Life Game In Other World
Chapter 1167: The Market at Dusk (Vote for Monthly Tickets)

Chapter 1167: Chapter 1167: The Market at Dusk (Vote for Monthly Tickets)

"Head back to the Note Intelligence Building? Or to the West Iron Tower?"

Hel looked at He Ao, tentatively replying, "He will definitely find a way to return to the core of both conglomerates and regain control of power."

"Good idea."

He Ao nodded slightly, "Find someone, and take one squad of the City Defense Army each, lock down both conglomerate buildings, and raid his home. We’ll wait for him like sitting ducks."

"Okay!"

Hel immediately nodded with excitement.

Just as he was about to turn and leave, He Ao, holding a tablet, seemed to remember something and turned around to shout, "By the way, aren’t there three levels in the storeroom? Why haven’t the second and third levels been integrated into the main network of the building?"

Upon hearing this, Hel was startled and then explained,

"The second and third floors contain the Extraordinary Items and materials from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It seems they used to be integrated with the main network.

"But then Director Queke separated them. Only he could access the second and third levels, effectively turning them into his private vault. The items in there, many haven’t been updated in years."

"Then do you know where the keys to the second and third levels of the warehouse are?"

He Ao asked casually.

"Uh, there seems to be no keys?"

Hel scratched his head, "I’ve been to the storeroom before, the second and third levels seem to have been changed to password locks, and only Director Queke knows the passwords."

"Okay, I got it, you can go now."

He Ao nodded lightly.

"Alright, Mr. Suote, I’ll be off then."

Hel nodded slightly and continued deeper down the corridor.

He Ao watched his disappearing figure.

Turning around, he walked to an elevator on the side and lit up the elevator button.

Soon, he entered the elevator and pressed the button for the 17th floor.

The third floor of the storeroom was actually levels 16 to 18 of the building.

The 17th floor is the second level of the storeroom. According to the building information collected from Eve, the 17th and 18th floors are connected, with an internal elevator and stairs.

In the past, levels 16 to 18 were all connected, the three levels could form an independent area, so they are collectively referred to as the third floor of the storeroom.

The elevator quickly descended, taking He Ao toward his designated floor.

——

Minte City·76th District

"The following is a wanted announcement issued by the Federal Bureau of Investigation: Weiken, male, 67 years old, appearance as in the picture, this person is extremely dangerous. If any citizens spot this individual, please report immediately. Providing valid tips will be rewarded with amounts ranging from 500 to 10,000 federal coins."

Standing beside a TV on the roadside, a red-haired man gazed at the news being broadcasted on TV.

"Starting bid of 500 federal coins, seems like Suote is somewhat underestimating us, but,"

Beside him, an Elderly man wrapped in a heavy coat, wearing a round top hat, was also watching the news on TV. He turned his head to look at the red-haired man and grinned, "Your chief of staff hasn’t publicized the news of your disappearance, has he?"

"Oh,"

Borek shrugged his shoulders and lit up a cigarette in the dwindling twilight, "Maybe they haven’t realized I’ve run away yet."

"Do you believe that yourself?"

Weiken laughed, "He’s protecting you. Aren’t you feeling a bit of regret?"

Before Borek could respond, Weiken turned his gaze back to the screen, "Too bad, it’s too late for regrets now. Next time he sees you, he will definitely treat you without mercy."

"Stop giving me this nonsense precaution,"

Borek took a drag of his cigarette, "I’m not the kind of man who second-guesses his decisions. If we’re making money, we’re making money. Once this big score is settled, I’m gone. Everything in this city, I couldn’t care less about it."

"Such a character could do great things,"

Weiken turned his head to give him a glance, and said with a smile, "It’s a pity you were once in the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"Enough jabber,"

Borek flicked his cigarette ash, "Twenty-five million, and the money for that coat you’re wearing. Damn it, if you can’t cough up a single penny tonight, I’ll kill you myself, take your corpse to collect the bounty. At least that way, I’d recoup some losses."

"Young man, don’t be too hot-tempered."

Weiken shook his head and chuckled hoarsely at Borek.

Then he looked up at the twilight in the sky, "It’s about time, let’s go."

Borek looked up at the silhouette of Weiken, snuffed out the cigarette butt under his foot, and then glanced up at the advertisement screen among the shanties, pursed his lips, and followed Weiken’s steps ahead.

Entering the space between the shanties, the street began to bustle. Figures in simple clothes, wrapped in dirty, old cotton jackets, holding plastic bags shuttled through the streets.

Borek looked around at the scene.

This place was like a small market.

In front of each of those flimsy shanty houses, some people had shoe racks outside their doors with dark, strongly-scented leather hanging on them, apparently cobblers, repairing damaged shoes.

Others had an old-fashioned sewing machine covered in mechanical patches at their door; its motor seemed to be broken and had been jury-rigged with a simple drive belt, relying on a small electric motor and manual pedaling to spin.

