OBS Chapter 4570 The Day of Brightest Day (29)
Chapter 4570 The Day of Brightest Day (29)
Chapter 4570 The Day of Brightest Light (Twenty-Nine)
Deathstroke is genuinely impressed. On the surface, saying things like "skipping the plot is skipping life" is one thing, but privately, who wouldn't want to live like Schiller, recklessly and without a care in the world?
Deathstroke, for one, was somewhat envious. Schiller seemed to be someone completely unburdened by love. Some people hone their emotions into sharp spears to hurt others, while others build high walls around them to imprison themselves. For most people in this world, their emotional lives are like firing a gun, always striving to cause the greatest damage with the fewest bullets. Schiller was different; his emotional life was also like firing a gun, but his purpose wasn't to kill anyone, but simply to make the bullet roll as far as possible.
You can't say it's ineffective; in fact, guns are better at repelling bullets than shooting people. After all, whether you hit or not, the bullet will always travel a long distance. And that's precisely the purpose of firearms, revealing a clever absurdity.
“Let’s go take a look tonight,” Schiller said. This was not unexpected by Deathstroke. As the saying goes, a dark and stormy night is the perfect time for murder and arson. They couldn’t act during the day, but nighttime might be a different story. If they could find the underground storage room, there would always be a way to get rid of the mural.
Deathstroke actually preferred to let Schiller complete his task first, so that he wouldn't have any worries when helping Schiller repair his relationship with his son later. If he could get the mural and send it back to America, his subsequent plans would definitely go more smoothly. Therefore, he decided to help, and he intended to do everything in his power.
“It’s best to have an insider guide,” Deathstroke said. “These modern buildings have a really annoying key card system. You can’t even go to the toilet without swiping your card. If you don’t have a guide, you should at least have a pass, otherwise you’ll have made a wasted trip.”
"You're not confident you can break through?"
“Ha, do you know how much wear and tear that would cause?” Deathstroke said irritably. “I could certainly break into the vault, but even if I took everything out of there, it might not cover the cost of repairing this sword.”
“Alright,” Schiller said, clearly not intending to press the issue. “But we don’t need any passes. You’ll see tonight.”
They still hadn't returned to the hotel, but Schiller clearly had somewhere to go. Deathstroke didn't seem to care, so he followed Schiller and discovered that Schiller had entered a bustling shopping street.
Some people travel by strolling through the same shopping streets in different places, eating at chain restaurants, and browsing global brand stores. There's nothing wrong with that; global chain brands are indeed more reliable.
Then Schiller went into a clothing store, a global chain brand, and a pretty high-end one at that. He bought an outfit that Deathstroke thought he would never wear—a turtleneck cashmere sweater, an Italian-style casual suit jacket, loose wide-leg suit pants, and brown loafers. It looked very preppy, making him look much younger, even a bit immature.
This isn't the style a secret agent would choose, because secret agents always need to appear more mature and experienced, and also need to project a tough image. Therefore, they often opt for dark British-style suits, sharp trousers, and formal leather shoes, wanting everyone to know how unapproachable they are. While this preppy style might better reflect an old-money vibe, it's a bit too mild.
Schiller looked like a completely different person in that outfit. If he said he was flying to Wimbledon now, Deathstroke wouldn't be surprised at all. Just as he had previously discovered, Schiller could easily blend into high society.
Even though he was still serious and a bit too aloof, as soon as he changed his clothes, his unique aura made him look like a big shot—the kind who could freely enter and exit any high-end place while glancing at his watch and walking briskly.
Schiller paid, picked up his shopping bags, and walked out of the mall. Deathstroke joked, "Is this what public funds are used for?"
“Of course,” Schiller said, “money should be spent wisely.”
“I don’t see the blade at all,” Deathstroke shook his head. He had no idea why Schiller had gotten himself dressed like that; there didn’t seem to be any high-class occasions in Cairo that required such attire.
But he soon found out. After dark, Schiller changed his clothes, and the two of them went to the vicinity of the museum. Before entering the museum, Schiller turned to Deathstroke and said, "I'll try to get in first. If I succeed, I'll find a way to distract the security guards, and then you can come in."
"How do you plan to get in?" The two of them were now standing on the rooftop, staring at the Egyptian Museum not far away. It was brightly lit even at night, with ample security personnel and numerous security cameras. At first glance, there seemed to be no blind spots; sneaking in would be very difficult.
Schiller shook his head without saying a word, simply straightening his collar and walking towards the main entrance. Deathstroke, on the other hand, became somewhat nervous, because he was genuinely afraid that Schiller would suddenly pull out his revolver and fire a shot once he reached the door.
Deathstroke is a mercenary, not a terrorist. The two are completely opposite. Assassination is all about precision and efficiency. You only kill the person your employer tells you to kill. Involving others will result in a deduction in pay, and if too many people die, it can be considered a failed operation. Many inexperienced rookie assassins have fallen victim to this.
