I searched and fought in America.

Caesar finally breathed a long sigh of relief as he watched the two "hounds" drive the car away around the corner.

Rosen stood still, staring into the distance. He did not feel relieved by the temporary resolution of the crisis; instead, he fell into deep thought.

"Maurice," Rosen suddenly spoke.

"Yes, Father," Maurice replied immediately.

Rosen then waved to Caesar, who was cursing and swearing not far away: "Caesar, come here too."

The two looked at each other, both somewhat bewildered.

It's the busiest time for recycling companies right now, where is Father going?

But as "Apostles," they did not hesitate at all and obediently followed Rosen out of the recycling company's door.

The three strolled through the streets of the Ronnie neighborhood.

There wasn't much sunshine here in the afternoon.

The streets were covered with dilapidated graffiti, and the air was filled with an unmistakable stench, somewhat like the smell of sweat, and also somewhat like the smell of shift.

Every now and then, you can see a few guys with blank expressions standing stiffly in the middle of the road. They look like zombies and are no longer human.

More often, however, are homeless people huddled in street corners, wrapped in whatever dirty blanket they can find.

They were like the dregs spat out by the city, silently piled up there.

"I have a question for you," Rosen broke the silence.

"Father, please speak." Maurice bowed slightly.

"If I had a way to perfectly recycle the gasoline that was spilled on the ground, as well as the residual oil in all the abandoned vehicles, how many times could our profits increase?"

Upon hearing Rosen's words, Morris's pupils constricted sharply, and he was momentarily stunned.

Before he could speak, Caesar interrupted, grinning jokingly:

"Holy Father, this is not a simple matter of profit. If you really have a way to solve the problems of oil leaks and recycling difficulties, then we won't even need to bother with any waste recycling."

With this technology alone, countless recycling companies will seek to partner with us, because we're not the only ones being influenced by those environmentalist hawks.

Rosen nodded slightly, his gaze sweeping over the homeless men:

"I know how to make a mysterious substance that can perfectly absorb gasoline from waste oil drums and broken oil tanks like a sponge, and solidify it into 'oil blocks' that are easy to transport and store."

"What?"

The two stopped in their tracks and stared wide-eyed at Rosen.

Looking at Rosen's serious expression, they instinctively felt that this sounded like a myth.

"Father, does such a substance really exist?"

Caesar pursed his lips, somewhat disbelieving.

"Actually, I couldn't believe it either, but the moment I became the Holy Father of the Iron Claw Gang, the methods for making these substances appeared in my mind."

From efficacy to manufacturing formula, everything is included. I think, since this is a blessing from God, it can't be wrong."

Rosen's words were quite fantastical, and Morris and Caesar exchanged a glance, unsure of what to say for a moment.

Rosen smiled and said, "Whether it's true or not, I can give you a live demonstration and you'll know everything."

However, I need a few chemicals: sodium hydroxide, corn starch, bentonite, and ammonium persulfate.

Caesar scratched his head. "Father, although I didn't understand a word, if you're talking about chemicals, I happen to know someone like that. He used to be a big shot; he could definitely get his hands on these."

"Oh? That's great, let's call him now." A hint of joy flashed in Rosen's eyes.

"Uh, well... it might not get through." Caesar chuckled awkwardly.

"Huh? Why? He's gone missing?" Rosen asked, puzzled.

"No, it's because he's now a homeless man and hasn't topped up his phone credit in six months."

If you want to find him, you can only try your luck in the 'tent area' of that region.

Rosen stopped, somewhat surprised: "A homeless man? Can someone like that really maintain his connections?"

"Yes, Father," Caesar sighed, a hint of melancholy in his expression.

"Four years ago, that guy owned six chemical plants and was considered a respectable person in the Ronnie neighborhood."

Unfortunately, his development of a highly effective cleaning agent later infringed upon the interests of a large conglomerate, which then set him up in a dead end by accusing him of "environmental violations."

At that time, black market capital took advantage of his misfortune, not only seizing his factory but also saddled him with tens of millions in debt.

At this point, Caesar pointed to his head: "The factory may be gone, but what's in his head is still there."

He would occasionally use his old connections to get some "private goods" to sell to underground workshops in exchange for some money for alcohol.

I met him when I was collecting scrap metal and dismantling equipment from a chemical plant.

Rosen remained silent upon hearing Caesar's words.

Someone who can own six chemical plants is definitely a social elite at Tokyo University.

But in the American capitalist system, if you show even the slightest sign of something that is not allowed, even if you are a small capitalist, you will be instantly beheaded and thrown into the trash heap.

"Let's go then. Since you're still thinking, let's go see him." Rosen nodded.

The three continued on their way, and as they passed a dead tree at a community intersection, Rosen's gaze froze slightly.

Hanging on the tree was a bloody thing—a human head crawling with maggots.

Due to dehydration and decay, the flesh of the human head was peeling off, emitting a foul stench under the scorching sun. From a distance, it looked like a rotten apple covered in white icing.

This is an extremely twisted "hellish joke".

"These are the 'works' of Mexican gangs." Caesar glanced at them, a flash of instinctive disgust in his eyes.

"They love to use this kind of 'kill the chicken to scare the monkey' tactic, usually targeting unfortunate people who don't pay their debts, or traitors within the gang."

These guys are way more ruthless than our local gangs, and they have absolutely no rules.

Rosen merely glanced at it coldly before looking away; this wasn't the first time he'd seen sugar-coated apples.

The three walked through two narrow alleys and came to a dense area of ​​tents.

Cheap canvases were draped over the roadside, and the air was filled with a mixture of the smells of alcohol, sweat, and decay.

Caesar moved effortlessly among the tents, occasionally stopping to kick at the debris on the ground.

He bent down and lifted a dirty green tent, just as he was about to take a look.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?"

Inside the tent, a burly Black man was entangled with a white woman, and they seemed to be getting quite passionate. The white woman's face was flushed and her eyes were glazed over.

The black man, whose "business" had been interrupted, roared and made a move to reach for the wrench next to him.

After being interrupted, the white woman opened her eyes. She didn't care whether she had been seen naked or not; instead, she looked at Caesar with some curiosity.

Caesar narrowed his eyes. His two-meter-tall frame, combined with his fierce face, made him extremely intimidating.

"You have a problem with that?" Caesar's voice was deep.

The black man was also intimidated by Caesar's appearance. His anger, which had just risen, dissipated instantly, and he began to stammer, "No...no problem, brother, I...I didn't do anything to you..."

Caesar snorted coldly before finally pulling back the curtain.

Inside the tent, the black man stood there stunned. When he came to his senses, he realized with despair that he had completely "wilted".

He muttered a few curses under his breath, but dared not speak too loudly, for fear that the burly man outside would hear him and come back to kick him.

"Father, it's just ahead," Caesar said, pointing to an old tent patched up with newspaper and duct tape. "If old Hans is still alive, he should be inside."