Samuel Lincoln suddenly realized, “That’s exactly it. Passing on schedules in the game is much safer than meeting in person. I’ve played for years and never thought the game had this kind of function, but you figured it out on your first day… How did you think of it?”

“Third Uncle taught me.”

“He mentioned this game?”

“He said that sometimes passing on information is harder than obtaining it, and every channel is worth cherishing.”

“Just from that one sentence, you thought of all this?”

“I looked up some background on the game.” Henry Lincoln tapped his head. Even as an interstellar orphan, there was a chip inside his body—not enough to run the game, but more than enough to read text.

“No wonder you level up so slowly. I thought you just didn’t know how to play.” Samuel Lincoln mocked, picking up his cup to drink the last bit, but suddenly his body stiffened, and his expression changed.

Henry Lincoln’s first instinct was to turn around and check the situation, but years of training kicked in at the last moment. He lunged forward, grabbing Samuel Lincoln and tackling him to the ground in the street, not even having time to throw away the cup in his hand.

Chapter 7: Living Spies, Dead Spies

“There are two kinds of spies: living ones and dead ones.” Third Uncle raised those two uneven fingers again for emphasis, but sometimes even he was at a loss for words. After a long pause, he lowered his hand, suddenly losing interest, and simply said, “Only after you’ve experienced it will you understand.”

The two newly initiated spies hadn’t even figured out what their mission was before they experienced a life-and-death crisis.

Henry Lincoln reacted a bit faster, tackling Samuel Lincoln, but after hitting the ground, his mind went blank. He couldn’t remember what to do next; all the training he’d received hid away, not a single bit coming to his aid.

Samuel Lincoln was the opposite. He froze for a moment at first, but after hitting the ground, he reacted quickly—pushing Henry Lincoln aside, rolling to his feet, and taking off in a sprint.

Henry Lincoln sat on the street for a while before he could stand up. His mind gradually cleared, and he realized Samuel Lincoln wasn’t running away, but chasing someone.

At the same moment they hit the ground, someone hurried past them.

He stayed where he was, searching for clues, while passersby occasionally glanced over in surprise.

Over ten minutes later, Samuel Lincoln returned, panting. “I couldn’t catch him—he was too fast. Did you find anything?”

Henry Lincoln pointed to a small dent in the wall.

The streetlight was dim. Samuel Lincoln reached out and felt around for a while, recalling a lesson from their teacher. He frowned, “This is…”

Henry Lincoln nodded.

They said nothing more, walking back to their place. One after the other, they entered the building and climbed the stairs, every step filled with caution.

There were no outsiders in the room, and nothing seemed changed, but they still checked everything again and locked the door.

“Let’s contact Old Qian,” Samuel Lincoln suggested.

“No rush. Let’s figure out what happened first.”

“What else could it be?” Samuel Lincoln couldn’t help but worry. “We were used as bait!”

“First, what’s so attractive about the two of us? Second, the fish already bit, so why didn’t anyone reel it in? Why let the assassin get away?”

Samuel Lincoln slumped heavily onto the sofa, looking discouraged. “Was that really a ‘one-stroke arrow’?”

“I think so.”

Spies use all kinds of weapons. One popular type, called an arrow, is actually a gun—a tube made of special material, almost metal-free, ranging from seven or eight centimeters to over ten centimeters long, loaded with one to three bullets. The user holds it in their hand and presses the firing switch at the end with their pinky.

The weapon’s effective range is less than ten meters. Its advantages: easy to make, easy to carry, easy to hide, no extra movement needed to fire, almost silent, and the ammo is mixed with chemicals that cause unstoppable bleeding in the target.

It’s more like a dagger, but with greater power.

Their teacher had once shown them a picture of a one-stroke arrow, explained the basic principle, and then burned the picture to ashes on the spot.

Students weren’t allowed to handle real weapons, since most of them would never need to use one.

Samuel Lincoln was silent for a long time, his expression shifting, then he looked up and said, “That’s how the barber was killed.”

Henry Lincoln nodded. Although the news never mentioned the weapon used in the assassination, some details suggested the barber’s wound was very much like one caused by a one-stroke arrow.

“Why? Why? Wh—”

Suddenly, faint footsteps sounded outside the door. Both of them jumped up, darting to the doorway and standing on either side of the frame, ready for action.

They’d learned some unarmed combat techniques. Henry Lincoln was poor at it, Samuel Lincoln was better, so the plan was for Henry Lincoln to rush out first to draw the enemy’s attention, then Samuel Lincoln would deliver a heavy blow.

No words were needed; a glance was enough to set the plan.

The footsteps passed by the door and faded away. The two didn’t relax, continuing to listen. They’d learned tricks like this: pretending to pass by to gain trust, then sneaking back for a surprise attack.

This time, they were overreacting—the footsteps outside clearly belonged to another resident on the same floor.