Deathstroke wouldn't make that mistake. So while he's ruthless when it comes to killing, he tries to avoid massacres when completing his commissions. After all, you never know if there are informants or even family members among them. Killing them would mean serious trouble with the final payment.
Fortunately, Schiller was clearly not a proponent of extreme violence; he neither pulled out his revolver nor took any weapon. He simply swaggered to the door and spoke to the security personnel there.
It was closing time, and most of the tourists had left. Schiller exchanged a few pleasantries with the security guard and then simply walked in. Deathstroke was completely baffled. Seriously, just carrying a cup of coffee, he could walk into any company building?
However, Schiller quickly kept his promise: a commotion broke out inside the museum, the cause of which was unknown, and almost all the security personnel were drawn away. Deathstroke swaggered in as well.
He paused at the corner on the first floor, unsure whether to go upstairs or which way to go. Schiller quickly called out to him from the other side of the corridor. Deathstroke went over and found it to be an empty corridor.
"How did you get in here?" Deathstroke couldn't help but ask.
“I used to work here,” Schiller said. “It took a lot of effort to break the temperature control system.”
Deathstroke was once again filled with questions. It wasn't that he didn't want to think carefully about Schiller's words, but rather that it was simply too difficult to distinguish which were the truth and which were nonsense. Among the mountain of junk information, perhaps one or two sentences were useful, and even then, they might just be a table of contents. The real answers were hidden beneath the mountain of excrement, and nobody had the patience to dig them up.
However, Deathstroke had to start searching because Schiller had led him familiarly up to the second floor—the exhibition hall was different from those office buildings; the architecture was specially designed with no discernible pattern. Finding the correct stairs wasn't easy, but Schiller acted as if he'd been there many times before, leading Deathstroke straight upstairs.
Then they easily found themselves at the internal elevator entrance, which, as expected, required a card. Deathstroke crossed his arms and leisurely watched Schiller, wondering where he was going to get the card. Schiller then simply pulled a pass from under a nearby potted plant.
"Wait, how can there be wild key cards here?" Deathstroke was utterly speechless. Every time he infiltrated a building like this, he had to jump around all over the place. Otherwise, he wouldn't have specifically reminded Schiller to be careful of the key cards.
Access cards are truly the greatest invention in the history of human security, bar none. Don't think that professional intruders don't find them a headache. In fact, no high-tech motion capture camera, laser detection, or defensive device is as effective as an access card. It's precisely because of its effectiveness that it has been adopted globally.
For outsiders to break in, they would need to attack someone with a key card. But they usually don't have time to dispose of the body, making it easy to spot, like a large, living alarm.
Furthermore, once a access card is lost and discovered, it can be immediately reported lost, rendering all the information on it invalid. Therefore, the assassin might risk exposure only to obtain a useless card. After a few more times, they'd lose patience.
"Where did you get this?" Deathstroke asked.
“I prepared this when I came last time,” Schiller replied. “During my lunch break, I knocked out a colleague who often gets drunk and convinced him to give this to me.”
"When exactly did you come here?" Deathstroke couldn't hold back any longer. "It couldn't have been during the Iraq War, could it?"
"Why do you never listen to me?" Schiller said helplessly. "If you keep this up, I'm going to take back my assessment that you're a good father. Didn't I already say that I switched bodies with another version of myself..."
"So it's real, and not some philosophical metaphor???" Deathstroke exclaimed in surprise. "So he was working at the museum, and you and I were in the safe house. After you two switched places, you went to the museum, and he stayed with me?"
“Not too stupid,” Schiller commented. “I didn’t just come here to break the temperature control and make him lose his job; I made a lot of other preparations. This key card is one of them.”
They both got into the elevator, but it stopped again. Apparently, the museum staff had discovered an intruder and urgently stopped the elevator. Deathstroke scoffed, "That's quick enough."
“Hayvin is no ordinary man,” Schiller said. “Although I’ve only been here a short time and haven’t heard of him, he must have some unique skills to be both a museum director and a top antiquities dealer.”
"Is embezzlement considered a unique trait?"
"What kind of person you are guarding and stealing from, what things you can steal, and what things you can't steal—these are all things to learn."
Deathstroke glanced up and said, "I'll split the top of the carriage open, and we'll go straight up."
“No,” Schiller shook his head and said, “you split the ground beneath your feet, and we can just jump down.”
Deathstroke raised an eyebrow, but then he thought about it and realized it made sense. They took the elevator on the second floor, and even if there were four or five floors below, it wouldn't be that high, so they definitely wouldn't die from the fall.
So Deathstroke drew his greatsword. Rather than cleaving it, it sliced through the bottom of the carriage like cutting tofu. The hard metal was like butter before that greatsword, utterly powerless.
Deathstroke jumped first, and then a voice came from below: "It's okay, there are only two floors, jump without worry."
But Schiller didn't jump immediately. Instead, he sat down at the edge of the cut, turned around, grabbed the edge with both hands, lowered his body, glanced down to make sure it wasn't too high, and then let go. He landed unharmed.