Isn't it very scientific to use the Death Note to kill people?

Tequila roared behind him, then picked up his shotgun and unleashed a barrage of fire at the warehouse entrance, trying to stop the enemies who were about to rush in.

After everyone had gone inside, Tequila unleashed the last of his ammunition, creating a loud noise and smoke. He then threw away the shotgun and backed into the pipe.

He was just a hair's breadth away; in the instant he pulled back, he could even feel the scorching heat from the bullet grazing the entrance of the pipe.

"Damn it, this is the first time I've ever been this pathetic!"

Tequila wiped the blood from her face, her bloodshot eyes filled with exhaustion and madness.

No one responded to him.

The pipe instantly plunged into almost absolute darkness and deathly silence, with only the heavy, suppressed breathing of a few people and Cohen's faint groans of pain remaining.

Gin leaned against the cold, rough tube wall, feeling the slight vibrations from the metal, but his heart felt increasingly depressed.

Forced to crawl into the pipes like a rat, the musty smell of rust seemed to cloud his sense of danger... He felt vaguely uneasy, unsure whether the enemy had deliberately allowed them to crawl in.

After a brief silence

"What exactly is going on?"

Rena Mizunashi's voice, weak and filled with barely suppressed confusion, sounded exceptionally clear in the confined space, "Why did we step into such a...trap?"

Gin leaned against the cold, rough wall of the pipe. His expression was obscured in the darkness, but his icy voice, chilling to the bone, rang out: "Rum... that guy wants to get rid of me."

"Rum?!"

Chianti almost screamed, her voice distorted with rage, "That blind, one-eyed cripple!? The FBI location information he provided was fake?"

"It's not as simple as just fake information."

Gin's chilling voice was like a viper's hiss, "From the moment we stepped into this place, it may have been part of his plan—including the fact that after we used Vespania's ore to create electronic silence, we lost all contact with the outside world. This very conduit might even be the burial ground he chose for us."

His words made everyone's hearts sink.

"Damn it! If I can get out of here, I'll definitely kill him!" Tequila roared, slamming his fist against the pipe wall with a dull thud.

"Where are the reinforcements?"

Chianti, somewhat skeptical, cried out again, "Didn't we have an evacuation plan? Where's Jundu, who was in charge of the backup? Shouldn't he be watching from outside?"

Her words also cheered up Vodka, who was standing next to her.

"Yeah, bro! Wasn't Coindus in charge of securing our escape route? He must know we're in trouble!"

In the darkness, only Gin's almost silent, cold laughter could be heard.

"Give it up."

His voice was flat and even. “Jun Du is responsible for the planned evacuation coordination, not for catching us trapped in the net.”

What he didn't say was his inner speculation about that guy—what role did Jundu play in this matter?

Given his abilities and intuition, would he be completely unaware that this was a trap? Or would he be happy to see it happen?

The emergence of this thought made it difficult for him to have any expectations.

Rena Mizunashi remained silent in the darkness.

Of everyone present, only she could sense the deliberate attempt to distance herself and the deeper distrust in Gin's words.

Moreover, from her perspective, isn't it exactly what she wanted for Gin and his organization's sharpest henchmen to be wiped out here by Jundo, that mysterious undercover agent with an unclear stance?

Based on this, his choice to remain indifferent and observe is in his best interest.

Chapter 114: The Incoming Call

In stark contrast to the infernal scene of the abandoned chemical plant, shrouded in flames, smoke, and death, a small hill a few kilometers away presents a completely different picture.

The night breeze softens here, rustling through the sparse trees and bringing the fresh scent of grass and trees.

At the top of the hill, a carefully selected gentle slope offers an excellent view, perfectly capturing the chaotic fires and occasional explosions in the distant factory area.

James Black leaned back comfortably in a folding canvas chair, even draped in a thick blanket to ward off the night chill.

On the small folding table beside him was an operational military-grade high-precision thermal imaging monitor, the screen clearly showing the movement and extinguishing of heat sources within the factory. Next to it were an open bottle of whiskey and a crystal glass.

