As Mark, the leader of the fence crew, grasped the dire reality—that Sheriff Dickinson was turning them into public enemy number one—he made his final, frantic decision. His men, their faces contorted with a mixture of resentment, fear, and animalistic rage, quickly complied.
They snatched up as much of the readily transportable loot as they could, their eyes blazing with the ferocity of cornered animals, and hurried toward the compound's hidden escape route.
Outside, Sheriff Dickinson, the master manipulator, wasn't leaving anything to chance. He couldn't risk Mark and his people escaping and potentially talking. He swiftly signaled his most trusted subordinates, and a specialized team, officers who dealt with warrants and high-risk entries, hurried forward. They quickly affixed a specialized charge to the reinforced low-house door.
BOOM!
The controlled explosion tore the front door from its hinges. Dickinson gave a sharp wave, and a mass of uniformed officers, adrenaline pumping high, flooded into the building.
"Chief! The place is clear! They're not here!" A breathless report quickly came back.
Dickinson's face instantly darkened beneath his veneer of sorrow. "Search! They were spotted only moments ago! They must have a secondary exit! Check for secret passages and chase them down! Be alert for booby traps!" The urgency in his voice was real; if Mark got away, his carefully constructed lie would crumble.
He didn't have to wait long for the danger to manifest.
KABLAM!
A second, more vicious explosion ripped through the back of the house. Mark, anticipating a direct pursuit, had rigged the secret passage exit. Screams mingled with the roar of the blast.
"Medics! Ambulance now! Two down, three severely injured! Leave men to tend to the wounded, but the rest of you, keep the pursuit moving! Maintain extreme vigilance! They are desperate cop killers!" Dickinson's voice, though sharp and commanding, betrayed no tremor of emotional distress.
The casualties were regrettable, but strategically acceptable. They were low-level officers, foot soldiers. The detectives and ranking officials were all safely positioned outside, assisting with command and sealing off the main access roads.
RAT-TAT-TAT! BANG! BANG!
Soon, the confined space of the secret passage was filled with the deafening symphony of a fierce gun battle. Dickinson's men, driven by the belief they were avenging a fallen comrade, pressed the attack. Mark and his crew, despite their superior heavy weaponry and the advantage of the narrow tunnel, were trapped and fighting for survival.
The sheer noise—the bombs, the rapid gunfire, the sirens—was a massive beacon in the night, drawing police from neighboring precincts and, more critically, attracting the attention of Police Commissioner George Stacy himself, who arrived on the scene looking cold, hard, and utterly furious.
Dickinson, caught off guard by his superior's presence, felt a jolt of genuine panic. He knew Stacy was clean and ruthless about departmental integrity. However, the sheer stubborn ferocity of Mark's resistance had a silver lining: when the smoke cleared, every single occupant of the low house, including Mark, lay dead on the floor. No witnesses. No survivors to tell the truth.
"I require an immediate explanation, Dickinson!" Commissioner Stacy's voice was like ice, cutting through the adrenaline-fueled din. "Not just for me, but for the Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Ethics, and every single news camera that is currently setting up down the street. You have over a dozen officers wounded or deceased, and a Deputy Inspector savagely murdered! This is a catastrophe!"
"Chief, please! Calm down, sir! I assure you, I will handle this. I will deliver a satisfactory explanation to everyone!" Dickinson promised fervently, his face a picture of grim determination. "I will also manage the media fallout personally. I guarantee this entire matter will be resolved cleanly and quickly, with no lasting damage to the Department's image!"
"See that you do, Sheriff," Stacy warned, giving Dickinson a penetrating stare that felt like a physical weight. "Public opinion alone could strip you of your badge this time. Now, go and earn your pay. Deal with those reporters immediately!"
"Yes, sir! I'm on it!"
Dickinson nodded, took one last breath to steady his nerves, and then strode toward the barricade where a throng of aggressive reporters, loudly demanding information, was being held back by a line of patrolmen.
With the lights of police cars flashing dramatically behind him, Dickinson adopted his most solemn, heartbroken posture.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am Sheriff Dickinson, the precinct commander for the 19th and the officer in charge of this tragic operation." He spoke in a low, somber voice, scanning the faces. He locked eyes briefly with a particular female reporter—the one who had just been sharing his bed in the countryside. She was ready.
