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

Ethan leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, gazing at Drek with a look that bordered on kindness. An innocent smile danced at the edges of his lips, while flecks of red blood dotted his face, gradually hardening into a dull rust color.

"If you dare to run away," Ethan stated, his tone remaining as steady and casual as if chatting about the day's forecast, "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 in the widening puddle of blood seeping over the wooden floor, palms flat on the slick ground as if to anchor the whirling surroundings. His head drooped low, shoulders shuddering violently while he retched. Vomit poured from his mouth, blending with the blood below in a grotesque mix of yellow and red.

It took long minutes before words could escape him. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, etching clear paths amid the dirt and splatter.

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

Even someone as ruthless as him, who had slain without remorse and erected his domain on others' pain, struggled to comprehend the brutality he'd just seen. This wasn't mere killing, he realized faintly. It was something far worse, a horror from dreams invading reality. In his eyes, Ethan appeared as a fiend risen from the depths, cloaked in the guise of youth.

"Good," Ethan replied, stepping away from the doorframe. "Assemble everyone in two hours. You can go now. And send somebody to tidy this mess."

Drek nodded, his head jerking like a faulty puppet wound too tight. He attempted to rise, but his feet skidded in the gore, sending him sprawling back on his hands. On all fours, he dragged himself to the door, trailing bloody palm marks, then hauled himself up using the frame. He refused to glance behind. The sight was unbearable.

Two hours passed, and the main hall at the Black Bull Gang's base brimmed with people.

Ethan occupied the throne-like chair at the hall's forefront, a grand piece once Drek's, hewn from shadowy timber.

Drek positioned himself at his side like a loyal underling, eyes glued to the ground.

The gang's other chiefs stood bewildered, faces blending intrigue with caution. This stranger youth was unknown to them, yet his presence choked the air. An unseen force weighed upon the space, stifling queries and dissent into quiet.

"I assume everyone's here?" Ethan inquired evenly.

"Yes, sir," Drek answered promptly, his voice breaking at the end.

"James hasn't come back in seven days," Drek continued warily, as if sharing details that could earn favor.

"Understood."

Ethan's gaze scanned the assembled group, each feeling its burden like a tangible force.

"I am Ethan Hunt. Starting now, I take command as the Black Bull Gang's ultimate boss. No one ranks above me. Gang members report solely to the leaders. The group's setup changes today. Only top leaders stay. The others depart."

No anger laced his words. No warnings were issued.

Still, opposition seemed impossible.

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

Drek dipped his head even lower.

"Obey," he murmured, voice faint as a breath.

They complied. Lower members exited in puzzled quiet, the door shutting with a resounding boom.

The ensuing discussion stretched five hours.

In that span, Ethan gleaned all about the city's underbelly depths. He discovered the number of active gangs, district controllers, and hidden power brokers. He heard of police corruption running like a stream, and politicians forever marked by graft.

He absorbed it all without pausing them.

Questions came only as required.

At last, talk shifted to more captivating matters.

Some mighty gangs boasted genetically altered super soldiers. These enhanced beings endured trials granting superhuman abilities. They hoisted cars effortlessly. They withstood shots that dropped ordinary folk. They dashed quicker than sight could follow.

Tension thickened in the room with this disclosure.

Ethan's face stayed impassive.

"So the wealthy are chasing the prowess of martial artists," Ethan mused inwardly, a wry grin touching his mouth.

Having taken it all in, he reclined a bit in the seat, leather groaning under him.

"The Black Bull Gang quits scavenging and small-time theft," he declared. "We'll produce and distribute cutting-edge arms from here on."

His statement sent waves of astonishment rippling across the hall.

Weapons trade formed the core of elite crime syndicates. It demanded secrets kept like national treasures. It needed global networks. It called for production scales dwarfing their modest outfit.

"Sir," one chief said hesitantly, voice quivering, "arms dealing belongs to major cartels. We lack the means."

Ethan fixed his stare on him.

"Don't concern yourself with that. Get ready for what's ahead."

His manner brooked no uncertainty.

Inside his thoughts lay expertise on myriad weapon designs. From basic guns to sophisticated projectile tech, he grasped their blueprints deeply. In this earthly realm, barriers to replication were scarce.

The men gulped, throats working noticeably.

Could this youth really lift them so high?

Drek lingered mute, his gaze swirling with dread and wonder like unmixing fluids.

"But first, all of you must get straight. No crimes without my go-ahead. Everyone joins the gym, and in one month, you'll be flawless. Use whatever it takes to meet the mark. Drek, come with me."

Ethan rose then, the chair dragging noisily on the floor.

To build a gang, perfection was essential. Flaws would get cut like withered limbs from a thriving plant.

Drek trailed him sans queries.

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

"Sir, about fifty thousand Federation credits," Drek admitted, tone tinged with shame.

"That skimpy? Hand me a roster of shady firms, crooked bureaucrats, and similar fat cats with hidden wealth," Ethan instructed coolly.

"Right away, sir. The list comes tomorrow," Drek responded, spine straightening. Witnessing Ethan's assurance, even he envisioned joining a world-class syndicate. Terror lingered deep inside, yet ambition began to bud beside it.

Ethan nodded and stepped out. He aimed to tour the city, gauging residents' lives. Insights would flow from that.

Ethan strode along the slum path, boots grinding on stones and trash, until he left the shanties behind.

The metropolis exceeded his expectations in polish. Air stayed pure, purged of smog tormenting typical cities. Streets gleamed spotless, maintained diligently without debris. It evoked a Japanese feel, through neat avenues and streamlined layout.

He wandered the boulevards, observing folks, catching their talks.

He soaked up every detail.

His prime goal: gauge the rot's depth. Greater corruption meant richer hauls from draining them.

Yet he felt let down—the citizens proved overly refined. They followed rules effortlessly, implying just laws. Cops patrolling nodded warmly to locals, who returned the grins.

Ethan's inquisitiveness peaked, so he halted a bystander.

"Is the city always this peaceful?" he asked.