David Benson pressed down on the police pneumatic gun, cautiously approaching.

He observed carefully for a long while before reaching out to check the other person’s nose. Turning back to his colleagues, he said, “It’s fine, he’s already been killed.”

A few agents quickly gathered around, briefly checked the scene, and began calling for backup.

David Benson said to his son, “Hurry home! Remember, don’t mention this to your mom.”

Mark Benson obediently agreed and turned to leave—he definitely didn’t want to get involved with black martial artists.

One agent asked, “Shouldn’t we ask Little Mark a few questions?”

David Benson sighed and said, “He just happened to pass by. What could we possibly find out? Better let him go home early so your sister-in-law doesn’t worry.”

That agent also felt there was no way Mark Benson could be involved in this. An eighteen-year-old kid—if a black martial artist really targeted him, wouldn’t he be dead in just a few moves?

This kind of questioning really had no investigative value.

Mark Benson was also the son of old Big Brother Benson, whom all the agents knew well, so there was no need to make things difficult.

Everyone present believed that Mark Benson had just discovered the body. Not a single person suspected that this young man was the one who had killed.

For Mark Benson, even after two lifetimes, this was the first time he had killed someone.

He hadn’t felt much when he acted earlier—after all, black martial artists were all criminals, and the other guy had tried to kill him. But after returning home, he started to feel uneasy.

Little Mark hurriedly ate dinner, went back to his room, collapsed onto his bed, silently recited a code phrase, and summoned the Tianwu System.

This system he’d piggybacked onto could be activated by closing his eyes and silently saying the code “Fasu Tutu,” which would bring up a pale blue screen.

A pop-up message appeared: Killed Qinglong Society martial artist An Tianxing Xu Li, awarded 320 martial arts points! Acquired the enemy’s technique “Minor Marrow Extraction Palm.” Would you like to learn it?

Mark Benson had no interest in the Minor Marrow Extraction Palm.

This technique came from Xingxiu Sea University.

The university had a nice name, but it was a third-rate school, and its martial arts weren’t impressive. Little Mark casually selected “No.”

Immediately, another prompt appeared: Host declined to learn Minor Marrow Extraction Palm. The technique has been converted to 150 martial arts points.

After closing the system, Mark Benson looked around his bedroom, where he’d lived for eighteen years and knew every inch by heart. He sighed softly and muttered to himself, “My Great Thousand Evolutionary Sutra still hasn’t broken through the nineteenth level. The hope of getting into Shangtian Zen Temple University really is slim.”

“Guess I’ll have to count on the big reincarnation gift package.”

Mark Benson let his thoughts wander for a while, finally dispelling the anxiety from his first kill. Just as he was considering whose house to go to for study review, the smart wristband in his backpack suddenly let out a sharp alarm.

Mark Benson had turned off almost all notifications; the few that remained signaled only the most serious events.

He picked up the smart wristband, and a very urgent voice came through: “This is Vera Clark, Little Mark, hurry to the Provincial Hospital!”

Mark Benson’s heart skipped a beat, and he quickly replied, “I’m on my way.”

Vera Clark added, “Don’t tell your mom!”

Mark Benson grew even more alarmed. He didn’t even use the door—he opened the window and leapt out, pushing his Blossom-Shadow Lightness Skill to the limit.

The Provincial Hospital was the best hospital in the three eastern provinces.

If it wasn’t extremely serious, the Public Security Bureau would never send agents there for treatment. Only at the bureau’s own affiliated hospitals could agents get full reimbursement; at the Provincial Hospital, only seventy percent was covered.

In just over ten minutes, Little Mark sprinted all the way and burst into the Provincial Hospital of the three eastern provinces.

Outside the emergency room, several agents looked anxious.

Chapter 8: A Level Fifteen Martial Artist Is Nothing!

When Vera Clark saw Mark Benson, she sighed, grabbed Little Mark, and instructed, “Don’t be too nervous. Your father is in emergency care—he’ll be fine. Go sign a few emergency documents.”

Mark Benson didn’t hesitate. He signed his name on the emergency consent forms handed over by a young nurse, then asked, “Did my dad run into a black martial artist?”

Vera Clark nodded and said, “Sirius Black Moon attacked the Public Security Bureau and took away his comrade’s corpse. Your father was struck by his palm.”

Little Mark’s eyes immediately turned red. He gritted his teeth and cursed, “Sirius, I want you—”

Before he could finish the threat “to die with no burial place,” Mark Benson was smacked by Vera Clark, who scolded, “What are you thinking? Sirius Black Moon is a level fifteen martial artist, a real menace on the Empire’s most-wanted list. Even I can’t handle him. You’re just a student—what’s with the tough talk? You’re only a level two martial artist. This isn’t something you should get involved in.”

“I’ll personally take action to avenge your father.”

Mark Benson rubbed his head and muttered, “Sister Wei, you’re only a level thirteen martial artist yourself.”

Vera Clark smacked him again and snapped, “Doesn’t your Sister Wei have colleagues? Don’t we have pneumatic guns? We’re here to deal with criminals, not to compete in martial arts. If I run into Black Moon, I’ll just shoot him.”

Mark Benson was left sulking by the scolding and didn’t dare say anything more.

But deep down, he truly felt a murderous intent.