Above the Blood Moon

The hovercar stopped in front of a building, the Mirror Lake Club, one of the most upscale social venues in Forgotten City. Only individuals with assets exceeding five thousand Star Alliance Coins or an annual income exceeding one thousand Star Alliance Coins are eligible to apply for membership.

Tonight's quarterly social gala is open to those who have received a special invitation.

The building's exterior is understated.

The building is three stories high, with dark gray stone exterior walls. The entrance has no extravagant decorations, only two heavy solid wood doors with exquisite metal badges inlaid on them.

The car came to a stop, and the driver got out to open the car door for Flora.

Floyd straightened the hem of his suit jacket, stepped out of the car, and his personal assistant followed half a step behind him.

As they walked toward the club entrance, Floyd noticed that there were already seven or eight hovercars waiting ahead, all of them high-end models, some even with company logos painted on them.

What caught his attention even more were the three people at the entrance, who were politely stopped at the door by the doorman, which is quite unusual in this situation.

Standing at the entrance of the Mirror Lake Club, Jockley felt like he was suffocating.

"One Star Alliance Coin to enter the Mirror Lake area? This is blatant robbery! Outright extortion!"

He recalled the last time he came to Mirror Lake District with Daikiri. That kid treated him to everything and didn't even let him know there was an entrance fee. Now he knew, and he deeply understood what pain meant.

That's his money!

"I absolutely have to get reimbursed by Atreus after the mission," Jokeri silently vowed. "You absolutely have to get reimbursed, or else..."

Before he could decide what to do if he didn't want reimbursement, a line of small print suddenly appeared on his glasses lenses:

The fish are here, get ready!

It was Art's voice, transmitted directly to his ear via a bone conduction communicator.

Jockley took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He adjusted his expression, making himself look like the kind of upper class who didn't care about the 1-star alliance coin entry fee.

Then he looked up at the man walking towards him.

The target has been identified.

Freud walked closer, his gaze sweeping over the three men.

At the front was a young man in his early twenties, handsome, wearing a well-tailored dark blue suit, with neatly combed hair and a gentle yet aloof smile on his face.

But what caught Freud's attention was that this person had no signs of modification, no prosthetic eye, no robotic arm, no scars from neural interfaces, and not even the most common subcutaneous communication chip implant.

This is almost inconceivable in a modified human society, because in this world, not being modified is tantamount to actively choosing to become a member of the lower class.

But then Freud noticed two people behind the young man.

On the left is a man dressed in a black robe with his hood pulled low, obscuring his face, but some kind of cybernetic armor can be vaguely seen under the robe.

Freud's prosthetic eye automatically activated its bio-scanning mode, causing his pupils to constrict slightly.

[Target for testing: Human males]

[Level of Modification: Unknown (Advanced censorship)]

[Special Ability Reaction: Level 3 or above (estimated)]

Threat Level: High

A superhuman, at least a level three or higher combat-type superhuman.

To the young man's right was a fully modified human, with a streamlined silver-gray shell and even two missile launch ports on its back. The extent of the modification would make even a true cybernetic fanatic gasp in amazement.

"Strong teeth!!"

[Detection Target: Modified Body]

Model: Unknown (Advanced Encryption)

[Armor Level: High]

Threat Level: High

A young man without any modifications, accompanied by a bodyguard who is a level three or higher superhuman and a highly armed modified follower.

This combination caused the scales in Freud's mind to begin to tip.

He walked up to Jockley with a perfectly timed smile on his face.

"Sir, is there anything I can help you with?"

His voice was gentle and polite, completely unlike the coldness and harshness he had shown in the car earlier.

After all, Freud was always easy to talk to people of his own social class or even higher.

Chokley looked at the man in front of him, who was exactly the same as the holographic photo that At had shown him, but the sense of oppression was even stronger when he saw him in person.

This is not oppression based on power, but on class.

Floyd stood there like an invisible wall, a wall built of Covenant currency, power, and the blood and flesh of countless people.

Jockley took a deep breath.

Then he spoke in a fluent Olympian accent.

"My entourage and I received a handwritten invitation from Mr. Elijah, an old friend of my father, to come and meet him and attend tonight's dinner."

As he spoke, he pulled a letter from the inside pocket of his suit jacket; it was a paper letter.

In an era where almost everyone uses data chips to transmit information, paper letters themselves are a symbol of identity, and only those families that are old and traditional enough will retain this habit.