"There has been a persistent, vicious criminal element operating in our jurisdiction—an organization dedicated to fencing highly illegal stolen goods. For some time, we have been running a deep undercover operation. This evening, I sent one of my most dedicated and decorated officers, Deputy Inspector Yves, on a solitary reconnaissance mission to confirm their activities…"
Dickinson paused, his face crumpling slightly, selling the genuine grief of a man who had just lost a friend.
"Tragically, these utterly vicious terrorists discovered Inspector Yves and brutally murdered him! Upon receiving the devastating news, I personally mobilized our full tactical force to engage these criminals."
He gestured back toward the chaotic scene. "As you have witnessed, these terrorists were equipped with heavy weapons—weapons that posed a grave threat to the community. While we successfully eliminated the entire cell, some of our brave officers paid the ultimate price…"
The pre-selected female reporter, who was positioned perfectly, spoke up instantly. "Sheriff Dickinson, since this was such a heavily armed cell, how did they manage to acquire so many high-caliber weapons? Where did they come from?"
"That is an excellent, yet painful, question," Dickinson responded, his expression hardening with manufactured anger. "These arms were supplied by the persistent, malignant influence of New York's traditional criminal gangs. They armed these terrorists! They are the source of this bloodshed!"
Before anyone else could interject, the reporter continued her scripted interrogation. "Given that the underground gangs are indirectly responsible for the deaths of your officers, what concrete plans does the 19th Precinct have to finally clean up this mess?"
"We have very definite plans," Dickinson stated gravely, leaning into the microphone. "I cannot reveal specifics, of course, to avoid compromise. But let me assure the people of New York: the criminal enterprises operating within the 19th Precinct's jurisdiction will no longer enjoy the complacent ease they have become accustomed to!"
The reporter delivered her final, softball question. "What about the legacy of Inspector Yves and the other fallen officers?"
"They died in the line of duty, sacrificing everything to protect social stability. They are heroes who deserve the city's everlasting gratitude," Dickinson declared with dramatic finality. "I will personally ensure their heroism is recognized, and that their families receive the absolute maximum compensation available!"
Dickinson nodded curtly. "That covers all the immediate points. I must now return to my command post to manage the ongoing investigation and file my official reports. Any further questions can be directed to the 19th Precinct tomorrow morning."
He spun on his heel, leaving the confused mass of reporters—whose questions had been skillfully hijacked and answered—to scramble for angles. The complicit female reporter gave him a small, knowing smirk before turning to her cameraman.
Within hours, thanks to Dickinson's deep-seated connections in the city bureaucracy, the tragic story of "Martyr Inspector Yves" and the "Terrorist Fence Cell" was cemented. All media criticism was neutralized.
The next morning, the sun streamed into Uncle Zhong's living room, illuminating the remains of a hearty breakfast. Logan, hunched over his bowl of noodles, caught Huang Wen's eye and jerked his chin toward a newspaper headline that screamed Police Hero Dies Fighting Armed Gang.
"So, was this you, too, kid?" Logan asked, his voice low, his eyes conveying a clear, unspoken question about the unprecedented, bloody efficiency of the night before.
Huang Wen simply shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. He was completely detached from the ongoing drama. His job was done. The subsequent chaos was merely the predictable domino effect of a corrupt system cannibalizing itself.
His mind was elsewhere, reviewing the system notification that had flashed immediately upon Yves's demise: "Mortal-Level Mission Complete: Avenging the Instructor. Reward: One Mortal-Level Item Lottery."
The resulting draw, Huang Wen recalled with a distinct, irritated sigh, had been a perfect anticlimax.
"Ding! Congratulations on obtaining a Mortal-Level Item: Hammer (Source: Car Mechanic from Shaolin Soccer; Special Note: As a car mechanic, it makes perfect sense for me to have a hammer by my side)."
A hammer. An ordinary, run-of-the-mill, steel-head hammer, completely unenhanced, save for the bizarre, self-referential flavor text.
"What in the actual hell am I supposed to do with this broken piece of junk?!" Huang Wen had mentally screamed, tossing the useless tool into his system space with profound disappointment. He had been hoping for something useful—a hidden weapon, a specialized gadget.
Instead, he got a tool that belonged in a toolbox, not on a superhero's utility belt. The mortal-level lottery, it seemed, was highly dependent on the "quirk" of the source character, and the "quirk" of a random Shaolin Soccer mechanic was, apparently, just a hammer.