Mech: Shattering of the Galaxy

Chapter 64: Chapter 64 Style Bar
Editor: Noodletown Translations

Style Bar, a well-known bar in District Two, was located near the affluent neighborhood.

Rhythmic music faintly emanated from inside; this was a place where people indulged in night-time revelry. However, today was slightly unusual, as the doorman was no longer just a tall, handsome young man. Two burly men stood beside him, their well-developed muscles straining their T-shirts. Their sunglasses swept back and forth in the ambient light. This appeared to be a small side entrance adjacent to the bar.

Yet the comings and goings of the crowd were accustomed to this scenario. This was the bar’s VIP passageway, and as for what kind of VIPs, anyone below the middle class couldn’t possibly know.

It was only open to the elite class, with astonishing backgrounds, and every ten days they would hold something like a members-only gathering. However, the bustling crowd never noticed anything particularly noble about these guests, as there was no grand spectacle, nor a team of bodyguards. On these days, some people wearing masks, dressed either casually or formally, arrived solo. To those mingling in the bar, it merely added a touch of mystery.

It was regarded as a special custom, one that had continued for a long time, though today seemed earlier than the correct day—perhaps by a day. Even if someone noticed this anomaly carefully, they wouldn’t pay too much heed; who knew what those esteemed guests were thinking?

A person wearing a deer mask approached, holding a simple card with merely a roughly printed image and a string of numbers, ending with the letters HZ.

“HZ, please enter,” one of the burly men said, taking the card. He scanned the numbers with a device on his wrist. Beep, the green indicator light on his hand slightly flashed. The burly man returned the card, nodded, and stepped aside as the micro-light camera on his chest quietly recorded the transaction.

The Deer Mask Man pocketed the card, nodded, and passed between the two burly men.

…

“Black, why did you have me go two streets away to steal a mask?” Mu Fan had just appeared at the back door of a toy store, wondering resignedly why Dark Breath was being used for theft.

Black, his unreliable teammate, had initially urged him so urgently. Once Mu Fan quickly ran to the area, Black told him to steal a mask from a toy store first.

“Quit the chatter, follow my commands, and speed up. Now leave the alley behind this toy store, turn right for twenty meters. You’ll see a white wall with an automated vending machine. Approach it when no one’s around,” Black ignored Mu Fan, urging him faster.

Mu Fan suppressed his rolling mood and channeled Dark Breath, moving ghost-like out of the area.

He soon arrived. It was a relatively quiet street, with most stores closed at night. He waited for two pedestrians to pass and swiftly pressed the button.

A card slipped out, and Mu Fan instinctively caught it.

Hmm? What’s this about? There was an emblem of a half-kneeling figure, followed by a mysterious string of digits and codes. Surprisingly, the last two letters were familiar: MF.

“Don’t ask, just keep that. Now find some clothes to cover yourself—this uniform will be too conspicuous soon,” Black gave another baffling instruction.

Mu Fan was truly irritated—was he supposed to steal clothes now too? He’d never stolen anything before—simply taking that mask already filled him with guilt, even if it was the dustiest little yellow duck children’s mask from the warehouse.

Black hadn’t seen the mask yet. If he had, who knew what venomous words he’d spill? Mu Fan muttered to himself and began scanning the area for a target. Just another exception, he thought.

Ah, there it was—a laundromat at the street corner. Mu Fan noticed the corner of a garment swaying suggestively in the afternoon breeze through the drying racks.

“Black, I found a laundromat. Block the cameras,” said Mu Fan, effortlessly climbing over obstacles, quietly informing Black as he moved.

“Blocked! Good eye—you didn’t even need my reminder this time. But hurry—you have one minute,” Black quickly replied, providing Mu Fan with an accurate countdown.

Two streets away, in front of Style Bar, one burly man checked his watch and said to a companion, “One more minute; no one should be arriving now, right?”

The other burly man replied coolly, “If it’s one minute, it’s one minute. We leave when it’s time.”

The man checking his watch bristled with anger but restrained himself, “Hmph.” Their chest-mounted micro-light cameras captured the exchange fully.

Unaware of this scene, Mu Fan cheerfully realized he didn’t have to feel guilty after climbing over—he saw a blanket hanging out to dry. He wrapped it around himself and dashed out.

“Mu Fan, that’s the outfit you chose!?” Black almost cursed out loud. Do you know how much effort I put into fabricating your information?

“Just tell me if it’s okay!”

“Fine!” Black gritted, if it had teeth.

“You have 53 seconds left. Two streets directly east, there’s a flashing sign that reads ‘Style Bar.'” Black’s voice came into Mu Fan’s ear, without further banter. “At the entrance, find two burly men. Put on the mask, hand them the card, and enter.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know; there’s no surveillance there. Also, control your breathing; make sure there’s no sound in front of those two.”

“Got it,” Mu Fan said. Under Dark Breath, his breathing was nearly silent, even while moving at such high speed.

Running and leaping, he stepped onto a lamppost and jumped onto the rooftop of the building, then moved lithely like a night cat. Practicing tonight for the first time, Mu Fan truly realized the extraordinary quality of the Martial Arts Skill taught by the Fighter Instructor—it wasn’t for combat but incredibly practical.

He could control his movements with precision far exceeding normal levels, hiding his normally conspicuous movements in silence.

Huff, Mu Fan appeared behind a building corner, wrapped in a blanket resembling a large cloak, exposing only his pants and feet that looked like formal wear.

Donning the worn-out little yellow duck mask, Mu Fan turned and appeared before the Style Bar. Seventeen seconds remained.

Hmm? The two burly men noticed the odd figure at the same time and exchanged a glance. It was inevitable—the little yellow duck mask was eye-catching. Mu Fan was oblivious to Black, who was about to explode with curses. To avoid detection by the burly men, Black had switched to silent mode in Mu Fan’s earpiece.

Mu Fan’s breathing was natural and even, his steps steady as he approached the two burly men.

They blocked his way. They had no prior memory of this, and if someone had seen it before, they would not forget such a hilariously ugly little yellow duck.

The masked figure, with a cloak-like presence, flicked his hand and a card appeared at his fingertip.

It was nearly time, and indeed someone had arrived. The burly man on the left glanced at his companion with confusion, holding back a laugh, struggling to maintain a composed expression as he took the card and scanned it against his wrist.

Beep, the green light flashed.

He handed back the card and reluctantly said, “MF, please enter!”

The masked figure nodded and stepped inside. In the passing colorful light, the two burly men noticed the brand-new suit pants and shoes taking a step forward and nodded approvingly—this seemed normal.

But wait—a cloak-like, cheap-looking blanket? The two burly men preparing to close up were instantly thunderstruck.