In the Thirty-Third Cave, within the ruins of the gladiatorial arena.
Members of the law enforcement 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 medical vehicles waiting nearby.
Inside the large medical vehicles are teams of the most professional emergency responders from the Central City District, equipped with various cutting-edge medical 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 medical vehicles must pay exorbitant medical fees.
Even if one only sprained a back while escaping, entering the medical vehicle guarantees at least a five thousand credit point consultation fee.
This is just the basic fee; anything involving medication 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 medical expenses.
As a result, bizarre scenes are common atop this rubble.
Each injured survivor struggles and cries out, refusing to enter the large medical vehicles. Most have undergone some spiritual transformation, making these non-lethal injuries manageable.
But once inside the medical vehicle, their lives are over.
Yet, the law enforcement team ignores the survivors’ struggles, simply stuffing them into the vehicles.
Numerous emergency response teams waiting outside the medical vehicles greedily vie for the most severely injured.
"I don’t need medical assistance; my injuries are almost healed!"
A young man in gray struggles to escape the grasp of the law enforcement 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 treatment suggests mental issues. Let me examine you quickly."
The gray-clad young man’s face shows desperation, knowing a mental 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 medical 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 medical insurance."
Upon hearing this, all doctors showed disdain, as if witnessing something extremely unlucky.
Medical insurance protects holders from random unnecessary treatment rather than paying for treatment after receiving it.
This means they can only use basic medications. Any treatment exceeding a certain price lays the doctor open to accusations of malpractice by the insurance company.
Almost all doctors avoid patients with medical 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 medical 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 mere 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 shimmering words against the sunny sky.
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 punishment, Chief!"
The Tax Bureau chief doesn’t speak, instead surveying the ruins behind Scott, a hint of satisfaction appearing on his stern face.
"A mere USB and some old fool’s antics; losing them means 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 me."
"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 immediately be sent to the Heaven Computation Center under the guise of unpaid medical fees.
This operation at least filled a three thousand unit computation gap."
The Tax Bureau chief’s expression warms significantly:
"The old boys in parliament commend your plan and recommend it for all law enforcement 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 enforcement 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 commendable," "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."
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!"