The envelope was made of dark gold specialty paper with fine gold foil embossing along the edges.

Jockley handed the letter to Floyd with a natural, unwavering gesture.

Freud took the letter, his golden pupils flashing wildly with data.

He was scanning, scanning every detail of the letter.

At the same time, he was also observing every subtle change in Jockley's eyes.

But Jockley remained calm; he even turned his head slightly to look at the blood moon sculpture above the club entrance, as if he didn't care about the little incident before him.

This attitude is very "upper-class".

Freud opened the envelope, pulled out the letter inside, also made of special paper, with a delicate feel like silk. Several lines were written on it in deep blue ink:

To Mr. Krijjo:

I have heard that you recently visited the Deep Space Cemetery and have been cordially invited to a dinner. I hope you will take the time to attend.

On the 88th day of the Kafdia Star Standard Calendar 3001, we eagerly await your arrival.

[Written by Ilya Novak]

The font is beautiful; it's the kind of elegant and powerful cursive script that can only be written through long-term training.

Freud recognized the handwriting. Ilya, that old man, was over seventy years old and still maintained the habit of communicating with paper letters. He would personally write his name every time he signed a contract, saying it was an ancient ritual.

He activated the handwriting comparison function of the prosthetic eye.

[Scanning in progress...]

[Comparison Target: Ilya Novak's autograph sample database]

[Similarity: 98.7%]

[Conclusion: Highly consistent]

It was indeed Ilya's handwriting, and the contents of the letter made perfect sense. However, Ilya had recently traveled to the planet Furnace in a starship to select forging materials for the company's prosthetic bodies, so it was indeed impossible to contact him for a short period of time.

As for this Cricket, Floyd looked up and re-examined Cricket.

He hadn't been modified, but his accent was so perfect it sounded like he'd grown up on the Olympus Ring. He was accompanied by a Level 3 ability user bodyguard and an A-level modified body, and he was holding Ilya's handwritten invitation.

A thought suddenly flashed through my mind.

Classical school.

Freud had heard of a small group of people on the upper levels of the Olympus ring who refused any physical modifications and insisted on using the purest form of flesh; they were known as the Classicists.

Most of these people come from ancient families that have been passed down for hundreds of years, with family histories that can be traced back to pre-civilization times. They view modification as a desecration of the divinely created body and believe that true nobles should rule the world with wisdom rather than machines.

Moreover, most classicists do indeed dislike the use of high technology; they use paper books, ancient communication methods, and even deliberately avoid using overly advanced auxiliary devices.

Like this young man in front of me, he doesn't even have the most basic nervous system.

Everything fits together.

The last trace of doubt in Freud's mind vanished.

His smile widened as he carefully folded the letter and handed it back to Jockley.

"Mr. Ilya is an old friend of mine. I never expected that he would know a young talent like Mr. Krijjo."

He paused, then tentatively added:

"Your accent is very standard; I haven't heard such a pure Upper Olympus accent in a long time."

Jockley took the letter, put it back in his pocket, and gave a gentle yet distant fake smile.

"Thank you for your praise."

How can it not be standardized?!

Last night, that madman, Art, inserted various language chips into his nervous system like a USB drive, forcibly implanting seven or eight dialect accents, and forced him to practice for a full six hours, during which he was given two injections of stimulants.

He feels like his brain is about to be turned into mush, literally mush.

But on the surface, he remained elegant and proper.

Floyd nodded and turned to look at the doorman.

"These are my guests. Is it alright if we go in together?"

The doorman dared not say anything more; he quickly bowed and made way for him.

"Of course not, Mr. Floyd, Mr. Krijo, please come in."

Floyd stepped aside and gestured for them to enter. Jockley nodded slightly and stepped forward, with the priest and Big Yellow following half a step behind him. The group entered the Mirror Lake Club.

As the heavy solid wood doors slowly closed behind us, shutting out the noise from the outside world, the banquet hall was filled with warm and soft light, and a faint fragrance permeated the air.

The aroma comes from real plant essential oils, not synthetic fragrances.

Soft classical music drifted from the corner, and guests gathered in twos and threes, chatting quietly, their faces bearing polite yet aloof smiles.

Jockley glanced around and saw at least two or three hundred people.

"interesting."

He thought to himself.

Then he quickly adjusted his expression, making himself look more like an interstellar merchant from the upper reaches of the Olympus ring, accustomed to all this, and inwardly gave Aunt Huang, who had made the fake invitation, a silent thumbs up.

The fun has begun.