PFC Chapter 4568 The Day of Brightest Day (27)
Chapter 4568 The Day of Brightest Day (27)
Chapter 4568 The Day of Brightest Light (Twenty-Seven)
Deathstroke wanted to argue, but upon reflection, he realized it made sense. In fact, if he had focused on his mission, he might have already successfully destroyed the shipment. Even if the mission was fake and the final payment was uncollectible, the deposit alone wouldn't be a loss since it hadn't been very difficult.
Alternatively, if he hadn't been driving Schiller around Hegada, Schiller, who was carsick, wouldn't have shot and killed the leader, and the situation wouldn't have deteriorated to its current state.
Of course, recognizing this fact didn't make him repent. Because, in any case, no one would ever pay the final payment. The commission was doomed from the start. Meeting Schiller was actually a good thing. That's the advantage of being a freelance mercenary: besides the tedious tasks, there's always something new and interesting to do.
Of course, right now, he was more of a joke between the two of them. But Deathstroke didn't care. His satellite phone received a message that made him want to switch to the home channel again, but thankfully he restrained himself.
He could easily have continued verbally harassing Schiller as before. Deathstroke could see that Schiller's hearing had recovered, and now was a good time to talk. As for why he didn't do so, what was stopping him, he was actually pondering that as well.
He then attributed this to the fact that Schiller had indeed acted far too professionally. Among all the agents he knew, he wasn't just among the best, but second to none. So he felt somewhat ashamed of his own unprofessional behavior—that is, his insistence on engaging Schiller in conversation about mundane matters.
Mercenaries, of course, also possess a degree of professionalism, especially those specializing in assassins, who sometimes place even greater emphasis on professional ethics than special agents. Falling behind in this area can easily lead to skepticism. That's why Deathstroke held back as much as possible.
He began racking his brains to figure out how to bring it up from a professional perspective. But it wasn't easy, because it was a typical waiting period, and they really didn't have much to discuss.
Schiller was standing by the dining table disassembling the gun when he spoke up first: "Have you noticed? You're starting to give in to me more and more."
Deathstroke frowned, seemingly not understanding why he had said that. Then he thought about it carefully: putting everything else aside, at least in terms of starting the conversation, he had indeed made a concession. Otherwise, given his mental and physical strength, he could have talked on and on for the entire time, enough to drive Schiller crazy with annoyance.
"Why?" Deathstroke asked.
“Yes, why?” Schiller repeated, examining the rifling of the gun, then said, “Because you realized I had something to offer. To be precise, you discovered I was indeed a top-notch agent. Even just in terms of professional competence, you were willing to give me a certain amount of respect.”
Deathstroke seemed to understand what he was talking about. He said, "So, as long as I show Joseph my strength and professionalism, he'll respect me? But assassins and secret agents are different, aren't they?"
"If you're referring to official status, then it's actually an advantage, not a disadvantage, for you. Because if you're not employed by the government, you don't have to make him disappointed in both you and the entire country."
Deathstroke found himself speechless. Come to think of it, both assassins and secret agents can be considered killing machines, one driven by money, the other by serving the country. It's hard to say which is better—especially for a teenager still harboring hopes for the nation; the latter might even be inferior to the former.
“And he took your money,” Schiller pointed out, “so he’s not innocent.”
Deathstroke tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. "I can't say that to him," he said. "I mean, I can't accuse him of that, because he didn't have a choice, did he?"
"Of course you can't. But he'll think about it himself. He's not stupid; he won't think you're new to this, and he'll naturally think about how every penny he's spent growing up has been stained with blood."
"Won't this worsen our relationship?"
Schiller shook his head and said, "If you mean deterioration as estrangement, then no. Because resentment can also bring two people closer."
"What I want is certainly not resentment."
“Then you have to accept that he resents you.” Schiller examined the bullet and said, “He doesn’t hate you now, you could even say he doesn’t know you. Compared to strangers, enemies are closer, aren’t they?”
Deathstroke was at a loss for words again. He felt somewhat defeated, because he and Joseph were indeed more like strangers, neither loving nor hating each other. But was it perhaps a bit too much to force him to hate him first?
“Do you really think he’ll hate you more?” Schiller asked again. “Why do I think he’ll hate himself more? Because all that money was spent on him. He might even think you did it for him.”
“Uh…” Deathstroke rubbed his forehead. “Really? He’ll think I killed people to earn money so he could pay for his education?”
“He has no concept of this,” Schiller said. “He doesn’t know how much money you make as a hitman, or what percentage of it you spend on him. It’s not surprising that he would think that way, is it?”
Deathstroke opened his mouth, somewhat embarrassed, and said, "Actually, I don't spend a large percentage of my time on my family. At least in the industry, it's only below average. But I have my reasons."
"First, if we put them in high society, they wouldn't be able to handle those things, and not being able to explain the source of their funds could also be dangerous. Second, my own expenses are also very high; you have no idea how expensive this whole outfit is..."
