Chapter 1: The FBI’s New Intern Investigator

New York, 26 Federal Plaza, Manhattan, Jacob Federal Office Building, 9 a.m.

Floors 23 through 26 serve as the exclusive headquarters of the FBI’s New York division.

Inside a small conference room.

“I never imagined I’d become a legendary FBI agent.”

Seated in a back corner, Roan glanced at his impeccably tailored suit and the golden badge pinned to his chest, his expression wooden. He remembered he’d only gone to the island nation to study its customs and local culture. How did closing his eyes on the plane result in waking up here?

Bang—

The conference room door swung open. A middle-aged white man, with a receding hairline and dressed in a suit, strode in holding a folder. After scanning the room and confirming everyone was present, he wasted no words and went straight to the point:

“Attention, this time it’s a shooting and murder case in a park.”

He opened the folder, tossed a stack of photos onto the table, and introduced the case:

“The victim’s name is Mike Roberts, age forty-three. On the night of April 11, 2005, at 11:34 p.m., he was shot dead on a path in Central Park…”

Upon hearing the case summary, the intern agents on both sides of the table reached for the photos. Roan didn’t move; he was trying to sort out the tangled memories in his mind.

In his previous life, he’d been raised by a dying old assassin. Naturally, he’d learned every skill needed, becoming highly competent and technically adept, never failing a mission… though, in truth, he’d never actually received any outside orders.

The old assassin raised Roan with the sole purpose of avenging his own blood feud. But when the old man died and Roan emerged ready to hunt down the enemy, he learned the foe had already been arrested by local law enforcement and sentenced to death by the court.

The enemy had no family, and Roan didn’t dare confront the prison directly. After a few moments’ consideration, he boarded a plane to the island nation, intending first to enjoy the local customs, then open a bubble tea shop and spend the rest of his days there.

Being an assassin was out of the question. The risk was high, the money slow, and there was no way it could compare to the profits of a bubble tea shop in the island nation!

“Sir, there’s something I don’t understand.”

While the Mediterranean briefly explained the case, a white youth with short brown hair and thin lips—Fisher—tilted his head and asked:

“Why is this case assigned to us?”

A routine murder hardly warranted the FBI’s involvement; the NYPD could handle it themselves.

Before the Mediterranean could answer, a red-haired, strikingly aerodynamic white beauty in the standard suit—Mona—cast a disdainful glance at Fisher and said:

“The victim was a black correspondent recently returned from a war zone. Next to the body, someone wrote ‘vermin’ in blood. Clearly, this is a special hate crime targeting the victim’s identity.”

Special hate crimes are the FBI’s jurisdiction.

After Mona spoke, the Mediterranean nodded without expression, his gaze flickering to Roan, unmoving at the end of the table. He frowned slightly but ignored him, clapping his hands to draw everyone’s attention:

“This special hate crime case is your next assessment. You twenty new intern agents must solve the case and apprehend the killer within three days, relying solely on your own abilities. Senior agents will award points based on your performance; those with high points can become full agents first, while those with low points must keep striving.”

With that, the Mediterranean didn’t bother tidying his folder, simply turning and leaving the conference room.

The moment the door closed, the room erupted. The new intern agents crowded forward, scrambling to examine the photos and clues.

“What does ‘vermin’ written beside the victim refer to? His identity as a black man, or his role as a journalist?”

“Could be both.”

“Probably more about being a journalist. He came back from a war zone, a place full of religious fanatics—anything could happen.”

“Not necessarily; he’s reported on plenty of corrupt politicians as well.”

“So he’s got enemies everywhere…”

Ignoring the others, as the Mediterranean left, Roan suddenly heard a buzzing sound in his ear. Before he could react, a pale blue screen flashed before his eyes.

[System loading...]
[System loaded successfully!]
[Today’s treasure chest is ready. Open?]
[Beginner’s package is ready. Open?]

…

Roan’s pupils contracted. He glanced around, relieved that no one else noticed anything amiss.

“All those years reading novels weren’t wasted. Those authors were right—transmigrators really do get a system bonus!”

Roan took a deep breath and silently thought: [Open].

A crude animation reminiscent of browser games played out. The system displayed today’s treasure chest rewards: one $20 bill, one $50 bill. The beginner’s package: a bottle of hemostatic medicine, a bottle of scuba medicine.

…

Staring at the now-motionless system screen, Roan blinked, momentarily bewildered.

What a shabby system!

The intern agents were busy analyzing clues. Fisher, examining the wound on the victim’s chest, suddenly raised his eyebrows and called out loudly:

“Roan, go to my desk and bring me the third folder from the top right.”

…

The expected reply never came. Fisher turned, puzzled, to find Roan deep in thought at the corner of the table, oblivious to his request.

Fisher’s expression darkened. He picked up a pen and tossed it toward Roan.

Snap!

Hearing the rush of air, Roan, still sorting through memories, instinctively raised his hand and caught the pen.

Holding the pen, Roan shut off the system screen and turned to Fisher, a memory surfacing instantly.

Not long ago, Roan’s predecessor, Fisher, and another intern named Mark had gone out on assignment. During their operation, Fisher and Mark made mistakes and let the suspect escape. When reporting to their superior, Roan’s predecessor was docked 100 points, while Fisher and Mark only received a scolding, not losing a single point!

In the memory, Roan’s predecessor was livid upon learning this, but lacking any connections, he could only endure for the sake of becoming a full agent as quickly as possible… which led Fisher to treat him more and more like a servant.

Roan frowned. He wasn’t nearly so patient as his predecessor. Just as he was about to act, Mona, noticing the situation from the other side, hurled her own pen at Fisher and loudly asked:

“What are you doing? Can’t you fetch your own things?”

Mona was one of the rare computer experts among the new interns, and with her looks and figure, Fisher had nothing more to say after being struck by her pen. He snorted and started taking notes from the photos.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just a spoiled brat.”

Seeing Roan’s displeasure, Mona, shapely and confident, took a few photos and sat beside him, offering comfort:

“The information from the supervisor says catching the killer in this case earns 80 points, which should cover most of what you lost recently. Plus, there’s a $50,000 reward from the New York Press Association…”

“$50,000?”

In 2005, American workers’ salaries were barely around $2,500.

Roan wasn’t particularly interested in the 80 points, but the $50,000 made his eyes light up, reminding him of what the old assassin had once told him:

“I don’t care for those damned love stories. When I was young, I only cared about making money! What’s the use of envying others? We have to take action ourselves! We must become richer than all of them!”