For a transmigrator, having a System is not all that unusual.
In Rorschach's view, though, the so‑called System in his head, [The Eye of Judgment], was less a helping hand and more a Pandora's box that forced him to kill.
It was like the devil in legends—constantly offering sweet benefits, but demanding the souls of the living in return for its pleasure.
Fortunately, it only wanted the souls of the wicked.
Rorschach focused on those four blood‑red words in his mind and slowly felt the feedback the System provided.
[The Eye of Judgment]:
When activated, the host can clearly see the color of the mist above each person's head, representing their Sin Value:
White mist: Sin Value below 60, ordinary civilians, no need to pay attention.
Red mist: Sin Value above 60, the target has blood on their hands and can be "judged and executed."
Black mist: Sin Value above 90, the target is heinous and must be executed immediately. Execution yields rich rewards.
After executing a target, Rorschach could absorb "Justice Value" from the body, as well as a random reward, which was effectively a skill that dropped from the executed person's corpse.
Rorschach narrowed his eyes slightly, letting the skills he currently possessed float through his mind:
Unarmed Combat Mastery (80/100), Firearms Mastery (85/100), Melee Weapons Mastery (70/100), Tactical Sniping Mastery (60/100), Explosives Mastery (10/100), Counter‑Surveillance Mastery (80/100), Tracking Mastery (80/100), Medical Mastery (70/100).
The numbers in parentheses represented the cap for each skill, and every time he executed a sinner, the Justice Value he gained could be invested to raise his skill levels.
With these masteries backing him, the moment Rorschach stepped into that Black couple's house yesterday, he had taken control of the situation almost instantly.
As for the gunshots?
He had already pinned the Black man's gun arm; every round went into the ceiling.
Most of these masteries, strictly speaking, had dropped during his years in the service, fighting in the so‑called War on Terror.
No denying it, the battlefield was a goldmine. Back then Rorschach had even suspected that, with the Eye of Judgment, it would only take a few years to turn him into the world's top, all‑round super‑soldier.
Unfortunately, after several rounds of counterterror operations, it had become very hard to find enemies on the battlefield whose Sin Values were high enough to warrant judgment. More often than not, the people pointing guns at him were civilians defending their homes.
The white mist above their heads meant they were innocent. They were resisting only to fight back against American hegemony's invasion.
Rorschach would not kill them, and he had no reason to.
He had enlisted only to escape Gus's control. Killing real terrorists did not bother him in the slightest—but civilians?
Sorry, he was not shameless enough to act like those politicians.
So after he was discharged and became a cop, the number of usable skills he gained dropped sharply, and a lot of what he got was basically useless.
For example: Gardening Mastery (1/100), Pet Training Mastery (1/100), Bad Jokes Mastery (1/100), Bed Skills Mastery (99/100)…
Okay.
Rorschach had to admit, not every mastery was useless, and he had indeed spent some Justice Value to upgrade certain… specific skills.
In his eyes, though, it was all absolutely necessary. The respect of men and the screams of women—those were both reasons for him to keep moving forward.
And now another had to be added—taking out that bastard Gus as soon as possible.
No idea how the Irish brothers were doing with their intel gathering. Hopefully those two had not taken his money and run off to Vegas to live it up.
Rorschach stopped dwelling on it, lit a cigarette, and let his gaze drift over the street, ready to randomly pick out a couple of sagging‑pants, half‑their‑ass‑hanging‑out, "crab‑no‑meat"‑mumbling Black punks to tune up.
Just then, Ginny, who had been jogging behind the car, finally could not take it anymore.
Catching the squad car as it slowed, she ran up and pounded on the roof, yelling, "Stop! Hey, stop! I need to use the bathroom!"
Watching the young officer panting for breath, Rorschach gave a smug little cough and pointed to a public restroom not far away, indicating that he would wait here.
Seeing how utterly unembarrassed he was, Ginny ground her teeth in hatred but could do nothing about him. She just snorted, turned, and hurried toward the restroom.
"This is way too much!"
In the stall, as she unbuckled her duty belt and hung it on the partition door, Ginny grumbled furiously.
"So what if his record is great and he's handsome?"
"His temper sucks, his personality's harder than a rock, and after killing someone he acts like it's nothing. Elite detective? More like a psychotic killer!"
"Everybody else gets partnered with some big‑sister type or a warm, caring big brother. Why am I the one who gets…"
After covering the toilet seat with toilet paper, Ginny sat down and kept venting.
Especially when she thought about the partners her fellow academy grads had drawn, the more she compared, the more wronged she felt. In all her life, she had not been scolded as much as she had in the two days since meeting Rorschach.
This was bullying. Who trains rookies like this?
"No, no, I have to endure this. I have to stay in Chicago. I am not slinking back home just so Dad can laugh at me. Endure… endure…"
Ginny closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. After a while, she slowly opened them—then froze. The duty belt that had been hanging on the door was gone.
Bang!
Without even grabbing toilet paper, she jumped up, yanked her pants up, and slammed the stall door open, rushing out.
Her sidearm was on that belt. If someone had grabbed it, the consequences would be disastrous.
Outside the restroom, Rorschach leaned against the squad car with his arms crossed, staring straight at her.
"Rorschach! Did you see anyone come out?"
Ginny clutched at her waistband, too panicked to care about whatever lecture or yelling might be coming. "My duty belt—the belt I hung on the stall door—somebody stole it!"
"Your duty belt's been stolen?!"
As expected, Rorschach blew up at that.
He jabbed a finger at her nose and growled, "Does the stall door go all the way up to the ceiling?"
"N‑no." Ginny shook her head, bewildered.
"And you still dared hang it there?!"
Rorschach pointed off into the distance, enunciating every word. "Because of your momentary negligence, there could be an innocent civilian one block away getting shot right now with your service weapon. This is how you 'be' a cop?!"
His words hit Ginny like a hammer. When she pictured that possibility, her eyes filled with tears of panic.
She grabbed his arm helplessly and pleaded, "Let's go find it, okay? Rorschach, you know the South Side so well, you can definitely get it back, right? I swear I'll never talk trash about you behind your back again!"
"You—"
Rorschach was about to lay into her again when the radio in the car crackled to life: All South Side units, be advised, a male body has been found in Hyde Park. Any nearby officers, please respond to the scene.
Rorschach could not be bothered to keep chewing her out. He turned, got in, and shut the door.
Ginny stood outside, mind in chaos, her head full of images of some thug using her gun to commit a shooting.
Just then, something flew out of the car and landed at her feet with a thud.
"Lesson five for a good cop: never let your sidearm leave your body."
Tossing out that line, Rorschach hit the gas and headed for the address from the radio.
Ginny looked down at the duty belt at her feet, brain utterly blank.
A long moment later, within a two‑hundred‑meter radius of the public restroom, a shame‑filled shriek rang out:
"Roooorschaaach!!!"