He didn't keep staring at the screen; instead, he mostly looked up, observing the grand spectacle in the distance with his naked eyes.

Each violent explosion illuminated his slightly aged face, and at that moment he would leisurely pick up his wine glass, take a small sip, as if savoring a victorious drink.

(Vespania ore...it was used after all.)

Everything unfolded exactly as he had envisioned.

For this operation, the list of supplies that Gin requested within the organization was quickly delivered to James by Rum—the firepower he used, the tools and vehicles he wanted to use were all completely unprepared for James.

"Intelligence... is always the most deadly thing, whether it's for agents or assassins."

Those who attacked Gin were no rabble.

As a senior FBI official, James naturally accumulated a lot of connections in the underworld. With the intelligence and financial support provided by Rum, the two of them successfully recruited a group of real outlaws.

Retired special forces members, professional assassins who only care about money... plus some troops secretly deployed by Rum, with sufficient intelligence support, this armed force is enough to fight a small-scale war.

It is more than enough to wipe out an organization's action team that has lost its intelligence advantage and has been brought into a specific arena.

He shifted the telescope's field of view slightly, trying to find movement in other directions, but the darkness and distance obscured more details.

But James Black didn't take it to heart.

Gin can't escape—

Even if he manages to survive, it won't affect the overall situation on Rum's side.

Now James just hopes everything goes well for Ron.

Thinking of Karasuma Renya who had turned into a baby, he couldn't suppress the burning, greedy look in his eyes.

He put down his binoculars, picked up the satellite phone next to him, and glanced at the screen—no new messages, which meant the plan was still on track.

He picked up his glass again, leaned back in his chair more relaxed, like a patient audience member waiting for the expected final whistle to come from the other end of the stage.

The night breeze ruffled his gray hair, and the carnage and clamor below the mountain seemed to serve as background noise.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Compared to the hail of bullets and towering flames at the abandoned chemical plant, the Japanese-style mansion located at 5-39 Beikacho, Beikacho, is so tranquil that it seems to exist in another world.

In the darkness of night, the occasional crisp "thud" of a startled deer in the courtyard adds to the solitude.

Infiltrating here is more difficult than infiltrating any military base or high-tech research institute. This is because the defense here does not rely on cold electronic equipment or numerous guards, but on an extreme level of isolation and human surveillance.

The maids in the manor were a reclusive group. They almost never went out, and all their supplies were delivered through a specific channel and underwent strict inspection. Their backgrounds were thoroughly cleansed, and their social relationships were so simple as to be almost non-existent. They formed a subtle system of mutual supervision among themselves. The appearance of any new face would cause a violent reaction, like water falling into hot oil.

Therefore, Fujiko Mine had to find a solution on her own.

She spent several days and used all available resources to finally seize an extremely brief and unique window of opportunity: a middle-aged maid in charge of the mansion's internal affairs would occasionally go outside to purchase some women's items, accompanied by a dedicated driver. This was one of the very few times they were allowed to go out.

The opportunity only came during the brief twenty-minute journey back to the mansion from the outside.

Fujiko Mine had already disguised herself as the maid, even mimicking the fine lines around her eyes and the calluses on her fingers from long hours of labor.

She sat quietly in the back seat of a black car, dressed in a conservative dark gray maid outfit that perfectly matched her target's style. Beside her was the real maid, whom she had subdued with a cleverly administered dose of anesthetic and who was now fast asleep.

This car, along with the driver, was "borrowed" by her—or rather, offered to be provided by someone who offered it to her.

In the driver's seat, Lupin III, wearing an ill-fitting driver's uniform and a hat pulled low, was winking at her through the rearview mirror, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Hey Fujiko-chan~ Are you sure you can handle something this dangerous?"

"Don't worry, Lupin." Fujiko Mine rested her chin on her hand, a broad smile on her face. "Anyway, if things really get dangerous, you'll definitely show up to help me, right?"

"Wow! Do you have such high expectations of me?"

"After all, you care a lot about that ore."

Lupin raised an eyebrow but didn't reply.

