Steampunk Era: Mad Abield
Chapter 920: Section 605: Change (3)_2

Chapter 920: Section 605: Change (3)_2

With another flip of his hand, the cigarette case returned to his grasp.

There was a moment of silence between grandfather and grandson, and after a while, Malin burst into laughter: "Come on, my child, we need to finish your business quickly, then I will shop for some good stuff for my era."

"Will there ever be a day when archaeologists fret over finding modern goods in relics from two thousand years ago?" Mars also chuckled.

"To hell with them! Quick, lad! Let’s go!" Malin quickened his pace, while starting to consider what he should buy.

Hmm, some weapons to start with, to bring back for those Great Craftsmen to reverse-engineer the schematics, then machine tools. I wonder if I could find any high-precision lathes here.

There really is a lot to buy, Malin sighed, and for the first time, wished he could stay in this era a bit longer.

Ah, right, almost forgot, I should buy a camera when the time comes, take pictures of all this beauty, and share it with Faye and the others when I return, so they too can experience the wonders of the future.

That would mean... my journey wasn’t in vain.

Malin asked himself and was very happy with the idea.

......

Taglof District in District Seventeen is a very... how should I put it, a very chaotic community. Riot police only operate on the main roads, and everywhere else is filled with shantytowns and bunker-like buildings. Those insignificant hoodlums are everywhere, which piqued Malin’s curiosity, so Curious Malin asked his progeny.

He then learned that New Hangzhou, as the sole mega-metropolis in this area, initially had only fifteen districts. Of these, Districts One to Three had the best security and were administrative districts. Besides governmental institutions, only qualified citizens could reside there. Even the sewers were patrolled by mechanical combat units.

In Mars’s words, if a Panso cat-person were to live there, his skull, his teeth, his fingerprints, and even his two tails would be scrutinized.

Of course, this was just Mars’s snark, but in reality, Districts One to Three had very strict requirements, and only families like the Rasmus clan were privileged to reside there.

As for the family of the body Malin was currently inhabiting, they indeed had such rights, but the Domestic Fairy had even stricter demands for security. The defenses atop that small hill were strong enough to withstand any non-military attack for a week, and by that time, the private forces of the furthest Haus family and the private security forces of the pharmaceutical Union should have fully assembled to wipe out any of those audacious attackers.

This gave Malin a deeper insight into this world, full of corporate alliances, cyberpunk indeed. Pity that Malin had only played a bit of 2077 at the Seafloor Base until the end, such a regret.

Districts Four to Ten are the core areas, where infrastructure is extremely well-organized, featuring schools, supermarkets, hospitals, and even entertainment departments and large gardens. The police’s security forces are omnipresent; stealing a bike could have twelve surveillance cameras critiquing your technique all the way, which is why Mars’s father’s safe house in District Ten was very important.

As for Districts Eleven to Fifteen, they are normal areas. It’s not that you can’t live there, but the amenities, like the gardens full of petit bourgeois whining, aren’t found in these districts as they are in the core areas.

In these districts, factories are the most common sights.

While Districts Sixteen to Twenty are still considered normal areas, they have a higher concentration of factories, and beyond that, just the slums near the industrial zones.

On their way here, Malin and Mars encountered no less than thirty-one groups of lunatics wanting to kidnap two children for booze money, forcing Malin and Mars to cut their way from District Sixteen to Seventeen.

Upon reaching this place, with the increase in industrialization, there were fewer slums, but the number of organized young thugs rose. This was a problem, but after Malin and Mars shattered the first group of thugs who stupidly stirred trouble using their Spiritual Energy, no further provocations occurred. The hooligans scattered at first sight of Malin and Mars, surely they must have some way of communicating with each other.

With such exclamation, Malin and Mars stood outside the courtyard of Anthony Belzemeninsky, Mars installing a suppressor on the muzzle of his gun while shaking his leg and noticing his ancestor fiddling with two modified submachine guns he got from thugs.

To tell the truth, these things were only trash. Very different from the fine military 10mm pistol in Mars’s hand, it was already a miracle for these cobbled-together devices to fire at all, let alone manage to press all twenty bullets in its magazine into a 20-centimeter radius at a distance of fifty meters.

"These are trash, Ancestor." Mars said: "You should use something with more kick."

"No, child, these were divine weapons two thousand years ago." His ancestor finished speaking, lifted the submachine guns in each hand, tried to swing the muzzles, then kicked the gates open, and while a female voice was singing in demoniac language like the brilliant spring sunshine, his ancestor picked up the next line.

As he sang, thugs in the courtyard started getting up and, at the same time, started getting shot. With every strike of the firing pin, every push of the primer driving the bullet, with each flash and smoke from the muzzle, Mars could see a thug catching bullets with his head or chest.

He even saw bullets curving in flight; this was too outrageous. From where did this ancestor get such immense Spiritual Energy?

Having emptied his weapons, the ancestor tossed aside the rust-streaked trash guns, sang the last few lines of the song, reached out to catch a kitchen knife thrown at him, and with a beckoning hand, the young hunk who threw the knife from the second floor of the small building could not wait to crash out the window, along with a face full of glass shards and screams, landing in a practically textbook fashion with his perfect hairstyle.

"Anthony Belzemeninsky?" Mars asked his ancestor.

"Yes, sir, it is me." A blood-covered Anthony Belzemeninsky answered eagerly: "Sir, what do you need? Anything I can serve you with? If you need women, no matter what kind, I can find them for you."

"It must be him." The Ancestor laughed and threw the man in front of Mars, then while singing the last part of the song, walked towards the thug who was still alive, lifted him up, and with a 360-degree twist, broke the unlucky fellow’s neck.

What a blast.

Mars sighed, then pointed his gun at Anthony Belzemeninsky.

The latter screamed: "Sir! I am but a worthless wretch! Why waste your bullets on me! Sir! Sir! Please spare me!"

Mars pondered for a moment and nodded: "You’re not wrong."

A look of ecstatic joy spread across Anthony Belzemeninsky’s face: "Yes! Sir! You are right! I am just trash! Not worth your bullets! Bullets cost money! If you want money, I have plenty in the safe on the third floor! Take it all!"

His cries were so loud that they left Mars feeling somewhat pensive; humans truly are creatures that stop at nothing to struggle for survival.

"Dear child, are you giving up on your vengeance just like that?" The Ancestor turned to Mars curiously.

"Of course not, my Ancestor." Mars extended his hand and beckoned. The knives on the rack by the second-floor window autonomously came off the rack, flying behind Mars, forming a concentric circle, and began to sway and spin like a dance.

Anthony Belzemeninsky was startled: "Sir?" As if witnessing Fate’s cruelty towards himself, the young hunk’s face contorted, perspiration bursting uncontrollably from his forehead.

Mars smiled: "Yes, you are not wrong, bullets are a waste of money."

Then a little leopard extracted a knife from the ring of knives and stabbed it into the belly of the soprano enthusiast.

This stab, for the poor ones you deceived.