Chapter 18: Now We Can Rest Assured
1120 Words
Only then did the surrounding people finally react…
They didn't even have time to look back at the direction the bullet had come from, or who had fired that life-or-death shot at such a crucial moment. They could only suppress their immense shock and relief, constantly giving thanks for this divine blessing.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
The steam armor, which had just been radiating heat, immediately started operating again. The high temperature from the turbines evaporated the surrounding rain into puffs of white mist, and all the guards instantly reactivated their combat mode!
They were the most devout believers of the Papacy, their lives expendable to sustain the clergy. So even though their limbs were injured, broken, and shattered from the recent battle, with pieces of steel embedded in their abdomens, as long as the enemy remained and the high-ranking clergy needed protection, they could not rest, nor even dream of being healed. Even though the lingering heat penetrated their thick armor, searing their bodies like hot irons, baking, sticking, and sizzling their skin, they could not escape!
…However, this equipment was ultimately too heavy. After such a fierce battle, the turbines, unable to dissipate heat, could not immediately generate enough power to drive the three-meter-high, thick steel structure; even the most basic movements like bending an arm or lifting a leg were impossible.
Further away, the abyssal creature summoned by Deacon Baldr had completely lost its vitality, its body collapsed, leaving only a festering skin. The spider finally had a moment to catch its breath. At this moment, its eight slender limbs began to dance wildly, charging desperately towards the old priest. Its enormous abdomen writhed violently, seemingly desperately trying to produce more silk.
However, this abyssal creature was not adept at short-distance, rapid movement. In the recent battle, it had already exhausted all its silk reserves and could not produce any more in the short term.
As for Catherine on the clock tower, although she possessed terrifying instant-kill abilities, her contracted creature was severely injured, and she herself was suffering from the backlash. She could only lean against the vine-covered wall, struggling to stay conscious.
Therefore, in those brief few seconds, dramatically, no one was able to truly attack Deacon Baldr, nor could anyone protect the old priest.
From the pool of blood, the emaciated body rose.
Now, it was even more emaciated than before, practically a skeleton. Large patches of skin had turned to nutrients, peeling away to reveal the nearly broken, dry muscle beneath.
In this state, even if the beautiful, all-healing Florence Nightingale herself were to descend, she couldn't save its life.
It was destined to die.
But it continued its madness, roaring, yearning for destruction and being destroyed!
The rain dyed the long street blood-red. Amidst this vividly colored streetscape, a figure silently stepped over a pile of mangled corpses…
As mentioned before, compared to the Contractor, Sherlock wasn't as fast, but he was incredibly fluid and unpredictable. Every movement seemed precise to the extreme; whether running, leaping, or even the distance of each step, it was as if it had been calculated countless times.
A tattered black trench coat billowed silently behind him. He raised his hand strangely, and between his pale fingers lay a pistol, seemingly out of nowhere.
Perhaps it was his own, perhaps he'd found it somewhere on the battlefield… it didn't matter.
In any case, despite the high-speed movement, the g*n moved with eerie stillness. Suddenly, without warning, a burst of light erupted from the black muzzle! Bang! Bang! Bang! Three bullets flew from the barrel.
But these three bullets flew in three different directions, seemingly aiming at nothing, like firing randomly into the dark, rainy night.
At the same time, Deacon Badr had already leaped viciously from the pool of blood, his entire body like a dried-out filament, lunging towards the nearest old priest… His mind was now consumed by only one thought—to kill his opponent!
However, this terrifying second attack was suddenly stopped.
Three bullets appeared out of nowhere in his path as he lunged forward. He was fast enough to narrowly avoid two, but couldn't dodge the third. In fact, it seemed that trying to avoid the first two bullets had placed him directly into the third's firing position; his vulnerable shoulder was struck again, shattering the yellowed bone!
In the next few seconds, more than a dozen gunshots rang out in quick succession, inexplicably pinning Deacon Badr to the spot!
Just a g*n.
Under normal circumstances, the power of such ordinary bullets would barely affect Deacon Badr's movements, but precisely in this desperate moment, when he was on his last legs… The terrifying effects of the sacrifice were relentlessly draining the user's life; his brain was boiling, his bones were trembling, and his remaining nerves and muscles were spasming.
The 20 seconds of absolutely maddening d**g's effects were thus restrained by a pistol! It had dragged out and exhausted all his life force!
Only then did Sherlock's body finally pounce into the blinding light of the searchlight, his hand still steady, his expression calm. It seemed he hadn't blinked a single time from the beginning, his eyes fixed on the trigger with an eerie, focused concentration. So focused were the surrounding guards that they instinctively dared not approach him, fearing to disrupt his rhythm in suppressing Deacon Baldr.
The gunfire continued. Sherlock had now walked step by step to Baldr, bullets erupting at point-blank range.
Shoulder armor, knees, elbows, ribs, spine, eye sockets.
Almost every vital spot was bombarded several times until completely shattered, showing no mercy and giving his opponent no chance to retaliate.
In silence, all the bullets were exhausted, leaving only a corpse on the ground, its internal organs and bones shattered.
Sherlock didn't stop. He focused intently on a standard armored handsaw beside him, aiming the blade at the sunken skull…
Without a power source, the handsaw couldn't turn, but Sherlock didn't care.
He started smashing!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Until he had hacked a large gash open in the back of the skull… then suddenly raised his other hand!
'Thud!'
No one knew what he was doing, or perhaps they did but dared not think about it. They only watched his eerie back, the grating, sticky, nauseating sound seemingly carrying far amidst the patter of the rain, making everyone who heard it feel uneasy!
Anyway, Sherlock continued his gruesome actions, tearing and ripping, his shoulders twisting and turning, for an unknown amount of time.
…Finally, he stopped his chilling movements and slowly stood up.
Turning his head, in the beam of the searchlight descending from the sky, he revealed a bright and infectious smile.
"Alright, now you can rest assured."
- Writer
