A heretical cultivator in Bureau 749, I'm the fiercest at pulling out tendons and skinning peop

Edward now wishes that Dreyer and Saul would just die out there.

He usually acts arrogantly, and even towards him, the minister, he has a haughty attitude that says, "If you weren't in this position, you wouldn't even have the right to talk to me."

They always say things like "You don't understand," "This is a professional issue in a higher realm," and "Do as we say."

The results of it?

They took everything, even the pot!

Those sophisticated instruments that cost astronomical sums, the mountains of experimental data, and the "core samples" accumulated over the years...

It's obvious even to a fool that there's a 99% chance we won't get it back.

Leaving them a little something is considered generous of them!

What made his blood pressure spike even higher was the list of claims attached to the document.

One hundred million US dollars?!

And that's just the starting price?!

The dozen or so "potential subsequent costs" listed below are estimated, which clearly means "this is just the beginning, the big expenses are yet to come!"

Edward's vision blurred, and he clutched his chest, feeling his carefully maintained cardiovascular system groaning under the strain.

If this money is really transferred out...

Let's not even talk about how those hyenas in Congress, who are ready to pounce at the mere smell of blood, would tear him apart.

That stingy old rival of the Ministry of Finance alone could chase him around for three blocks with the bills in hand, and then block the Ministry of Foreign Affairs' budget for the next ten years!

Is this even possible?!

Can I refuse to give it to you?

Edward looked at the last sentence of the document, a threat written in the most standard diplomatic language, delivered with a touch of warmth:

"If the negotiation process is delayed due to your responsibility, we will be unable to guarantee the health and basic survival needs of the two individuals involved, and you will bear all adverse consequences."

In layman's terms: If you delay sending money by even one day, your people might be "falsely accused of illness" or "falsely accused of an accident." Don't blame us for not warning you then.

Edward's temples throbbed.

If those two idiots really did die over there because of the failed negotiations, even if it was just an "unexpected deterioration in health"...

He's spent most of his life in this mess, drinking himself into a stomach ulcer and spouting nonsense until he finally climbed to his current position. He'll probably only be sitting there for so long.

If you're lucky, you might retire early and go to a scenic country villa to "live out your old age," but in reality, you'll be under surveillance.

Bad luck...

Edward shuddered, not daring to think any further.

"Bullshit!"

He slammed his fist hard on the expensive mahogany desk, making the pen and coffee cup jump around.

"Why! Why do these brainless, trouble-causing muscle-bound bastards and charlatans receive divine favor and possess that kind of power?!"

"And me! I've worked so diligently, worrying myself sick and blues for the national interest, and now I'm stuck cleaning up the messes of these two idiots! And I even have to worry about my future!"

Edward took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down.

Not paying is not an option.

But how much to give and how to give it are things that can still be debated.

He scratched his already troubled hair in frustration, finally sighed, and resignedly picked up the internal phone.

"Secretary, come in for a moment."

"Notify the finance department, legal counsel, and the Extraordinary Affairs Office to hold a meeting in half an hour."

"in addition……"

He glanced at the damn bill on the table, and added through gritted teeth:

"Have the public relations department prepare; we need to draft a statement of deep reflection and sincere apology, and the attitude must be genuine."

After hanging up the phone, Edward slumped in his leather chair, gazing at the bustling cityscape outside the window, feeling a bleak future ahead.

What the hell is this?!

All he could hope for now was that those two bastards would suffer more in the other side's hands!

It would be best to whip them with a leather whip dipped in cold water every day until they cry for their parents.

but……

Edward thought about it again and felt that the hope was a bit slim.

He at least had studied Eastern culture.

That ancient Eastern country has always considered itself a land of etiquette, emphasizing appearances and international image.

Even if they hated them to death in their hearts, they had to maintain basic decorum on the surface, abide by the ridiculous international regulations such as the Geneva Convention, and give prisoners of war "humanitarian treatment."

I reckon that, apart from losing their freedom, Delaire and Saul are probably living a more comfortable life over there than when they were being investigated back home!

At least there won't be vigilante justice or abuse, and the meals will probably be decent.

Hey!

Thinking about it that way made me even angrier!

Those two bastards got off easy!

They should be locked in a water dungeon! Fed pig feed! Let them taste what the "iron fist of civilization" is like.

Let's see if they dare to be arrogant in the future.

……

"No... I won't do it again... I really won't..."

"Please spare me...please...God..."

In a special detention area on the third basement floor of the Jinghai 749 Bureau, there is a cell specifically for handling "high-value prisoners of war".

Thor's screams had been going on for almost half an hour.

The sound evolved from an initial furious roar, to a mixture of shock and rage, then to a painful howl, and finally to the intermittent, wailing cries filled with sobs and extreme terror that are now being heard.

Ji Zuodao, who was responsible for all of this, was squatting beside Thor's muscular, bronze-colored body, which was now covered with crisscrossing blades.

The skinning knife in his hand was incredibly steady as he slowly and methodically peeled away the skin along a muscle line, bit by bit.

The movements were gentle, focused, and even showed the craftsman's appreciation for precious materials.

He was muttering to himself, as if complaining about how difficult the materials were to handle:

"As expected of a physical body comparable to the Divine Power Realm, it is indeed a bit difficult to deal with... It's like peeling off an old rhinoceros's hide, it's incredibly tough, and there's a lot of bleeding involved."

Beside her, Qiqi stood quietly, holding an open toolbox in her little hands.

Inside, there were neatly arranged peeling knives, hooks, tweezers, and even a small hammer of various sizes.

Hearing her brother mutter, she immediately stood on tiptoe, took a clean white cloth from the toolbox, and handed it to him.

Ji Zuodao took it casually, wiped the blood off his hands, and handed it back.

Qiqi took the blood-stained white cloth back, carefully folded it, and put it into a bag labeled "medical waste" next to her.

Then she stood up straight again, her big eyes fixed on her brother's work, her little face expressionless, only completely focused.

She was as obedient as a young apprentice watching her master work.

If we ignore the fact that what she was watching was "live skinning".

The scene was terrifying yet strangely warm.

Zhang Quan, who had insisted on coming along to broaden his horizons, stood at the cell door. His usually expressionless baby face was now the same shade of green as the potted green ivy that hadn't been watered for half a month and was on the verge of death.

My stomach was churning, and my temples were throbbing.

He looked at Thor's face, which was completely distorted by extreme pain, yet somehow unable to even faint due to some kind of evil magic.

Then I looked at Ji Zuodao's profile as he focused on his work, and at Qiqi's obedient manner as she calmly handed him the tools.

Zhang Quan took a deep breath, forcefully suppressing the acid reflux in his throat, and spoke in as steady a voice as possible:

"Brother Ji... Brother Ji..."

He pointed to the screaming Thor, then to the dagger in Ji Zuodao's hand:

"Um...should we...give him a painkiller?"

Seeing that Ji Zuodao didn't react, Zhang Quan swallowed hard and decided to settle for second best:

"Or an injection of glucose would work too?"

"Don't actually die here..."

"My uncle said to keep a breath..."