My attributes are increasing infinitely Chapter 460: Supreme Leader of the Black bull gang

Ethan positioned himself at the doorway, his shoulder propped casually against the frame, as he observed Drek with a gaze that bordered on kindness. An innocent smile lingered at the edges of his lips, while flecks of red stained his face, gradually hardening into a dull, brownish hue.

"If you dare to run away," Ethan stated, his voice maintaining that serene, everyday lilt one might employ when chatting about the climate, "I will find you from any corner of the world. And when I do, your ending will be a hundred times more terrifying than his."

Drek's legs had failed him ages ago. He knelt amid the widening puddle of blood seeping over the wooden floor, palms flattened against the slick surface in a futile bid to halt the whirling dizziness. His head drooped low, shoulders jerking spasmodically while he retched. The sour vomit poured from his mouth, blending with the blood below into a grotesque mix of yellow and crimson.

Many tense seconds dragged by before words could escape him. Tears coursed down his cheeks, etching clear paths amid the dirt and splatters.

"I will not run away," he rasped, his voice fractured and scarcely recognizable as human. "I will not run away."

Even someone as ruthless as him—a figure who had slain without a second thought and erected his domain on the agony of others—struggled to comprehend the brutality he'd just beheld. This transcended mere killing, he realized faintly. It was an otherworldly horror, straight from the depths of night terrors, not reality. In his eyes, Ethan resembled a fiend risen from the abyss, cloaked in the guise of youth.

"Good," Ethan replied, shoving away from the doorframe. "Assemble everyone in two hours. You're free to go now. And send someone to tidy this mess."

Drek nodded, his head jerking repeatedly like a malfunctioning puppet pushed beyond its limits. He attempted to rise, but his feet skidded in the gore, sending him sprawling back onto his palms. Dragging himself to the exit on all fours, he trailed bloody hand marks, then hauled his body up gripping the frame. He refused to glance behind. The sight was unbearable.

Two hours passed, and the primary chamber of the Black Bull Gang's base brimmed with occupants.

Ethan occupied the dominant, throne-resembling chair at the hall's forefront. This imposing piece, once Drek's, was hewn from shadowy timber.

Drek lingered at his side like a lesser aide, gaze locked downward.

The remaining gang chiefs assembled in bewilderment, their features blending intrigue with caution. This stranger was unknown to them, yet his presence choked the air. An unseen force bore down, stifling any urge for queries or dissent.

"I take it all are here?" Ethan inquired evenly.

"Yes, sir," Drek answered promptly, his tone faltering at the end.

"James has not returned for seven days," Drek supplemented warily, as if sharing details that could hold worth.

"Understood."

Ethan's gaze roamed over the assembled group, each feeling its burden as a tangible force.

"I am Ethan Hunt. Starting now, I assume command as the Black Bull Gang's ultimate head. No one holds sway over me. Gang members will heed only the organization's leaders henceforth. The hierarchy shifts immediately. Solely the top-tier commanders stay. The others depart."

No raised voice marked his declaration. No ultimatums followed.

Still, opposition remained unspoken.

A few chiefs glanced at Drek by reflex, hoping for direction from their longtime guide.

Drek dipped his head even lower.

"Obey," he murmured, scarcely audible.

And obey they did. The junior ranks shuffled out in puzzled quiet, the door sealing shut with a resounding boom.

The ensuing discussion stretched across five hours.

In that span, Ethan gleaned full details on the city's shadowy underbelly tiers. He discovered the array of gangs active within the metropolis, the district dominions, and the hidden power brokers. Insights came on the graft surging through law enforcement like a torrent, alongside the bribe-tainted officials.

He absorbed it all without a single break.

Questions arose solely when clarity demanded.

At last, the talk veered toward more captivating matters.

Evidently, select formidable gangs deployed genetically altered super-soldiers. These subjects had endured cutting-edge modifications enabling superhuman exploits. Vehicles yielded to their grip. They endured shots lethal to ordinary folk. Their speed outpaced visual pursuit.

Tension thickened the atmosphere with each disclosure.

Ethan's face stayed impassive.

"So the wealthy seek to rival the prowess of martial artists," Ethan mused inwardly, a wry grin curling his mouth.

Having taken it all in, he reclined a bit in the seat, eliciting a groan from the cushioning.

"The Black Bull Gang abandons scavenging and minor offenses," he announced. "Henceforth, we produce and distribute cutting-edge arms."

His statement sent waves of astonishment rippling outward.

Weapons trafficking underpinned the mightiest illicit networks. It demanded expertise shrouded like national enigmas. It hinged on global ties. It necessitated production scales dwarfing their modest operation.

"Sir," one chief attempted hesitantly, voice quivering, "arms dealing falls under elite cartels' domain. We lack the means."

Ethan fixed him with a stare.

"Leave those concerns to me. Simply ready yourselves for the changes ahead."

His delivery brooked no uncertainty.

Within his thoughts lay blueprints for myriad armaments. From basic guns to sophisticated projectile arrays, their designs were ingrained deeply. In this earthly realm, barriers to replication were scarce.

The gang members gulped audibly, throats working visibly.

Might this youth truly hoist them to such heights?

Drek remained mute, his stare mingling dread and reverence like unmixing liquids.

"Yet prior to that, you must all purify yourselves. No unauthorized crimes will stand. Each joins a gym immediately, forging perfection in one month's time. Employ whatever methods required to meet it. Drek, come with me."

Ethan rose then, the chair dragging noisily across the ground.

For a gang under his banner, flawlessness was non-negotiable. Flaws would be excised like withered limbs from a thriving sapling.

Drek trailed him sans inquiry.

"What's our current cash reserves?" Ethan queried while navigating the hallway.

"Sir, around fifty thousand Federation credits," Drek responded, embarrassment tingeing his words.

"That paltry? Compile a roster of tainted firms, crooked bureaucrats, and similar figures hoarding illicit wealth," Ethan directed steadily.

"Right away, sir. The list arrives tomorrow," Drek affirmed, posture firming as he replied. Witnessing Ethan's assurance ignited visions of global syndicate status even in him. Terror lingered profoundly, yet optimism budded nearby.

Ethan acknowledged with a nod and stepped outdoors. He aimed to survey the urban populace's conditions. Such observation would reveal much.

Ethan traversed the slum path, boots grinding over stones and refuse, until he exited the shanties.

The metropolis surpassed his expectations in refinement. Air flowed pure, purged of smog afflicting typical cities. Streets gleamed spotless, maintained diligently without debris. It evoked a Japanese essence, through its structured avenues and streamlined layout.

He wandered the boulevards, eyeing residents, eavesdropping on dialogues.

Every detail soaked in.

His prime objective centered on gauging graft levels. Deeper corruption promised richer yields from their extortion.

Yet dismay struck, for citizens proved excessively orderly. Laws were followed effortlessly, implying genuine respect. Patrolling officers engaged folks with friendly grins, met in kind by the public.

Ethan's intrigue overwhelmed restraint, prompting him to halt a bystander.

"Is the city perpetually this tranquil?" he inquired.