My Reputation System Makes Me Rich

Chapter 7 Seeds of Suspicion

"I'm certainly not going to waste my energy dealing with a loan shark like you," Alex answered calmly, taking a step back into the shadow of a dilapidated wooden stall. His eyes were cold and completely devoid of panic. "Because in this world, money can always hire hands that are far more lethal."

Damon spat forcefully onto the damp cobblestones, his bloodshot eyes widening as his face flushed with suppressed rage. "Cut the crap! Beat him to death! Don't leave a single stall standing today! Destroy everything he cares about!"

Panic-stricken, Sammy immediately grabbed Alex's arm upon seeing over a dozen thugs wielding rusty iron pipes, heavy baseball bats, and cleavers. Sammy's fingers trembled against Alex's jacket. "Lex, we have to run right now!" Sammy said, frantically eyeing the narrow back alleys. "We can't win against them with our bare hands! They'll tear us apart!"

"Sam, stay right there! Don't move!" Alex's voice was firm—an unshakeable command that froze Sammy in his tracks. "Cover your eyes and ears if you can't stomach the sight of blood."

A warm electric sensation from the cosmic system flowed smoothly into Alex's nervous system, enhancing his reaction time and guiding his fingers across his sleek smartphone screen with blinding speed. In a fraction of a second, the system bypassed high-level firewalls, linking directly to a VVIP underground network, issuing immediate operational commands directly to elite national security agents currently stationed in the city.

Overhearing the brief exchange, Damon burst into boisterous, condescending laughter, clutching his stomach as if he had just heard the funniest joke of his life. "You pitiful tramp, who do you think you're calling? The police? Which cop in this district would dare lay a single finger on my men around here? I own the precinct commander!"

"I'm not calling the police. Prison is far too comfortable for small-time thugs like you," Alex replied, his voice chillingly neutral.

"Then who are you hiring? Rival thugs? Not a single street gang in this entire metropolitan city dares to stand against me!" Damon sneered, raising his heavy iron rod above his shoulder. "Charge, all of you! Chop off his hands and throw his body into the river!"

Before Damon's men could even take a single full step forward, the thunderous roar of supercharged, high-performance engines cut through the tense silence of the market. The ground trembled under the sheer weight of approaching machinery.

Three jet-black armored SUVs with classified, dark-tinted license plates crashed violently through the heavy steel perimeter gate, shattering a tall stack of empty wooden crates into floating splinters of pine. The vehicles executed a synchronized drift, slamming on their heavy brakes right in front of Damon's frozen lineup of thugs, kicking up dust and gravel. The doors flew open simultaneously in unified rhythm, and fifteen heavily built men clad in custom black tactical uniforms, wearing reinforced kevlar body armor and carrying military-grade weapons, leapt out with expertly trained precision. Their movements were cold, disciplined, and terrifyingly silent.

A scar-faced operative with a deep gunshot wound visibly tracing his neck stepped forward, his polished tactical boots heavy against the ground. He bowed respectfully at a precise forty-five-degree angle toward Alex. "Mr. Alex? I am the elite tactical commander. Your transaction has successfully cleared the global network. What are your operational orders for this afternoon?"

"This market belongs to me, but these filthy pests are trying to ruin it." Alex said coldly, gesturing casually toward Damon's petrified gang. "Clean them up. Don't let a single one of these trash stand tall after today."

"Orders received, Mr. Alex." The commander turned his hardened gaze toward his men. "Form a perimeter! Block all exits! Break their arms or legs —whatever it takes to subdue them! Don't let a single pest escape!"

"Who the hell are you guys?" Damon began to panic, taking several hesitant, trembling steps backward at the formidable sight of the tactical team. "You're asking for a death sentence if you interfere in my syndicate's business!"

"Finish them!" the commander ordered calmly, ignoring Damon's frantic shouting.

An intensely lopsided clash instantly erupted in the center of the muddy market corridor. Rather than a fight, it resembled a mechanical, one-sided slaughter.

A burly thug swung a heavy lead pipe at the nearest operative, but the tactical officer casually stepped inside the swing, grabbed the thug's wrist, and snapped it backward with a sickening crack before driving a ruthless elbow directly into his ribs.

"Damon, they aren't normal thugs! My arm is broken!" the thug screamed in agony, collapsing onto his knees as a heavy steel baton struck his shoulder with another loud crunch.

"Retreat! Everyone fall back to the alley!" shouted another bloodied thug, who was already sprawled across the floor, clutching his shattered jaw while groaning in pain.

"Don't let them near me! Stay back!" Damon swung his iron rod blindly in desperate circles, cold sweat pouring down his pale, terrified face like rain.

"Hey thug, you're way too slow!" a deep voice rasped from right behind him. The commander was suddenly standing directly beside Damon, moving like a ghost.

A lethal, perfectly executed side-kick landed squarely on the side of Damon's left knee joint. The horrible sound of snapping bone echoed loudly across the open market, followed by a shrill, blood-curdling scream. Damon instantly collapsed onto the muddy ground, his iron rod clattering harmlessly out of his trembling grip.

In less than five minutes, the dozen-plus thugs who usually acted like untouchable gods of death in this market were now groaning in agony on the filth-covered floor, writhing in pools of their own blood. Not a single one could stand on two feet. Sammy and several timid market vendors could only watch from behind wooden stalls with wide-open mouths and bulging eyes, utterly paralyzed by the terrifying miracle unfolding right before them.

The commander grabbed Damon by his blood-soaked collar, dragging his heavy body effortlessly through the dirt, and forced him into a humiliating kneel right at the tips of Alex's pristine leather shoes.

"Mr. Alex, all targets have been neutralized and secured. Do you want us to finish off their leader now?" the commander asked, his hand resting casually on his sidearm.

"Please! Mercy! Spare my life! Don't break my hands!" Damon whimpered hysterically, his face pale as a sheet, tears mixing with sweat and dirt.

Alex squatted down to eye level, his gaze piercing directly into Damon's soul. "Didn't you say that money makes the rules in this world? How does it feel to be completely crushed under the rules I made today?"

Damon spat up fresh blood, trembling as he stared in absolute horror at the circle of armed men in black standing guard around him.

"You tramp... you think you've won just by hiring these attack dogs?" Damon gasped out, enduring the excruciating, white-hot pain shooting through his shattered knee. "My big boss won't let you off for ruining our territory and taking our market..."

"I'll gladly look forward to his arrival," Alex replied with a cold, ruthless smile.

"Who is the real mastermind behind the syndicate backing this market operation—the shadowy figure who will undoubtedly target your life day and night?" Damon snarled weakly through gritted teeth, his eyes burning with spite even as his body trembled in defeat.