Floor the Gas, Leave the Rest to Fate

Cross soaked Russell in the slightly murky pool with a pained expression and said stiffly, "That's enough for tonight. We'll continue tomorrow. Get some rest first!"

Cross left without looking back. Every time he recalled Russell's clean, decisive way of getting shot, his head started to ache. He had thought that with a little training, Russell would quickly graduate and become capable. Now it seemed he had been far too optimistic.

If he had to grade Russell's performance just now, Cross would give him a D. Double D, no higher!

The good news was that he hadn't aimed for Russell's head when he fired. Otherwise, finding another excellent assistant would have been difficult!

Russell also wore a pained expression. Everything on TV about people still being full of life after getting shot was a lie. He had only taken one bullet to the thigh, yet he had basically lost his ability to fight. Those people who got shot in the arm and kept firing back, or took more than a dozen bullets without falling—what kind of physiology did they even have?

Russell had expected Cross to suddenly open fire, but he hadn't expected him to fire twice. It was clear that with his current strength, dealing with a top-tier assassin without equipping cards would be extremely difficult.

Soaking in the pool, Russell felt the wound on his thigh itching. The injuries he had suffered during the day also itched, as if ants were crawling over the wounds. It was deeply uncomfortable.

This was a normal reaction to wounds healing. The discomfort came only because the recovery was happening too quickly. The murky liquid in the pool was anything but ordinary. In the world of the Assassin Alliance, aside from Bullet Time and the Loom, the most fantastical thing was the medicinal bath he was currently soaking in.

The medicine in the water could enter through skin contact, stimulate white blood cells, and accelerate recovery. Bruises, knife wounds, fractures—they could all heal within hours. It was far more reliable than Russell's system.

At the Brotherhood headquarters, Textile Factory No. 17, there was also a place called the Recovery Room. It had the same kind of medicinal pool that could rapidly repair injuries.

The Brotherhood's leader, Morgan Freeman—no, leader Sloan—was the biggest idiot in the textile factory, sitting atop a mountain of treasure without realizing it. There were countless ways to make money. Why did he have to choose murder? He could have taken the formula, applied for a patent, opened a factory, and mass-produced diluted versions of this miracle healing medicine.

With such a divine drug in hand, dominating the medical industry would have been child's play. Becoming richer than a nation would have been no dream at all!

"If Sloan went to some website, he'd definitely end up writing a Failure Diary..." Russell closed his eyes and sank into the water.

The next day, Russell's biological clock woke him automatically. He broke through the fully solidified layer of medicine on the surface, climbed out of the pool, changed clothes, and waited, but Cross never appeared.

Russell practiced shooting at the range in the factory. Thanks to his increased Intelligence attribute and the residual firearm memories of the Subway Police, he hit the humanoid targets with One Hundred Percent Accuracy. After emptying five magazines in a row, he gave up on the unchallenging practice.

There was no other reason. He had gotten cocky!

Russell waited a while longer. Seeing that Cross still had not come, he decided to go out and find food despite his empty stomach. The medicinal bath had been extremely effective. All his injuries had completely healed, and there was no sign that he had suffered a gunshot wound the night before. In exchange, he was now starving.

It was Colonel Sanders again. Not because he was poor and had no other options, but because junk food was high in calories and could replenish the energy he had consumed.

After filling his stomach, Russell returned to the factory, but there was still no sign of Cross. He guessed that Cross might be spying on the daily life of his cuckolded son's girlfriend, leaving him unable to type with both hands. Or perhaps he was hunting down some target.

Russell picked up a handgun and did another hour of tedious practice before giving up. Rigid, low-level training could do nothing but kill time; it could not help him improve.

Cross did not have many guns on the rack. This was not his hideout, and Russell could tell that Cross had no intention of being fully honest with him. But that was fine. Russell had seen the original story and knew Cross's greatest weakness: his son—Wesley!

If a chosen one truly existed, then Wesley was the chosen one in the world of the Assassin Alliance.

People lived one life. Some became legends, while others were losers through and through. If one investigated the reason, did they think it was because their abilities were lacking?

No, their abilities were enough. Their genes just weren't good enough!

All roads led to Rome, but some people were born in Rome—and were even fucking Roman princes!

