In the Thirty-Third Cave, within the ruins of the gladiatorial arena.
mbers of the law enforcent team, clad in exoskeleton armor, are clearing the rubble. The strength bestowed by the exoskeleton allows them to easily lift boulders weighing several tons, rescuing survivors within the arena and sending them to the large dical vehicles waiting nearby.
Inside the large dical vehicles are teams of the most professional ergency responders from the Central City District, equipped with various cutting-edge dical devices and even spiritual healing pods from the Upper City District.
As long as the brainwaves haven’t completely disappeared, the rescue teams can reconnect a severed head.
Of course, this rescue operation is not without costs.
Each person receiving rescue from the dical vehicles must pay exorbitant dical fees.
Even if one only sprained a back while escaping, entering the dical vehicle guarantees at least a five thousand credit point consultation fee.
This is just the basic fee; anything involving dication or surgery could easily cost over a hundred thousand.
If unable to pay, the only option is to provide soul computation power from the Heaven Computation Center to repay the dical expenses.
As a result, bizarre scenes are common atop this rubble.
Each injured survivor struggles and cries out, refusing to enter the large dical vehicles. Most have undergone so spiritual transformation, making these non-lethal injuries manageable.
But once inside the dical vehicle, their lives are over.
Yet, the law enforcent team ignores the survivors’ struggles, simply stuffing them into the vehicles.
Nurous ergency response teams waiting outside the dical vehicles greedily vie for the most severely injured.
"I don’t need dical assistance; my injuries are almost healed!"
A young man in gray struggles to escape the grasp of the law enforcent officers, but how could an ordinary person break free from the constraints of exoskeleton armor?
An eyeglasses-wearing doctor approaches with a stretcher, smiling:
"Although your injuries aren’t severe, rejecting treatnt like this suggests ntal issues. Let examine you quickly."
The gray-clad young man’s face shows desperation, knowing a ntal examination would cost thousands in credit points. If the doctor succeeded, he might be sent directly to the Heaven Computation Center.
In a panic, the young man suddenly shouts:
"I bought insurance! I have basic dical insurance from Ankang Insurance!"
The glass-wearing doctor’s smile froze, and other doctors turned to the gray-clad youth.
A doctor checks his personal terminal and says:
"He indeed purchased basic dical insurance."
Upon hearing this, all doctors showed disdain, as if witnessing sothing extrely unlucky.
dical insurance protects holders from random unnecessary treatnt rather than paying for treatnt after receiving it.
This ans they can only use basic dications. Any treatnt exceeding a certain price lays the doctor open to accusations of malpractice by the insurance company.
Almost all doctors avoid patients with dical insurance, offering no profit and prone to trouble.
"You’re not sick; get lost!"
Seeing nothing more to gain, the eyeglasses-wearing doctor quickly releases the gray-clad young man, dismissing him like a fly, then targets the next victim.
Unfortunately, few in the Lower City District can afford dical insurance.
Most survivors, after struggling in vain, had all their credit points stripped, ending up on vehicles heading to the Heaven Computation Center.
At the other end of the arena ruins, Scott, in tattered clothing, replaces his personal terminal, connecting with communications from the upper echelon of the City Tax Bureau.
"Such commotion over apprehending a re gladiator arena owner?"
On the other side of the virtual screen, a middle-aged man with an imposing aura reclines in a chair. Behind him, contrasting with the Lower City District, is a city skyline of towering skyscrapers.
Hover vehicles weave between the buildings, crisscrossing railways span the sky, reflecting three shimring words against the sunny sky.
City Tax Bureau!
Facing the screen is none other than the City Tax Bureau chief of the Central City District.
Scott, looking disheveled, hangs his head and responds with a solemn expression: "It was negligence on my part; I await your punishnt, Chief!"
The Tax Bureau chief doesn’t speak, instead surveying the ruins behind Scott, a hint of satisfaction appearing on his stern face.
"A re USB and so old fool’s antics; losing them ans nothing.
Regardless of struggles by the Lower City District’s expendables, they can’t resist true power.
By contrast, your handling of the gladiator arena pleases ."
"Even if capturing arena personnel under the guise of a spiritual energy tax yields a few hundred units of soul computation at most.
But you demolished the coliseum, burying a majority of the spectators under the rubble. Upon rescue, they can imdiately be sent to the Heaven Computation Center under the guise of unpaid dical fees.
This operation at least filled a three thousand unit computation gap."
The Tax Bureau chief’s expression warms significantly:
"The old boys in parliant comnd your plan and recomnd it for all law enforcent officers.
Thus, your operation here is undeniably successful!"
"I’ll report this to your father, and he will surely reward you. Expect good news!"
The chief’s praise leaves Scott bewildered.
He opens his mouth to clarify, but recalling the halted intelligent brain, can only swallow the truth.
If only the task failed, a reprimand would follow.
But actively reporting a malfunction due to his negligence, even with his father’s protection, could result in him visiting the Heaven Computation Center.
Each personal intelligent brain splits from a giant intelligent brain, its value exceeding even Scott’s position as a law enforcent officer of the Tax Bureau.
After another round of praise, the conversation returned to the usual platitudes—"Like father, like son," "Your father’s guidance is comndable," "I must visit to learn from your father."
Following this conversational exchange, the Tax Bureau chief returns to the main topic.
"The situation hasn’t stabilized yet; the importance of the Thirty-Third Cave is self-evident. You will temporarily garrison there awaiting further orders."
"Understood!"
Disconnecting the communication, Scott once again picks up his halted personal intelligent brain.
He stares closely at the dark screen, determination shining in his eyes:
"I must find a way to restart it."
"If restarting proves impossible, I must reevaluate, perhaps incite widespread chaos to lose it in the turmoil, ending with a plausible explanation!"
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