At that moment, Mr. Wichai crossed his legs and spoke coldly.
"Did you really think we were idiots? That we couldn't see through such a simple trick? Someone coming to tip us off at a time like this... heh, only a complete moron would fall for that, right?"
All the anger and recklessness had vanished from his face, leaving only a chill as deep as a dark pool.
The man beside him was clearly used to it. He merely bent low and spoke quietly.
"Boss, should we notify the military outside...?"
Mr. Wichai rolled his eyes hard.
"Notify them? That phone number was real. They might have supplied those documents themselves—those bastards can plainly see we're going under, and now they're getting ready to scatter like monkeys from a falling tree. Wouldn't notifying them just be asking for trouble?"
"Then what should we do now?"
"Find a way to evacuate. We can't stay here, but take as much of the important stuff as we can—Number Eight, I remember you practice a storage technique. How much can you hold?"
"...Not much. And my technique only reduces weight and volume to one-twentieth. Someone still has to carry everything."
"Then prioritize the high-value items, followed by gold. Leave the cash here... oh, right, if we have any spare manpower, pack up the US dollars too. We can't let those sons of bitches outside get everything for free..."
However, while they were talking...
None of them noticed that not a drop of blood had flowed from the young man's head. In fact, there wasn't even any brain matter.
Suddenly...
Clap, clap, clap.
A few rounds of applause rang out.
Mr. Wichai turned, and his eyes instantly filled with disbelief—as though he had seen a sow dancing in a tree while fucking singing The Butterfly