The world of the Assassin Alliance was one that valued bloodlines. Without the adrenaline bloodline, one could never become a top-tier assassin. Wesley had spent only two weeks surpassing the efforts many geniuses had made over twenty years. Who could possibly argue with that?

But Russell was not worried at all. He had cheats!

Speaking of Wesley, Russell felt it was necessary to get in touch with him. The kid would become godlike later on; aside from Cross, he was the most badass one around. While he was still a loser, it was necessary to invest in him.

Although doing so might anger Cross, it would not be Russell's fault. It would just be a chance encounter. How could he possibly know Wesley was Cross's son?

Before his own value was used up, Russell decided to have some fun first!

Russell put on a baseball cap, left the factory, and followed the elevated rail line, searching according to the clues in his memory.

Wesley's rental apartment was near the elevated rail, but Russell found nothing but old three- to five-story apartment buildings nearby. There was an ATM beside Wesley's home, but Russell had already spotted more than thirty ATMs. Wesley often bought medicine near his home to suppress his anxiety attacks, but Russell followed the rail line and found five supermarkets, every one of which sold that medicine.

Russell: "..."

"Fine. I'll treat it as getting familiar with the area. At least when someone chases me, I won't run into a dead end."

Watching the moon rise after sunset, Russell gave up on his plan to find Wesley. There were too few clues, and even if Wesley appeared right in front of him, Russell might not recognize him.

After all, nobody said Wesley in this world had to look exactly like he did in the movie.

As for asking passersby for Wesley's address, Russell did not use that method. What he needed was a chance encounter.

Holding a Family Bucket in his arms, Russell wandered beneath the streetlights. Then the phone in his pocket suddenly rang.

"Shit, where the hell did you run off to again?"

Russell moved the phone slightly farther from his ear. Cross's roar was too deafening; it was practically shaking the earwax out of his ears.

"I waited for you in the factory for a long time, then came out to get something to eat. My current location is..." Russell looked around. There was a supermarket called "THE EGG STORE," with an ATM embedded in the wall beside it.

"Fine, as long as you're alive. No matter where you are, get back to the factory immediately and stay there. Brotherhood assassins are nearby, so be careful." Cross hung up after saying that.

Russell listened to the dial tone, then looked at the supermarket not far ahead. His heart began to race. His instincts told him that this place would become dangerous very soon.

"You're right. I'm heading back now!"

Some things and some people could not be avoided just because one wanted to avoid them. Just as Russell turned around and took a few steps, gunfire suddenly rang out inside the supermarket.

After an explosion, a panicked young loser in a dark blue jacket ran out.

Russell leaned against the wall, his eyes locked firmly on the young loser. Though his face differed slightly from Russell's memory, instinct told him that this young man was Wesley.

Screech!

The piercing sound of tires skidding rang beside Russell's ears. Cross drove a pet transport van out of the alley, slammed on the brakes, and stopped beside him.

"Fuck, what are you doing here?" Cross stared wide-eyed. This was too much of a coincidence.

Russell shrugged without saying anything. He picked up a Chicken Leg from the Family Bucket and took a bite. His meaning was obvious.

Of course he was here to eat. What else could he be doing?

On the other side, Wesley fled into the parking lot in a panic and was picked up by a sleek red supercar.

Dodge Viper SRT-10!

The tradition of American Muscle Cars was to take large displacement to the extreme. This SRT-10 was a true American Displacement Representative: a 600-horsepower, 8.4-liter engine. Bigger displacement, greater power, greater torque, like a viper launching a vicious attack.

Russell nodded repeatedly. "This car is great. What do you think?"

Cross rolled his eyes and dragged Russell into the vehicle. "You drive. Don't lose them... Uh, how are your driving skills?"

"My driving is average. Floor the gas, leave the rest to fate!"

"What!?"

"Fasten your seatbelt and obey Traffic Laws. We're hitting the road..." Russell buckled his seatbelt, his gaze instantly turning incomparably sharp as he floored the accelerator.

Host equipped 'Character Card: BABY.' Countdown: 400 seconds. Timer started!

Cross swallowed and instinctively fastened his seatbelt. He felt an intimidating power coming from Russell, the kind of presence possessed only by someone who had reached the peak of a certain field.

This was an Old Driver!

Failure Diary

Writers fell into two categories: great authors and failures. Some people specialized in great authors, while others specialized in failures.