The car stopped at the designated secluded section of the road, and Fujiko Mine deftly transferred the unconscious maid to another waiting car for further treatment.

As she sat back in the back seat, Lupin expertly reversed and turned, reminding her in a cheeky tone:

"Hey, Fujiko-chan, you'll definitely be searched inside and out when you get back, right? You'd better hide your things well."

Fujiko Mine carefully checked the details of her disguise in the rearview mirror to ensure there were no flaws. Hearing this, she lazily replied, "Mind your own business, Lupin. If you get recognized, I'll say you kidnapped me and the real maid and tried to force your way in."

"Isn't that heartless?"

Lupin pretended to be sad and shouted, but his mouth actually stretched into a wider grin.

He skillfully drove the vehicle smoothly toward the heavily guarded mansion.

As the car drove through the heavy black iron gate, Fujiko Mine could sense at least three pairs of eyes scanning the vehicle and the people inside from the shadows.

She lowered her head slightly, her hands clasped on her knees, her posture respectful. Lupin also suppressed his smile, mimicking the original driver's silent and aloof demeanor.

The door slowly closed behind us, isolating us from the outside world.

The driver stopped at the entrance of the inner residence, where a middle-aged woman dressed in a similar uniform, but in a darker color, and with a more aloof demeanor, was already waiting.

Her sharp gaze swept over Fujiko Mine like a searchlight, and also glanced at Lupin in the driver's seat.

"Matsumoto, check." The head maid said succinctly.

Fujiko Mine—now "Matsumoto"—obediently raised her arms, allowing another maid to step forward and conduct a thorough body search with professional and swift movements to confirm that she was not carrying any electronic devices or dangerous items.

"Everything is normal, Head Maid," the inspecting maid reported.

The head maid nodded, her expression unwavering, and then looked at Lupin: "You can leave now. You know the rules."

Lupin, playing the driver, calmly nodded, started the car, and slowly drove away.

Just before the car turned, he glanced at Fujiko Mine, who was walking towards the inner courtyard with her head down, through the rearview mirror and grinned.

Fujiko Mine then entered the interior of the mansion.

Once inside, she felt that the place was even more profound and complex than it appeared from the outside.

The traditional Japanese design incorporates numerous subtle modern safety features.

She noticed ubiquitous miniature cameras disguised as decorations, and pressure-sensitive lines that were almost invisible on the floor in certain areas.

The maids were busy with their own tasks and rarely spoke to each other. Even when they did communicate, they did so in very low voices and with wary eyes.

(It really is...like a birdcage.)

Mine Fujiko sneered inwardly, but outwardly she meticulously wiped the window frame, her movements and rhythm exactly the same as the real Matsumoto.

She felt the heavy and eerie atmosphere of the mansion, as if she could smell the musty odor of aging and power permeating the air.

(So, where should we begin to learn a little about the owner of this "birdcage"?)

While mechanically completing her work, she silently observed everything around her with her eyes.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Time seemed to stand still inside the conduit, with only suppressed breathing and the occasional muffled groan that escaped when the wound was aggravated.

The omnipresent darkness, like a thick velvet cloth, enveloped every inch of space and amplified every subtle sound—the slight "click" of metal due to temperature differences, the faint vibrations in the distance, and the uneasy beating of the heart in everyone's chest.

"Big brother."

Vodka's voice, trembling slightly, broke the suffocating silence, "Should we...keep going?"

He could barely turn around in the cramped space, and his sweat mixed with blood and dust made him look extremely disheveled.

Gin did not answer immediately.

His gaze fell on the pipe wall ahead—there was an area whose color seemed slightly different from the surroundings, with lighter rust, as if… it had been recently cleaned or replaced.

"Agave."

"exist."

Tequila responded immediately, like a restless, trapped beast; even injured, its ferocity remained undiminished.

"You go first."

Tequila did not refute this.

In this desperate situation, Gin's authority was the only lifeline they could cling to.

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, lowered his body, and began to cautiously explore forward. Each step he took was unusually heavy, as if he were testing every inch of metal beneath his feet with his own weight.