Chapter 110: The Treasure Chest and the Emergence of a New Case

After the Sunday evening gathering, the five went their separate ways.

Over the past few days, the system’s evaluations of Roan ranged from excellent to good. On the night he apprehended the bank robbers, the system rated him as excellent. The treasure chest revealed two bottles of stamina potion, and, to Roan’s delight, two bottles of the hemorrhage-stopping potion he had long coveted.

Now, Roan's system warehouse contained eight bottles of stamina potion, four of night vision, two antidotes, two hemorrhage-stopping potions, two strength potions, one weakness potion, one sleep potion, one aqua-lung potion, and one fire resistance potion.

The reappearance of the hemorrhage-stopping potion thrilled Roan, as it was a lifesaver in critical moments. Yet, what surprised him most was that, after Sunday's dinner, the system gave him a "good" rating and rewarded him with one $50 bill and two $100 bills.

Holding the $250 in his hands, Roan fell into deep thought. First, he was certain that $250 wasn’t the system mocking him. But he couldn’t understand why the treasure chest would once again yield cash.

Since he first acquired the system, the chest had only produced a $20 bill and a $50 bill; after that, no matter the system's evaluation, the rewards were always potions.

“Could it be because I spent money tonight?”

He quickly discarded this notion—it couldn’t be the reason, as he spent money every day.

He next wondered if it was because he had bought drinks for August tonight. But after a few seconds, Roan ruled that out too. If buying someone a drink resulted in cash rewards, the system, though simple in appearance, possessed clear internal logic and wouldn’t behave so irrationally.

Finally, Roan’s gaze fell on the calendar nearby.

“It’s been exactly fifteen days since I arrived here and acquired the system.”

Roan narrowed his eyes. If every fifteen days the system’s treasure chest produced cash, then this situation made sense.

Resolved, he circled the date on the calendar and murmured, “In fifteen days, I’ll see what the system's treasure chest brings next!”

Monday was a day off, so Roan spent the entire day at his Greenwich Village apartment, supervising the renovation crew. According to the foreman, the apartment would be completed in thirty days.

That evening, the system rated Roan as "pass," awarding him two bottles of stamina potion—no cash appeared.

Roan nodded. Fourteen days remained before he could confirm his theory.

—

Tuesday, Jacob Federal Building.

“Good morning, Roan!”

Roan had just stepped out of his Chevrolet in the parking lot when Ryder arrived.

“Good morning, Ryder. There’s an open spot next to me,” Roan beckoned, motioning Ryder to park beside his car. The two walked into the Federal Building together.

“Ryder, you don’t look too well,” Roan remarked in the elevator, noticing Ryder’s frequent yawns. He frowned slightly, “Didn’t sleep well last night?”

Ryder yawned again, “I went to bed a bit late yesterday.”

“OK.” Seeing Ryder had no intention of elaborating, Roan didn’t press further. When the elevator doors opened, they entered the office area of Investigation Group Five.

To Roan’s surprise, Lacey, who usually napped at her desk in the morning, was now lively, typing energetically at her computer.

Glancing at Ryder, who had settled into his desk for a nap, and then at the spirited Lacey, Roan raised his eyebrows: Did these two swap souls?

“Good morning, Roan,” Lacey greeted, looking up as Roan entered the office.

Before Roan could respond, Lacey displayed her laptop and asked, “Remember the fugitive we tracked down through Freddy?”

“Of course,” Roan nodded. Freddy was the unlucky guy he’d once hit with a skateboard. Though not a bank robber, someone had contacted him about bomb-making.

Afterwards, Roan had entered Freddy’s information into the computer and discovered that the person seeking his bomb-making skills was a fugitive listed in the FBI database.

Ogden Scott, with a $400,000 bounty.

“I saw someone who looked just like Ogden last night at an underground dance hall,” Lacey continued.

Roan was momentarily stunned, then asked, “Was it really Ogden?”

“Last night I wasn’t sure, but now I am—it was him.” Seeing Roan’s expression, Lacey shrugged, explaining, “While dancing last night, I noticed a white man leading a group out from the depths of the dance hall.”

The lighting was dazzling; I merely felt the man at the front looked familiar, but couldn’t recall where I’d seen him. Only when he left did I remember having seen his photo on your computer. By the time I chased after them, Ogden and his group had already driven away. I was a step too late.”

“No need to blame yourself, Lacey—it’s not your fault. The lights in the hall make it hard enough to see Ogden’s face,” Roan reassured her, patting her shoulder.

Lacey shrugged, saying nothing more, but pointed to the information on her laptop. “Luckily, I managed to get the license plate numbers for Ogden’s group last night. With those and the surveillance footage, I’ve already tracked down their current location.”

Roan grinned at the address and photos on her computer, just about to speak when August’s familiar booming voice sounded at the entrance of Group Five.

“Good morning, agents, ladies and gentlemen!”

Roan turned to see August, once again accompanied by Mona, enter Group Five.

Mona greeted Roan, then settled at her desk with her laptop. August strode in, carrying two folders, and took his place at the front of the office.

“Congratulations, everyone—the pleasant holiday is over, and we have a new case today!”

He handed one folder to William to distribute the information, then opened the other and read aloud:

“Evander Davis from Brooklyn Upper District suffered an unfortunate car accident last night and died on the spot. The NYPD ruled it an accident, but my superior, Group Supervisor Verinice, has asked us to examine the case carefully—including the autopsy report and NYPD’s findings...”

Upon hearing August’s description, the agents of Group Five all furrowed their brows; Lacey even raised her hand to ask, “Sir, isn’t a car accident outside our jurisdiction?”

“You’re right,” Verinice’s cold voice responded from outside the door before August could answer.

“Good morning, Supervisor.”

She waved her hand, indicating they needn’t say more, then stepped to the front of the office, her expression stern as she addressed the group:

“But this order comes from Washington—and it’s top priority.”

At these words, the faces of everyone in Group Five grew serious.

(End of chapter)