Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

Four, perhaps five, like silent black behemoths, silently stopped at various points on the intersection in a tactical encirclement, completely blocking all paths.

The engine was not turned off, emitting a deep, ready-to-go hum.

When exposed to several beams of intense light at the same time, Baijiu's body twitched almost imperceptibly, as if a creature long dwelling in darkness had suddenly been exposed to the blazing sun.

But he still didn't look up, didn't try to stand up, and didn't even raise his hand to shield his eyes from the glaring light.

He simply maintained that kneeling posture, seemingly oblivious to everything around him, or... completely indifferent.

"Squeak—creak—"

The screeching sound of tires screeching against the wet pavement rang out again, and the door of the car at the front was suddenly pushed open.

Next came the other vehicles. The sounds of car doors opening and closing rang out one after another, muffled and rapid.

"Da da da……"

The heavy, rhythmic thud of military boots, carrying a distinct tactical beat, mingled with the sound of rain, enveloping the liquor store in the center from all directions.

Their steps were quick and steady, with the ruthless efficiency of a hunter finally locking onto his prey.

The liquor still hung its head low, but on the rain-soaked road surface illuminated by strong sunlight, tall and blurry black figures began to appear, rapidly approaching.

There are many, at least a dozen.

The first to reach him were two figures, one on his left and one on his right, stopping less than two meters away from him. The tips of their boots almost touched his fingers, which were bracing themselves on the ground.

Then, all the footsteps stopped.

An encirclement has been formed. It's completely impenetrable.

A dead silence.

The only sounds were the rain, the engine, and the suppressed, steady breathing of those surrounding them.

The liquor, shrouded in bright light and shadow, slowly, extremely slowly began to move.

He was not trying to stand up, nor was he resisting.

Instead, he slowly raised his hands, which were covered in mud and blood, from the ground.

The movements were stiff and labored, as if every joint was rusting. He raised both hands to shoulder height, palms facing upwards, fingers slightly spread—a clear and unmistakable gesture of surrender, in international parlance, signifying giving up resistance and accepting punishment.

His head remained bowed.

Her face was covered by wet hair.

This action, in this situation, seems so natural, yet so... shocking.

This is no longer the "white spirit" that left countless legends within the organization, made Gin feel troubled, and was meticulously plotted against by Rum.

This is just a prisoner who has reached the end of his rope, suffered a mental breakdown, and whose last bit of will to struggle has been extinguished...

"Click."

A soft cocking sound was particularly clear in the silence.

The man in black who arrived first on the left took half a step forward.

He was tall and muscular, and even under the uniform black tactical attire, the outline of his bulging muscles could be seen.

He wasn't wearing a mask; rain streamed down his short, stubble-cut hair and angular face. It was kava.

His face lacked the excitement or ferocity he usually displayed when hunting prey; instead, it carried a strange calmness, even a barely perceptible hint of surprise mixed with a certain "I knew it" understanding.

He had indeed been waiting for this moment for a long time.

From the defeat in Vienna to the numerous clashes in London, baijiu (Chinese liquor) is like a slippery eel, always managing to escape at the most crucial moment, and even turning the tables on them, causing them to suffer losses.

Kava had imagined countless times the scene of grabbing the liquor in his own hands, imagining how fiercely the other party would resist, and how they would struggle with their last bit of cunning and strength.

But he never imagined that this would be the scene before him.

No resistance.

There was no excuse.

There wasn't even a single word of provocation or admission of defeat.

There was only one shadow kneeling on the rainy street, its soul drained, its hands raised in surrender.

This huge disparity did not fill Kava with the ecstasy of victory; instead, it stirred a faint sense of loss within him, a feeling he himself was unwilling to acknowledge.

It's like throwing a punch with all your might, only to hit empty air, like hitting cotton.

The opponent didn't even adopt a fighting stance.

However, Cava has never been a "Mother Teresa".

That slight sense of loss was instantly overshadowed by a more real and concrete feeling of joy.

