World of the Apocalypse: Kane’s Evolution System

Chapter 4 Earning Merit I

Kane asked curiously for the reason. Cruz curled his lip and explained, “Field patrols carry an extremely high casualty rate. Over thirty officers have died in just half a year. He’s faint-hearted and only wants a safe, cushy desk job.”

Kane was not surprised. Compared to the lawless unplanned zone, public security here was relatively stable.

Cruz chided Holt, frustrated by his lack of grit. “You’ll never get ahead if you’re too scared to fight for yourself. Before Sector 7 was established, Captain Wade’s brother had nothing at all, yet he still carved out a place for himself amid the cataclysm. You spend all your time currying favour with everyone without an ounce of self-respect—how can you ever build genuine connections?”

Holt hung his head and said nothing. Kane quickly steered the conversation to another topic.

It was nine o’clock at night. Holt received a string of text messages and stood up to take his leave. Kane offered to walk him out, but Holt politely declined and hurried off alone.

Only the two men remained in the private booth. Kane urged Cruz to go easier on Holt.

Cruz tapped the tabletop with his knuckles. “I’m only pushing him to grow a backbone. If he keeps backing down, he’ll always be stuck at the bottom. He’s my only real friend on the squad, that’s why I’m so frustrated.” He then shifted tone, eyes lighting up. “That girl out front earlier was acting strange. I’m going over to talk to her.”

Kane tried to dissuade him, warning that the situation was volatile, but Cruz ignored the advice, fixed his collar, and headed for the table by the window.

On the roadside outside the tavern, Holt took two deep drags from his vape. He hesitated for a long time, wanting to contact Kane, then remembered Kane’s communications device hadn’t yet been registered to the internal police network. He had no choice but to dial Cruz’s number.

At the window table inside the tavern, Cruz struck up a conversation, lying that he was a casting director for a show. The girl’s eyes lit up; she said she’d studied broadcasting and hosting, and readily prepared to exchange contact information.

The short middle-aged man beside her suddenly clamped a hand around her wrist and snapped at her in a thick Japanese accent, ordering her to hand back her phone. Two other men muttered back and forth in Japanese, assessing that Cruz was not an enemy spy.

The girl reluctantly returned her phone. Cruz was unwilling to give up, yet he could only trudge back to the booth dejectedly.

As soon as he sat down, Cruz nudged Kane’s leg with his foot and quietly held up his phone to show the dial screen. Scrawled there was a string of numbers the girl had slipped him in secret: 959595—a code meaning Help me, help me, help me.

“The girl kicked me under the table—she’s begging for help,” Cruz lowered his voice. “Those men are shady; there’s definitely something off about them.”

At the next table, a short man glanced at his wristwatch, his face grim as he muttered to his companions. Deciding Cruz was just a random stranger, he saw no reason to linger and ordered the girl to leave at once. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she stole glances at Kane and Cruz.

Cruz shot Kane an anxious look. “Do we step in or not?”

A fully electric shuttle skidded to a sudden halt outside the tavern’s front door.

Kane’s peripheral vision swept over the four men by the window, and he spotted the red flags instantly. They wore thick suede work jackets and scuffed leather boots; exposed skin bore frostbite marks, and their eyes were sharp and vicious—clearly not regular residents of the District.

“Outsiders. Fugitives from the unregulated zones,” Kane warned in a hushed tone.

Cruz’s heart sank. “We don’t have our service sidearms. If a fight breaks out, we won’t stand a chance.”

Kane’s brows drew tight. “Stay put. Call backup from the precinct.”

Before he finished speaking, the four men herded the girl to their feet to pay the bill, ready to make their getaway. Sweat slicked Cruz’s palms as he urged urgently, “They’re leaving. Should we follow them?”

“They’ve got a vehicle and weapons, while we’re on foot with nothing. That’s a suicide mission,” Kane said flatly, certain the men were carrying heavy firepower they could never overpower unarmed.

Cruz gritted his teeth, refusing to back down. “We’re wearing police uniforms. We can’t stand by and watch a kidnapping unfold right in front of us.”

Kane was about to reply when the tavern doors flew open with a crash. Hawk stormed in with five fellow officers, his gaze locking sharply onto Kane as he opened his mouth to pick a fight.

They exchanged a quick glance, both stunned by the twist—this unexpected trouble might just be their only break.

Hawk stalked toward Kane with an e-cigarette dangling from his lips, malice oozing off him. “Waltzing in here for a fancy meal the second you get back. Must be rolling in cash, huh? Outside. We’ve got a score to settle.”