Then the death knell began to mutter and recount the accounts, clearly harboring long-standing resentment that he had to vent. Since he couldn't discuss this with his colleagues or confide in his family, Schiller became the perfect scapegoat.
Deathstroke's gear was indeed incredibly expensive, costing over a billion US dollars. He had three sets of clothing alone: a lightweight bodysuit, light armor, and heavy armor. These three sets were incompatible. For example, while the lining of the light armor was also bodysuit, it wasn't interchangeable with the heavy armor because the material of the fabric had to be adjusted to match the weight of the outer armor.
Then there are the weapons. Being a weapons master also has many downsides. For example, there are just too many weapons to customize. You need to prepare several firearms alone, not to mention the melee weapons. The most expensive one is that N-metal greatsword. The reputation of N-metal needs no introduction—even a scratch on this sword will result in astronomical maintenance costs.
Then there are various safe houses around the world where equipment needs to be purchased, supplies need to be stored, and sometimes they need to be destroyed and relocated. The money spent on these is probably no less than the equipment itself.
Even so, he can still come up with a large sum of money to maintain a decent life for his family and prepare for retirement, which fully demonstrates just how much he can earn. He didn't become the world's number one mercenary for nothing.
Of course, it wasn't entirely due to him landing jobs. He had patrons. But these patrons were really just protection money payers. To ensure they were on Deathstroke's whitelist, they gave him a large sum of money every year, and in return, Deathstroke guaranteed not to take any assassination jobs against them. This brought him a considerable income—that's the benefit of the First Mercenary's reputation.
In short, when he was doing the math, Deathstroke clearly realized that he had spent the vast majority of his money on himself and not much on his family. Although they lived quite well, it was far from enough compared to Deathstroke's income level.
“It’s not that he can tell how much money you can make just by seeing how strong you are,” Schiller pointed out. “Don’t you think the idea of killing people for money sounds a bit far-fetched?”
"What's wrong with it?" Deathstroke couldn't help but ask.
"You're probably using a deposit and final payment model, right? But what if someone doesn't pay you the final payment?"
"Of course I will find a way to get it back myself."
"Of course, some things can be recovered, but some things can't, right? Like this time, the middleman also failed. What are you going to do?"
“These things don’t happen often,” Deathstroke shook his head and said. “This time, it was mostly my own fault. Returning to my youth really made me too excited, to the point that I lost my caution.”
"But outsiders don't understand. To outsiders, if someone is so evil as to hire a hitman, how can they not renege on their debt? Most hitmen do dirty and tiring work, right?"
“That’s true,” Deathstroke said. “It’s an industry where only the very top can make a living; the rest are mostly low-level cleaners and newcomers who don’t even last a year.”
“That’s it,” Schiller said. “People are more inclined to believe that most people are forced into this line of work. You are too, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I could be considered one,” Deathstroke said after thinking for a moment. “When I first started working alone, it was partly because I was annoyed by those people’s nagging, but more so because of the side effects of the human modifications I underwent. It made me extremely violent, and I couldn’t control myself at the sight of blood. Of course, I’m fine now.”
"So why didn't you tell him?" Schiller said. "I'm sure that given your situation, he wouldn't have blamed you if you had told him when he was old enough to understand. You insisted on keeping it from him, and now look what's happened!"
“What can I do?” Deathstroke asked anxiously. “I’m a first-time father, and I don’t have a good role model to learn from. How am I supposed to know what the right thing to do is?”
“Keep that mindset,” Schiller said. “You should tell him that. He’ll understand.”
"really?"
"Objectively speaking, I think you've been a pretty good father," Schiller said calmly. "First, you've provided them with ample material resources, so they don't have to worry about money. Second, being away from home less often is also an advantage; otherwise, you can't be sure if his childhood wouldn't have been spent under your excessive authority, to the point of being traumatized by your control. Finally, considering you're in this line of work, the fact that your wife and children have lived this long fully demonstrates that you've done your best to protect them. As an added bonus, you've even managed to keep it from your son—that's a level of skill far beyond the average person."
Deathstroke was starting to question the meaning of life. Reason told him that Schiller's words weren't wrong: reaching this level, while not making him a good father, was certainly passing. But something still felt off.
After thinking for a while, Deathstroke realized that the awkward feeling might stem from Schiller's "low moral compass." It was as if he were saying, "You're too kind to be so conflicted," proving that Schiller was even less socially compliant than he, the assassin. To be precise, it was an innate indifference: using his own unconstrained moral standards as a benchmark, harboring no expectations of others. As long as the baseline is drawn low enough, everyone can be a good person.
However, this person, who seemed almost unable to conceal his natural flaws, always viewed things from a normal person's perspective, unlike those psychopaths whose minds were filled with insane ideas at the slightest provocation. Deathstroke thought this contradiction was precisely what made him fascinating, and the main reason why others were irresistibly curious about him.