Next to this sewing machine, there was a large plastic basket filled with various kinds of cotton clothes, which seemed to be a clothing repair shop.

And right next to this repair shop was a spacious shed, completely open, with huge wire mesh sticking close to the left and right walls, stretching out to the street, with all sorts of old clothing densely hanging on it, forming two walls of garment ramparts.

In the center of these two wall barriers was a large display table, upon which old cotton garments were thrown without care, amassing into a small mountain of cotton clothes.

Clusters of customers crowded inside the shed, picking their choices carefully.

This seemed to be a ’large’ clothing store.

The morning snow had started to melt, leaving small puddles on the uneven road surface.

A child wrapped in a padded jacket, with bare legs, crossed over the puddles and through the narrow street.

Borek walked up to Weiken, looking at the bustling scene around them, "You were so scared outside before, wishing you could look three ways with each step, but how come you’re running so fast now that you’re here?"

"Because this is my home,"

Weiken glanced at the surrounding scene, laughed hoarsely, "I spent all my days here until I was fourteen."

He pointed at the huge clothing store and said with a laugh, "See that store? It was there fifty years ago, though the Boss must have changed several times since. When I was a kid, the owner of that store was an Elderly man with a scar on his face,

"I had no clothes to wear and often went there to steal clothes. If he saw me, he would chase after me, from the beginning of the street to the end, but he didn’t dare to chase too far, because if the store left his gaze, half the clothes in the store would disappear within minutes."

Borek followed his pointing direction and saw a sturdy middle-aged woman who seemed to be the Boss, arguing with a female customer over a cotton garment.

"That piece of clothing must have a hole, leaking the synthetic fibers inside,"

Weiken looked at the two quarreling in the store and said hoarsely with a laugh, "Stores here mix good and bad clothing to sell together; if you don’t look carefully and end up buying clothes with holes, you’ll have to pay for repairs yourself. Returns are out of the question."

Borek gazed ahead, and eventually, the female customer, holding the cotton garment with a hole, was chased out by the Boss.

"Are all these clothes here second-hand?"

Borek gazed at the garments hanging in the store.

"There are new ones too, it’s luck,"

Weiken’s gaze swept the street. "Sometimes the lords and ladies in the city center buy new clothes, decide they don’t like them, and are too lazy to return them, so they just throw them away. Then they end up here, intact like an uneaten steak in the Packaged Meat."

"Of course, those new clothes are a bit more expensive than second-hand ones. I once stole a new jacket, though it didn’t fit me; I was happy for weeks. That was when I was twelve or thirteen," he reminisced.

"Seems like you got chased quite far that time."

Borek casually commented.

"Wasn’t chased,"

Weiken laughed hoarsely. "At that time, the owner was arguing with a few customers who bought torn clothes. I sneaked away from behind them. I was skinny and small back then, quick, and they couldn’t see me."

He looked at Borek, "Got a smoke?"

Borek glanced at him and lifted the cigarette in his hand, flicking one out, "Pay for it."

Weiken laughed, taking out the cigarette and placing it in his mouth.

Borek handed over the electric lighter to him.

Weiken lit up the cigarette with the electric lighter, looking up at the customer who was chased out, "These people who buy torn clothes, even though they know they can’t return them, they always come to try. They hope the Boss will exchange it for a good one and save them a bunch of money on repairs.

"If you neglect a hole in a garment, it will grow bigger, and eventually, all the fibers inside will leak out. A solid cotton garment here is a substantial asset; having one or not is the difference between surviving the winter or not."

In front of him, the upset customer stamped her foot angrily, cursing a few words under her breath at the direction of the store Boss, but she turned away and headed for a nearby repair shop before the Boss could turn back.

"Are these old clothes all picked from the trash?"

Borek also lit a cigarette, looking at the densely hung clothes in the store.

"These decent clothes can’t be found in trash cans,"

Weiken laughed. "New clothes that the lordly folks throw away are usually sold by housekeepers and servants right away. As for those old clothes, have you seen the ’charitable clothing recycling bins’ underneath the city center and some affluent streets?"

"Aren’t those bins meant for charity organizations to collect second-hand clothes for donation?"

Borek looked puzzled. "Isn’t that considered a donation?"

"Donation, of course, it’s a donation,"

Weiken said with a smoke in his mouth and a laugh,

"But the charity organization’s managers need to claim management expenses, right? To place such a bin, the district managers collect a fee for the ground rent—money is needed, right? Sorting old clothes, whether done by machines or manually, the costs of sorting and transportation, need to be covered, right?

"Given all these ’costs’, charity organizations still have to run. ’Beneficiaries’ pay a little money, shouldn’t it be reasonable?

"’Donation’ remains a donation; it’s just that the middleman makes a little profit, and the beneficiaries pay a little more, that’s all."

"Your justification is as shameless as you are,"

Borek narrowed his eyes slightly, "It seems you know a lot about these things?"

"Ten years ago, that charity organization was under my name,"

Weiken stated calmly as if mentioning an insignificant trifle.