Chapter Twelve: Recruitment

Gin had to admit that the man opposite him had piqued his interest.

The intelligence to locate gold coins all on his own, the ability to fight three armed men barehanded and not only survive but kill one and drive the others into retreat—his skills were impressive. More importantly...

Gin observed the man’s attire.

A black trench coat, black trousers, black leather shoes; underneath, a gray double-breasted vest paired with a white shirt and tie—every piece impeccably tailored.

A good sense of style.

As for how one could fight effectively dressed like that? True masters were not constrained by their clothing. The man opposite had taken on three men single-handedly and emerged superior, hadn’t he?

With this thought, Gin felt a spark of admiration and a desire to recruit him.

“Who I am—does it really matter?” Morlay looked at the silver-haired man opposite him, his demeanor suddenly serious, his entire presence sharpening.

This man was dangerous, certainly no ordinary thug.

“Indeed,” Gin replied with a smile tugging at his lips.

“Hand over the gold coins, and I’ll offer you a chance to join us.”

Again, it was all about the coins. Morlay narrowed his eyes, appraising the group before him.

However, their usual channels for fencing stolen goods were cut off. If he tried to find a new outlet himself, it would be time-consuming, risky, and fraught with complications. Maybe it was best to join them and use their network.

But the attitude of the silver-haired man irked Morlay. Where did his confidence come from?

“I must say, you’re quite confident.” Morlay flipped his right hand, producing a pistol, then without even looking, fired a shot behind him.

The ropes suspending three large sacks of gold coins snapped with a sharp crack, and the bags crashed to the floor some ten meters behind him, stirring up a great cloud of dust.

“The coins are here.”

Not bad. Gin’s satisfaction deepened. This man not only wielded the same Beretta M92F as himself, but his marksmanship was remarkable. More importantly, he understood the situation and decisively handed over the coins under pressure—truly, a wise man knows the times.

“You’re sensible,” Gin sneered, beckoning his men to move forward and retrieve the gold.

Yet Morlay’s voice rang out again: “But whether you deserve to keep it... I still need to test your mettle.”

Gin’s expression darkened instantly.

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Such misplaced pride. Gin found it tiresome and muttered under his breath, “Foolish.”

He then waved his hand, and six henchmen stepped forward, pistols drawn. Turning on his heel, Gin strode out the door, Vodka close behind.

But he was reluctant to lose such a rare talent slipping through his fingers and decided to give Morlay one more chance.

“If you survive them, I won’t kill you,” Gin glanced back with a playful yet cruel smile. “I’ll recruit you again. But remember this—I never let anyone refuse me twice.”

With that, he turned and left. The six henchmen fanned out, forming a deadly encirclement.

“Is he always this confident?” Morlay casually asked one of the black-suited men.

Their answer came in six simultaneous gunshots.

But just as before, the rate of fire was moderate. Even with six shooting at once, their firepower density was too low to suppress Morlay effectively. He only needed to track the aim of six barrels, accounting for deviations, mentally mapping their trajectories. In such an open space, six pistols alone could hardly form an impenetrable wall of bullets.

Morlay dashed through the gaps between shots. At the moment his foot touched down, a silver-gray streak of light flashed over him. Instantly, a massive cloud of dust erupted behind him, and he had already closed in on one of his opponents. The six men were still focused on Morlay’s previous position, their eyes not yet turning toward him.

Perhaps in the end, he would join this organization. Morlay thought, deciding to spare their lives.

He slapped the arm of the nearest man, wrenching it so his pistol dropped uselessly. Then he withdrew another gun from his pocket, firing with both hands to either side.

Two shots rang out, and four of the henchmen’s arms went limp, dropping their weapons to the floor. Morlay then faced the last man, holstered his left pistol, raised the right one, and pointed it at the man’s head.

The man swallowed hard, trembling as he switched his gun to the other hand and shot his own right forearm before collapsing like the others.

“Bang, bang, bang.”

Morlay turned around just as Gin and Vodka returned inside, witnessing the six men sprawled on the floor—one with a broken arm, five bleeding.

Even Gin, experienced as he was, couldn’t help but applaud silently. Fighting three alone was one thing, but taking on six trained gunmen and incapacitating them single-handedly—such combat prowess in the organization, even among code-named operatives, was rare except among the most skilled fighters.

Moreover, none of them were killed, which was even harder than slaughtering them.

Most importantly, this confirmed his suspicion—the man before him exercised restraint. If he had no intention of joining, why spare their lives in battle?

After all, killing members of the organization would cost him any chance of becoming a core member.

“Impressive skills. More importantly, you know your limits.” Gin clapped slowly.

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He glanced at the fallen men and nodded to Vodka. “Vodka, send someone to get them out of here and take them to the organization’s hospital.”

“Now, I shall keep my promise. So, will you join us?”

Morlay gave no answer, instead asking, “What do you go by?”

“Gin.”

“Gin. I said I wanted to test your mettle,” Morlay shook his head lightly. “Those men just now—they weren’t good enough.”

He fixed his gaze on Gin. “But you, you’re strong.”

“Is that so?” Gin’s interest was genuinely piqued.

“It doesn’t matter how many of those guys there are. It’s people like you who truly reflect the caliber of an organization.”

Morlay assumed a fighting stance.

“Defeat me, and I will swear loyalty to you.”

Loyalty? Mere words, but the performance must be complete.

Besides, if someday the entire organization fell under my command, who could say I was disloyal?

Gin, however, did not sense Morlay’s inner thoughts. Faced with the challenge, he was not angry but rather excited—a feeling he hadn’t experienced in ages.

When was the last time he felt this way? Gin wondered.

“One thing you got wrong. It’s not loyalty to me, but to the organization,” Gin said, drawing his pistol.

This was the signal to accept the challenge.

In the next moment, battle erupted.