The Mafia Empire

Chapter 153: Chapter 153 Resurfacing Of The Guar Crucifixion

The car wash worker shook his head, feeling as if his skull was about to burst! He vaguely remembered what had happened before he lost consciousness. He'd been dressed and ready for work when, just as he opened his door, two young men struck him on the head with a club, hitting just above his ear. Then came endless darkness, a void that seemed to compress time. When he opened his eyes again, he was here.

It was a room with chipped tiles embedded in the walls, the temperature low enough for him to feel a chill. His clothes had been stripped, and he was bound to a table. He struggled, but whoever had tied him up had done a thorough job; the ropes on his limbs didn't budge. He gritted his teeth and yelled, calling out for a while, but no one came.

Perhaps because he was now fully conscious, he felt colder, his body trembling and his skin prickling with goosebumps.

"Damn it, who's messing with me? My boss is Mad Dog Wesson—you'll pay for this!"

"All right, I was wrong! I realize how foolish I was. Please, just give me something to wear, or at least a blanket!"

…

No matter what he said, no one came to disturb the room's solitude. Just as the car wash worker was about to succumb to despair, fearing he'd freeze to death, he heard the sound of metal scraping—a door opening—and several footsteps approaching. His spirits lifted, and he licked his chapped lips, weakly calling out, "Damn it, help me out here! I'll do anything, just don't leave me alone here, okay?"

He turned his head toward the source of the sound and saw several young men in rubber suits stepping into the room—the kind of rubber suits favored by butchers, where blood and animal fluids could be easily washed off with a bucket of water.

Five young men, to be exact. The one leading looked somewhat simple-minded. He approached the table, eyeing the car wash worker, who was too tightly bound to even struggle. "Your mother's a Guar, isn't she?"

People often say that, in life-or-death situations, humans can tap into unimaginable strength. In moments like this, sometimes another phenomenon occurs: heightened mental clarity.

The car wash worker's mind clicked, realizing these men were Guars. He nodded vigorously, trying to appear as honest and sincere as possible. "Yes, you're right. My mother's Guar, so that makes me Guar too."

The young man continued, "Didn't your mother ever tell you what happens to Guars who betray their own?"

The car wash worker looked blank for a moment, then quickly stammered, "I haven't betrayed anyone! I swear, I'm just a car wash guy—a nobody! Even if I wanted to betray someone, I wouldn't even know any big shots to betray!"

"Exactly!" The young man nodded, stepping back. "You should've listened to your mother more. In Guar tradition, traitors must face divine punishment. Since you admit you're Guar, you'll face the consequences we all must accept. Let the gods and the ancestral kings judge whether you're guilty or innocent!" He fell silent, and the other four surrounded the car wash worker.

One of them stuffed a cloth into his mouth, and a salty taste spread instantly in his mouth, tinged with a stench he found strangely familiar.

A second later, before his mind could process the sensation, a searing pain ripped through his mind, shattering his defenses.

They were skinning him alive!

"Damn it, stop… please, there must be some mistake!" he cursed and pleaded, but the young men seemed oblivious. Their knives gleamed silver and were razor-sharp; he could see his skin peeling away from the fat membrane bit by bit. Oddly, there wasn't much blood. He prayed to survive but also wished to slip away quickly to God's embrace.

In endless terror, he passed out.

When he awoke, he was strung up near his home, hanging from a statue of a general in a nearby park.

In less than an hour, as dawn began to break, morning joggers arrived at the park—a popular spot for early exercise. A piercing scream shattered the morning silence, and police soon swarmed the scene.

Looking at the skinned, barely-breathing, unrecognizable figure dangling from the statue, Pronto's veins bulged on his forehead. He took only a few glances before turning away, the sight disgusting him so much that even his veteran instincts made him want to vomit. He waved over two young officers, who looked equally sickened. "Get him down and rush him to the hospital. If he makes it, ask if he remembers who did this."

"What if… he doesn't make it?" one young officer asked hesitantly.

Experience, or perhaps just desensitization, separated Pronto's response. He rolled his eyes. "If he doesn't make it, do you plan to bring a corpse back to the station? Idiot! Of course, we hand him over to the hospital—they'll turn him into a popsicle and then burn him!"

After giving instructions, Pronto left the scene, got into his car, and sat in silence for a moment before instructing his driver, "Take me to the Eastern Star, down that damned Queen's Avenue!"

There was no doubt in his mind that Julian was behind this. Before Julian's rise, no one would use such brutal punishment on Guars. Only after his ascendance had this sort of punishment resurfaced in the city. Whatever this guy's betrayal entailed, it undoubtedly involved Julian.

Honestly, Pronto didn't want to be involved in such messy affairs. He knew that even if he discovered Julian was behind it, he wouldn't be able to lock him up. Julian's influence stretched across the Eastern Star, his club, and even the streets, with plenty of people willing to take the fall for him. Within Ternell's Guar community, Julian's authority had surged rapidly, even surpassing Heidler's.

People trusted Julian, and he repaid that trust by lifting many Guar families out of poverty, giving them clothes to wear, food to eat, and a decent life. To the true elites of the city, this "decency" might be no more than the desperate cries of the impoverished, but Julian had achieved it—he had changed their lives, and they trusted him.

Pronto's police car soon parked outside the Eastern Star. From the second floor, Julian watched him step out of the vehicle, shrugged, and turned to Dave with a smile. "Trouble has arrived."

Yes, trouble had indeed arrived.

Pronto entered with a scowl, taking a seat across from Julian. A table separated them, like a chasm between worlds.

"You shouldn't be so brazen—not at a time like this!" Pronto began, complaining right off the bat. "I've already managed to cover for you the last couple of times, but if you keep stirring up trouble, there will come a day when I can't help you anymore."

Julian leisurely retrieved a box of cigarettes from the drawer, tossing one over. Dave promptly pulled out a lighter, leaning toward Pronto to offer a light. Pronto gave Dave a sidelong glance, then stared at Julian for a moment before lighting his cigarette.

"Listen to me," Pronto continued. "If you want to play vigilante, do it outside the city. Out there, no one will care, but in the city, it's different—I don't want this to blow up." He exhaled a puff of smoke, initially intending to use harsher words to admonish Julian, but something inexplicably made him soften his tone. He wasn't sure why, but he felt he should.