to the front.
Ten seconds. That was all it took. The sedan swerved sharply left, then right, before Alhaitham corrected the trajectory, his foot pressing down on the accelerator.
Recalling the city map he had glanced at earlier that day, Alhaitham calculated the optimal route back to the main grid. He eased his foot off the gas, preparing to take a sharp right turn at the upcoming intersection.
A sudden, violent jolt rocked the sedan. The screech of tearing metal filled the air as a vehicle slammed directly into his rear bumper, forcing his car straight past the intersection.
Alhaitham clicked his tongue. "Tsk. Missed the turn."
The roar of engines escalated. Two more black cars surged forward from the shadows, boxing him in from the left and right. The formation tightened, a coordinated trap closing its jaws.
The windows of the flanking vehicles rolled down in unison. Cold steel glinted under the streetlamps as the barrels of handguns extended from the passenger seats, locking onto Alhaitham's silhouette.
His expression remained entirely unchanged. Instead of ducking, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The sedan roared, surging forward just as the muzzles flashed. A hail of bullets chewed through the air, shattering his rear windshield and burying themselves uselessly into the trunk and backseat.
Realizing their prey was slipping the net, the peripheral hitmen shifted their aim downward, targeting the front tires of the fleeing car.
A deafening pop rang out. The steering wheel jerked violently in Alhaitham's grip as the front-left tire blew out. The chassis dragged, sparks flying as rubber shredded against the asphalt.
Panic was a foreign concept to the Sumeru scholar. He eased off the accelerator just enough to regain traction, then violently wrenched the steering wheel to the right. His heavy sedan slammed broadside into the flanking car. The impact was catastrophic for the attackers. The enemy driver lost control completely, crashing into a concrete barrier. The explosive deployment of the airbag caught the man squarely in the face, knocking him out cold.
"Two more." Alhaitham murmured, his voice as calm as if he were reading a book.
He brought the crippled sedan to a screeching halt, sliding sideways to block the narrow road. Kicking the door open, he slipped out from the rear, using the wrecked chassis as cover. The car on the left screeched its brakes, trying to adjust its angle.
Alhaitham did not give them the chance. A brilliant, emerald gleam materialized in his grasp—the Light of Foliar Incision. With a flick of his wrist, a sharp, concentrated blade of energy shot forth from the tip of the sword, slicing cleanly through the thick rubber of the left car's front tire. The vehicle spun out, grinding to a halt against the curb.
The road was now completely barricaded by the wreckage of three vehicles. The trailing car, unable to bypass the blockade, slammed on its brakes, stopping several yards away.
The doors of the remaining cars clicked open. Two men stepped out onto the asphalt, their handguns raised, sweeping the area with cautious steps.
They were looking for a man hiding behind a car. They were not prepared for a phantom.
Without a sound, Alhaitham vaulted over the hood of his ruined sedan, landing silently in the blind spot of the left driver. Before the man could even register the shift in the air, Alhaitham delivered a devastating side kick to his ribs. The sickening crunch of bone echoed as the man was launched several meters through the air, collapsing onto the pavement in a broken, unmoving heap.
The rear driver spun around, his eyes widening in terror. He pulled the trigger, firing blindly into the shadows.
Alhaitham tilted his head, the bullet whizzing past his ear, cutting through a few strands of silver-gray hair. He closed the distance with terrifying, lightning-fast precision. Before the gunman could adjust his aim, Alhaitham's hand clamped onto his hair. Using the man's own momentum against him, Alhaitham swept his legs and slammed him face-first into the unforgiving asphalt. The impact was absolute. The man went entirely limp, a dark pool beginning to form beneath his head.
Silence descended upon the street, broken only by the hiss of steam from a ruptured radiator. Alhaitham dusted off his sleeves, his breathing perfectly even. He swept his gaze over the groaning, unconscious bodies littering the ground, entirely dismissing them as a threat.
Stepping into the driver's seat of the rear car—the only vehicle still in working condition—he shifted the gears, nudged the blocking wreckage aside just enough to squeeze through, and drove off into the night.
Less than ten minutes later, the low, menacing growl of a vintage engine pierced the quiet street. A sleek, black Porsche 356A rolled to a stop just short of the carnage.
The door swung open. Gin stepped out, his long silver hair catching the pale moonlight, his dark trench coat billowing slightly in the night breeze. His cold, predatory eyes swept over the wrecked cars and the groaning men bleeding on the asphalt.
A cruel sneer twisted his lips. "Heh. A bunch of trash."
He walked forward, his heavy boots crunching over shattered glass. He paused by the bullet-riddled trunk of the first sedan, tracing the erratic impact marks with a gloved finger. The deduction was simple and pathetic. These peripheral members had cornered an unarmed target, unloaded their clips, and failed to land a single meaningful shot.
Calling them trash was an overestimation. They were worse than trash.
Gin drew the Beretta from his coat. Without a flicker of hesitation or a change in his icy expression, he walked among the fallen men. They looked up at him, their eyes wide with raw, suffocating terror, pleading silently.
Gin did not care. He aimed at their heads and pulled the trigger. The suppressed shots were clean, swift, and absolute. He sent them on their way without a second thought.
