Chapter 11: Who Is a Human? Who Is a Ghost?
A dimly lit bar in a rundown district of Los Angeles.
The bar's owner was an old Russian man with a bald head and a perpetually red nose. To the neighborhood, he was just "Old Ivan"—a vodka-soaked crank with a bad temper and a soft heart. He cursed anyone who tried to drink on credit, yet always gave in after a few pleas. His hypocrisy made him endearing.
That was why this shabby bar stayed crowded every night.
From across the street, Lin Hao stood silently, his coat fluttering in the cold coastal wind. He had flown all the way from the seaside castle after the masquerade incident—using Moon Step, one of the Rokushiki techniques he had adapted since mastering Whitebeard's Observation Haki and fusing it with his demonic energy core.
To passersby, he looked like an ordinary traveler. But his sharp eyes saw through the illusion. The so-called Russian bar owner was no simple barkeep. Lin Hao knew this man's real identity—a Chinese of Russian descent, long embedded as an inactive contact of the S.H.I.E.A., the Eastern intelligence division that rivaled S.H.I.E.L.D. in secret operations across the West.
Half a year ago, during the chaos of the New York Underground Purge, S.H.I.E.A.'s American network had been decimated. The branch chief vanished, hundreds of agents were captured or executed, and the one responsible for their exposure was none other than Nick Fury, codenamed Black Egg.
In the world of shadows, there was no right or wrong—only conflicting interests. When intelligence agents met, only one side survived.
According to S.H.I.E.A. internal code, only the American branch chief had clearance to know about this Los Angeles contact line. It would be activated only under two conditions: when intelligence critical to national survival was obtained, or when a top operative needed evacuation from U.S. soil. Each contact line could be used once—and only once.
Many agents waited decades for the call that never came. And when it did, they gave everything—home, career, even their lives—for a mission whose success they might never live to witness.
Success does not have to be mine. Success must be mine.
The bar's neon sign still flickered, which meant the line hadn't been activated. That should have been reassuring, but Lin Hao remained cautious. He closed his eyes and extended his Observation Haki.
Waves of sensory pressure rippled out, mapping every heartbeat within two kilometers. No abnormal presences, no killing intent. Only drunk laughter, clinking bottles, and the hum of tired souls.
Whitebeard's Kenbunshoku Haki had been powerful, but Lin Hao had yet to reach the level of Roger, who could "hear the voice of all things," or Princess Otohime, who could read hearts. His version simply detected life energy—the number and relative strength of nearby beings.
At present, his Haki could cover a two-kilometer radius at most. He also possessed Ki, the life energy from the Dragon Ball world, but without Goku's refined sensing methods, it was of limited use here. Moreover, the Ki of the Dragon Ball universe differed fundamentally from the bio-energy that fueled Marvel lifeforms. They resonated on separate frequencies, like two incompatible worlds stitched together by fate. Even Lin Hao, with all his fusion of demonic and scientific mastery, couldn't bridge that gap—yet.
He exhaled softly, lowered his hood, and crossed the street. The man he appeared to be was utterly forgettable—just another Asian customer in a shabby bar.
The instant he pushed open the door, the smell hit him like a wave. Sweat, alcohol, cheap perfume, fried food, cigarette smoke—and beneath it all, the faint metallic tang of gun oil.
He frowned.
Walking up to the counter, he said evenly, "Whiskey. Neat."
The old bartender glanced up, pausing just long enough to register the rare Asian face, then grunted and went back to pouring drinks.
But outside the bar, unseen eyes were already on him.
Across town, in a secured S.H.I.E.L.D. monitoring room ten kilometers away, Agent Grant Ward, Level 7 field operative of the Los Angeles branch, noticed an unfamiliar face on a public surveillance feed.
"Zoom in," Ward ordered.
The technician obeyed. Lin Hao's new cover identity—crafted with the demonic system's false-data algorithm—appeared clearly on the screen.
"Run a background search."
Within minutes, the database pinged back: Lee Sang-hoon, Korean-American, 31, resident of Arizona, recently arrived in Los Angeles on a commercial flight two days ago. Records clean.
Ward skimmed the file, found nothing suspicious, and waved it off. "Just another tourist."
Before he could close the window, the door hissed open. A woman in a tight black leather jacket stepped inside. She was short, sharp-eyed, and carried the restrained aura of a seasoned agent.
"Melinda," Ward sighed. "If you keep skipping check-ins like this, Fury's gonna hang me."
"I told you," Melinda May, the Iron Knight of S.H.I.E.L.D., replied coolly. "I went to the bathroom. You want proof?"
Ward smiled despite himself. During this period, the two were more than colleagues—they were lovers, a secret S.H.I.E.L.D. pairing formed during a joint mission last spring.
In most workplaces, office romance was a liability. But in S.H.I.E.L.D., where missions blurred morality and mortality, emotional anchors were almost encouraged. A partner could be cover, comfort, or collateral—all at once.
Still, Ward couldn't help warning her. "May, don't forget—we have sides in this game. You're an American agent, not one of them."
Her eyes flashed. "No need to remind me."
A junior analyst nearby cleared his throat. "Captain Ward, we've been watching this bar for months. No activity from the target. Why not send in the Pretender to stir things up? Might draw out whoever's running that line."
Ward leaned back, frowning. "Careful what you wish for. Ghosts don't like being found."
And somewhere inside that smoky bar, Lin Hao smirked faintly—because he had already heard every word.