After such a long chase and at such a high price, we finally... caught them.

Regardless of how the other party is caught, the outcome is the most important thing.

The liquor was in his hands, and that was enough.

The organization will reward him, Gin will be satisfied, and he himself will finally be able to feel some relief from the resentment that has been building up in his chest for so long.

He slowly raised the submachine gun in his hand, the muzzle steadily pointing at Baijiu's lowered head, but his finger was not on the trigger.

His gaze, sharp as a knife, swept over Baijiu from head to toe, from his soaked, disheveled hair to his tattered, blood-stained suit, and then to his hands raised in the air.

Then, his gaze settled on Baijiu's slightly clenched right hand.

There, it seemed to be holding something.

Even when surrendering and raising his hands, he did not let go.

Kava's eyes narrowed.

He slightly tilted his head to signal to one of his subordinates beside him.

The subordinate immediately understood, stepped forward, pressed the muzzle of the gun against Baijiu's temple, and roughly grabbed Baijiu's right wrist with his other hand, forcefully prying open his clenched fist one by one!

In the rain and mud, something slipped from Baijiu's loosened fingers and fell onto the wet ground with a soft "ding".

That's a key.

Its design is simple and unadorned, neither made of gold nor iron. Under the strong light of the headlights and the washing of the rain, it gleams with a dark, metallic luster that seems to have been weathered by time.

The key handle appears to have intricate patterns, but they are covered in blood and are not clearly visible.

It was that cross-shaped key, which originated in Vienna, went through several twists and turns, and was closely associated with the "Horseshoe" and the "Sevastopol," and was of great importance to both Rum and the Intellectual Property Council.

Cava's pupils contracted slightly.

He recognized the object; at least he knew its importance.

He stared at the key lying in the mud, then glanced at Baijiu, who was still hanging his head, seemingly unaffected by the loss of the key. The initial sense of satisfaction he felt from easily capturing his target was quickly replaced by a deeper layer of doubt.

so easy.

Hand over the key?

It's that simple?

Why would Baijiu so easily hand over what might be his only hope of turning the tide?

This doesn't align with his understanding of baijiu (Chinese liquor).

Even if this guy is on his last breath, he will definitely hide his last card in the most unexpected place.

Kava squatted down, not immediately picking up the key, but first poking Baijiu's shoulder with his tactical gloved fingers, and then squeezing his arm muscles hard.

It was cold to the touch, and the muscles were relaxed and weak, showing no signs of tension or resistance.

Baijiu's body swayed slightly with his movement, but he still didn't raise his head.

It really looks like a complete mental and physical breakdown, a total surrender.

But the doubts in Cava's heart were not dispelled.

He hesitated for a moment, but finally reached out and carefully picked up the key from the mud with two fingers.

It feels cold and heavy to the touch.

He held it up to his eyes and examined it carefully in the light of the car headlights.

The bloodstains on the key had been washed away by the rain, but the ancient and strange patterns were faintly visible in the light, as if they contained some kind of indescribable energy.

Is it real? Or is it fake? He couldn't tell immediately.

He gripped the keys tightly in his hand, the sharp edges of the metal digging into his palm. Then, he stood up and gave his men a clear and unambiguous command with his eyes: Take them away.

Two men in black immediately stepped forward, one on each side, and roughly lifted the white wine bottle that was kneeling on the ground.

Baijiu's legs were so weak they were like noodles, and he could barely stand. He had to be dragged by two people.

His head drooped limply, his face covered in wet hair, and his body swayed slightly as he was dragged, like a lifeless doll.

The two men supported him and quickly walked to the nearest SUV. They opened the door and shoved him into the back seat like a bag of trash.

The car door slammed shut.

With engines roaring, the convoy began to move slowly, turned around, and headed back the way it came.

The bright headlights pierced the rainy night as the car sped away from the intersection.

In the blink of an eye, the intersection returned to silence, leaving only watermarks from tires, messy footprints, and the still-drizzling cold rain.

It was as if the brief manhunt had never happened.