Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

'Oh yes. That, too. The tour!' Tristan thought, watching Derek walk back inside the bar.

This was just another reason for Tristan to burn with black-bright, vitriolic hatred toward the unknown terrorist mastermind.

***n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Later that night, after the party was over, Tristan told Lenny to drive him to his house. There, he changed identities and walked on foot to his King Lion mansion.

By this point, the tiny amount of alcohol Tristan drank at that party left his system, but he still told one of his guards to drive.

The destination was the place where Cutout put the bomber.

Calling it a safehouse would've been giving it too much service. It was a house, shared by three of the King Lion Gang goons, that had nowhere better to live. The surrounding place was a complete ghetto, and the building itself was shit.

But the basement of it was a good place to keep people in, even for long periods of time—the goons above could be trusted to keep watch over the prisoners.

Tristan had several sports like that at his disposal.

When he descended into the basement, the bomber was there, already tied to a chair with his mouth gagged. There was a fresh bruise on his cheek.

Cutout was there, too, looming over the man menacingly.

"Boss," he greeted. "I'm keeping an eye on this guy."

Tristan eyed his bruise.

"Did he misbehave?"

"Yeah. He was only nice and quiet for fifteen minutes, then tried to jump the car." Cutout shrugged with one shoulder. "I assumed you needed him whole, though."

"That's right. Good work." Tristan walked in front of the man. "Heard about the terrorist attacks already, by the way?"

The words were intended for the prisoner, who was looking at Tristan with large, scared eyes. The terrifying, dark gaze of a demon who was at the same time incredibly cold-blooded and incredibly angry would've made much stronger people freeze in fear.

"No, boss." Cutout said.

A couple seconds later, when the prisoner realized also what Tristan said, he jolted in shock.

Tristan sneered.

"And there were. Several of them. It was something really insane. Imagine—half a dozen religious fanatics came up with an idea that pop-culture is blasphemy and tried to blow up several celebs. Actually blew up one."

Tristan was still talking to the prisoner, who still stared at him in dumb shock.

"So," Tristan pulled out a knife, then looked at it thoughtfully. "I was just really surprised to hear all that after this dumb cockroach swore he came up with an idea for his attack entirely on his own."

The man in question shook like a leaf. Cutout just blinked—he had an admirable lack of curiosity when it came to business.

"So. You are going to answer all my questions now. Nicely and quietly. And if you don't," Tristan twirled his knife in his hand. "I will get even angrier."

After measuring that the prisoner was scared enough now—whatever rebellious spirit he had was crushed easily under Tristan's heel—Tristan cut off the gag from his mouth.

"I s-swear, I know nothing! This is the first time I hear of it! Oh strict angel of death, please keep me away from the Hell's miasma-ridden plains! Oh, Lord in Heaven—agh!"

Tristan's punch under the man's ribs stopped his prattling.

"Don't speak until spoken to, cockroach. And when you do, call me 'sir'."

The man whimpered and nodded.

"Now. Tell me your name."

***

The interrogation (really just an interrogation, the man required no torture, just enough fear) took four hours. Not because the man resisted, but because it took a lot of patience to pick kernels of useful information from his rambling.

Tristan knew he wouldn't be able to do it before his Second Identity System upgraded. Somewhere in the new skill system, his torture skill, medicine skill and observation skills changed… And both of them were off the charts now.

They helped Tristan know what to say and what to ask. The real trick of interrogation was to help people to remember even things they thought they forgot, and to put their disjointed impressions into something solid.

With this prisoner, Tristan had to really make his memory work and pick at the slightest details of his story.

The man's name was William Rater. He really worked in the concert hall as a general helper—mostly a helper of carrying heavy things. He was religious back when he took the job, but he didn't hate pop-industry.

This changed over the course of the last year. That was when William met a new work-out group which shared with William their worldviews, infecting him.

They claimed to belong to their own offshoot of Christianity, which they called Noidolism. Noidolists tried to avoid consumerist culture and refused to worship or adore any other person but God himself.

Noidolists also had an online presence. As far as religious cults went, they were small and peaceful. They didn't urge people to kill celebrities, just to ignore them.

"At first I was fine just doing that, sir. But then I began wanting to do something more. Those self-important bastards on TV and the Internet are devils trampling souls of good, pure people!" William admitted with zeal. The more he spoke about this, the angrier he became—almost angry enough to stop being afraid of Tristan. At least as long as William avoided Tristan's gaze.

"The more I thought about it, the more I was sure. These people sold their souls so they could suck in all the devotion made for our Lord, and spit people in faces instead of gratitude! I was going to do this Holy Act, bring flames down upon them like on Sodom and Gomorrah!"

At first, William swore the bomb was his own idea from start to finish. He bought explosives from a shady person he found online (truly, the Internet was a dangerous place) and made a detonator himself. He was going to blow up a lot of people and die in the process, then go to Heaven because the deed was certainly deserving of an eternal reward.

Tristan knew this ramble was too improbable to be true. Perhaps William would've managed to make a bomb without being found by the police first, but there were several more people who had the same idea for the same day!

He kept probing and poking, searching for the influence that gave William the hints and the tools. Tristan almost knew what it was—he saw it amid the threads of relationships coming from William.

There were a lot, most of it various shades of hatred. But there also was one thin and white, which Tristan didn't know what meant.

Tristan found his hint not where he expected, but he found it, and he asked the right question.

"Oh. Yeah, I had strange dreams often in the last month. Hm… I think the first one happened not long before I had the idea for my Holy Act. It was like angels themselves whispered to me in my dreams… Whenever I became stumped about what to do, I would only need to sleep and when I woke up, I would have an idea. But… I don't remember the dreams themselves. No! I really don't, p-please! They were just… light. And holy."

That was the best Tristan got. Dreams.

An impossible connection, but it was the only one Tristan had found so far. Find more adventures on empire

Letting out a tired breath, Tristan hid his knife for good and stepped away from the prisoner.

'Can an idea be actually planted through a dream? Could that white thread be related to dreams?' Tristan bit his lip. Perhaps a year ago he'd say it was impossible, but he had a system and he remembered the day he got it.

'Nothing said that I was the only one in the world with a system. If anything, I should've immediately assumed otherwise. Perhaps… Perhaps there's someone out there who has a system, too, and it lets him plant suggestions into people's dreams?'

It was so outlandish, but both sides of Tristan's enhanced mind told him it was the most probable option. Something supernatural was definitely working there.

With that thought, Tristan turned to Cutout, who had been standing near the wall all this time—watching just in case Tristan needed help.

"Keep William imprisoned until I say otherwise. I don't care where, just make sure he stays able to talk until I need to talk with him again. Chain him to a pipe here—I don't care." Tristan shrugged.

"But-but I told you everything! I answered—"

A glare from Tristan shut the prisoner up.

"So, as I was saying, Cutout…"

The man nodded.

"Got it, boss."

"There was a key to his things, right? I want you to search the man's house for more information—after the prisoner is dealt with. Anything related to that bomb we spoke about."

Cutout nodded again.

Tristan clicked his tongue.

"And keep this all to yourself for now. I don't care if rumors appear, but if someone wants definite information—send them to me."

He had to talk with his underbosses soon.