Cruz stepped between them at once, speaking a mile a minute. “Cut the crap—there’s an emergency. Four men by the window are holding a girl hostage. They’re foreign fugitives and about to bolt.”

Hawk froze on the spot, all thoughts of settling scores grinding to a halt. “I—I only came here for Kane.”

“This coincidence is our opening!” Cruz hissed urgently. “We’ve got enough men right here—take them down on the spot!”

Hawk glanced at the four eerie men by the window and panicked completely. He’d come with no case preparations and knew nothing about the suspects; all he wanted was to slip away. But with Cruz watching, he feared being reported for dereliction of duty, so he forced himself to issue orders.

He waved at his officers. “You radio headquarters. You move in for an inspection—check their residence permits and cross-district passes. Shoot if they make any sudden moves.”

The two men he singled out looked utterly unwilling, yet they had no choice but to step forward and block the foursome’s path, speaking sharply. “Black Precinct patrol. Show your identification.”

The short middle-aged leader wore a blank expression and muttered a reply. “Crossing zones to haul goods. No long-term residence permit.”

“Produce your District entry-exit authorization,” the officer demanded, holding out his hand.

As the short man slowly reached for his pocket, the girl beside him suddenly screamed. “Help me! They kidnapped me!”

In an instant, one bandit ripped back his sleeve, revealing the pin-pulled T-34 military grenade clutched in his palm, roaring ferociously. “Anyone moves, we all die together!”

Patrons scattered in every direction, chaos erupting across the tavern. The short man grabbed the girl as a hostage and stepped backward, ordering his cohorts to escape through the back door.

Cold sweat drenched Hawk; he stood rigid, afraid to make the slightest reckless move. Just then, Cruz lunged forward, snatching a glass bottle from the table and slamming it hard against the bandit’s grenade-wielding wrist.

The bandit flinched from the pain but did not retreat. His eyes blazing with malice, he hurled the grenade straight into the crowd.

Kane reacted with lightning speed, yanking Cruz backward in a desperate dash.

A deafening blast ripped through the room. Tables and chairs splintered, stone shards flying everywhere. Three officers collapsed to the ground, wounded by shrapnel. Hawk threw himself flat, and as he tried to scramble up, two gunshots rang out. Bullets tore through his buttocks, blood soaking his uniform in an instant.

Hawk crumpled to the floor, seething with shock and rage, screaming nonstop from the agony.

Smoke hung thick in the air. Kane shook off the dizziness clouding his head, ignored the shaken Cruz beside him, leaned down and barked at the wounded officers on the floor: “Guns!”

Panicked, one officer instinctively slid a modified M1911 service pistol toward him. Though Kane had never handled this model before, his solid firearms training kicked in. He ejected the magazine, inspected the chamber, and racked a round into the barrel in one fluid, sharp sequence of movements.

He rose in a low crouch, steadied his grip on the pistol, and squeezed the trigger without hesitation.

Three perfectly placed shots struck the grenade-throwing bandit square in the back of his head, killing him instantly.

Kane dropped low for cover without a split second’s delay. Bullets slammed hard into the wall right where he had stood, sending plaster and stone fragments flying. The two remaining outlaws reacted lightning-fast: one laid down covering fire while the other smashed through a window and fled into the darkness outside.

Kane did not risk a reckless pursuit. He spun around and charged up the stairs to the second floor to seize an elevated vantage point. Through the window, he clearly spotted the short gang leader dragging the hostage girl across the street and vanishing into an aged alleyway on the opposite side.

He was alone, with no backup in sight. After a split second of calculation, Kane vaulted out the window, sprinted full speed across the road, and cut off the only entrance to the alley.

Two more shots rang out, rounds pinning the gangster’s escape route shut.

The short bandit dragged the girl deeper into the alley’s shadow, his voice edged with wariness. “You’re one of the enforcers?”

“Just a witness who stumbled onto this,” Kane replied, keeping his pistol trained on the shadows. “Let her go, and I’ll let you walk free.”

“I’ve got contraband and cash—all of it’s yours,” the gangster tried bribing him. “Just let me slip away.”

Kane’s tone left no room for compromise. “This uniform means I cannot shirk my duty. I’ll spare your life, but your crimes won’t be overlooked.”

After a tense standoff, the gangster roughly shoved the girl forward, his voice cold and vicious. “Keep walking. Try to run, and I’ll put a bullet in you right away.”