Vodka stepped out of the driver's side, his bulky frame shifting uneasily. "Big Brother?"
Gin did not look back. "Find someone to clean up the scene."
"Yes," Vodka replied immediately.
Gin turned on his heel, preparing to return to the Porsche. But as his peripheral vision swept the wreckage one last time, a specific detail caught his eye.
He paused, his gaze locking onto the blown-out tire of the left flanking car.
Crouching down, the silver-haired executive inspected the rubber closely. This was no bullet hole. The tire had been sliced open by something incredibly sharp. He scanned the immediate vicinity—no shrapnel, no debris that could have caused such a clean incision. Judging by the angle and depth of the cut marks, the tire had been struck by a small, knife-like blade while the vehicle was moving at high speed, causing an instantaneous blowout.
Vodka lumbered over, following Gin's intense stare. He squinted at the wheel, seeing nothing but a ruined piece of rubber. "Big Brother, what's wrong with this tire?"
The dangerous glint of genuine interest deepened in Gin's eyes. He ignored Vodka's inherent dullness, his mind piecing together the physics of the strike. "This was cut while the car was in motion. In other words, that person hit a speeding tire with a single, precise blade. To achieve this, the requirements for a person's eyesight and strength are very high."
This target was not some helpless academic. This was becoming more and more interesting.
"However," Gin muttered, glancing at the corpses he had just created, "they are a bit too soft-hearted. They didn't even silence a single one of them."
Meanwhile, miles away, Alhaitham remained entirely unconcerned with the aftermath of his evening commute. He drove the stolen car to the outskirts of the city, parked it haphazardly by an abandoned roadside, and walked away. He handled the blind spots of the street cameras with practiced ease, walking for a distance before hailing a late-night taxi to take him the rest of the way to his hotel.
The following day proceeded with mundane normalcy. Alhaitham attended to his own schedule, went out to enjoy a quiet meal, and eventually made his way back to his hotel room.
The moment the electronic lock clicked and the heavy wooden door swung inward, the air in the room felt wrong.
It was a subtle shift—a faint disruption in the ambient airflow. Alhaitham's eyes narrowed a fraction. He stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him.
With a mere thought, the Light of Foliar Incision materialized in his grip, its ornate, gilded blade humming with lethal, silent energy. He kept his footsteps entirely soundless, advancing slowly down the short entryway hall.
As he rounded the corner into the main living space, he found himself staring directly down the barrel of a handgun. Vodka stood in the center of the room, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Alhaitham did not freeze. His right arm blurred into motion, swinging the heavy blade horizontally in a devastating arc aimed straight at Vodka's face.
Vodka's eyes bulged behind his sunglasses. His brain registered the incoming execution, but his body was far too slow to react. He watched helplessly as the glowing edge of the sword closed in on his throat.
A hand shot out from the shadows, grabbing Vodka by the collar of his suit and violently hauling him backward.
Gin stepped into the light, his other hand raising a suppressed handgun. Two shots spat from the barrel, aimed flawlessly at Alhaitham's center of mass, forcing him to retreat to create distance.
Alhaitham twisted his torso, stepping back sharply as the bullets tore through the space where his chest had been a millisecond prior. He calculated the distance, the angles, and the reaction time of the silver-haired man before him.
Instead of retreating further, Alhaitham hurled his weapon. The Light of Foliar Incision spun through the air like a deadly emerald buzzsaw, forcing Gin to duck to avoid decapitation.
Taking advantage of the split-second surprise, Alhaitham closed the distance with terrifying speed, slipping right past Gin's guard. He caught the hilt of his rebounding sword in mid-air, pivoting sharply to bring the blade crashing down toward Gin from behind.
But Gin was a monster born of the underworld. His instincts were honed to a razor's edge. He spun on his heel, bringing his gun up in a fluid, unbroken motion.
Everything stopped.
The cold steel muzzle of Gin's handgun was pressed directly against the side of Alhaitham's head.
The glowing, razor-sharp edge of the Light of Foliar Incision rested a millimeter from the pulsing vein in Gin's neck.
The silence in the hotel room was absolute. Even in the face of instantaneous, mutual destruction, neither man's expression shifted. Gin's eyes were cold, calculating pools of malice. Alhaitham's eyes were calm, analytical, and entirely devoid of fear.
A dark, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of Gin's mouth. "Do you want to test whether my gun is faster, or your blade is faster?"
Alhaitham did not flinch. He pressed the edge of the sword a fraction closer, just enough to indent the skin of Gin's neck without drawing blood. "I don't mind if you try."
"..."
For a long moment, the two predators simply stared at each other. Finally, Alhaitham broke the silence, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "I am a bit curious. Why exactly did you attack me? I am just a weak intellectual. Even if I happened to notice your surveillance, I couldn't have possibly done anything."
"A weak intellectual?" Gin sounded as if he had just heard the most absurd joke of his life. He shifted his gaze slightly, gesturing toward the massive, glowing weapon held steady in Alhaitham's grip. "A weakling holding a blade?"
Alhaitham's expression remained perfectly serene. "This is just a necessary means of self-preservation."
"..."
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