119. Slaughter, Illusion

Third floor.

Paqui, face heavy with gravity, gripped his gun in one hand while his other muscular arm held tight to the collapsing Rust, who was desperately clawing at the railing, trying to throw himself over.

Rust was screaming hysterically.

Dean, meanwhile, looked down at the crowd below.

There were no other hunters in Las Vegas.

These socialites hadn't even caught the scent of his abnormality.

They were pure humans, unburdened by the cravings of gluttony, yet they committed such demonic acts!

Dean’s jaw tightened like stone, his pupils flashing with the cold light of a blade.

They all had to die!

"Buddy, give me the gear!"

Dean took the barrel and receiver assembly, the bolt, the grip, and the fire control group from Paqui.

With his Level 2 Shooting skill and inhuman agility activated, his hands assembled the pile of parts into a complete MP5 submachine gun with incredible speed.

*Click.*

He inserted the magazine, disengaged the safety, and flicked the switch to three-round burst mode.

With his "God's Eye" perspective, Dean saw through the floorboards as the bodyguards ran along the second-floor corridor, frantically rushing toward the third floor.

As the bodyguards passed beneath his feet:

"Paqui, protect yourself and Rust. Leave these people to me!"

"What are you doing? Don't do anything reckless!"

Ignoring him, Dean braced his left hand on the railing, kicked off with his right foot, and his lower body flipped over the rail like lightning. He plummeted toward the first floor!

A black shadow swept through the air.

The speed was so great that he looked like a falcon diving from the sky to snatch its prey.

The shadow fell with lightning speed past the second-floor railing, stepped into thin air, and paused abruptly—as if a stepping stone had appeared out of nowhere to cancel out his downward momentum.

Simultaneously, his right hand braced against the second-floor railing, and with a burst of strength, he agilely vaulted into the second floor, landing without a sound.

He looked up. In the corridor, eight bodyguards were running toward the stairs leading to the third floor, leaving their backs completely exposed.

Dean did not hesitate. He raised the MP5, his index finger hooked on the trigger, and swept from right to left. *Tat-tat-tat!*

The air hissed; fire snakes spat.

Bullets tore through the air in succession, and clusters of blood exploded.

Six bodyguards stumbled, their bodies falling face-first. Bloody holes erupted in the backs of their heads; pale brain matter and crimson blood sprayed out, and their own momentum dragged them forward, carving shocking trails of blood along the floor!

In the reflection of the marble, their cold faces still bore expressions of focus; they had died without ever realizing they had been ambushed.

*You killed Owen... Proficiency +6*5, Shooting Lv2 (118→148/300)*

...

In an instant, six of the eight gunmen were dead.

The remaining two realized something was wrong, instinctively rolling along the floor, crouching low, and ducking behind nearby cover to return fire.

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

Dean charged forward without dodging, bullets hitting his body only to be deflected by his "Ghost Armor" and falling to his feet.

His hands blurred behind his waist and over the gun, swapping in a spare magazine. Finally, he slapped the charging handle down with a *clack*.

He returned fire.

*Bang! Bang!*

Two black-clad men erupted with bloody holes in their foreheads and fell to their knees, their facial muscles twisted in extreme terror.

Even in death, they could not understand the reason behind this utterly irrational scene.

*You killed... Proficiency +5*2, Shooting Lv2 (158/300)*

...

The intense gunfire lasted less than five seconds.

Paqui dragged Rust, clutching his gun, and moved sideways down from the third floor like a crab, keeping his back to the wall.

The second-floor corridor was almost empty, save for Dean, who stood in a pool of blood, tucking the pistols he’d scavenged from the bodies into his belt one by one.

Not a single drop of blood had touched his elegant black suit.

"What the hell? Am I seeing things, or did the Feathered Serpent possess you?"

Paqui had been through many fierce battles, but now he couldn't help but gape, rubbing his eyes with a complex and incredulous expression.

Just then, joyful laughter rang out from the first-floor hall. The chef, his refined face wearing a smug smile, spoke:

"A small accident occurred just now, and I apologize for disturbing you all, but the chaos has ended... As an apology, I will immediately prepare the newly arrived ingredients for everyone. This time, there is no need for digestion, only consumption. You will taste the ultimate sweetness."

*Clap!*

He clapped his hands.

In response:

*Thud.*

A black shadow fell from the second floor into the hall below.

In an instant, the crowd of wealthy moguls, government officials, celebrities, and public figures gulped, their eyes involuntarily drawn to the pile of shimmering metallic objects tucked into the shadow's waist.

Their throats felt blocked, as if by phlegm; the air turned thick as mud, making it hard to breathe.

The composure, elegance, and arrogance on their faces all melted into horror and panic.

Dean walked straight to the closed black door, blocked it, turned, and swept his gaze across the room—

Thirty-six in total.

"You like to throw cannibal parties?"

"Want to see the Red Dragon? Want to transcend?"

*Clack.* Dean held the MP5 in his right hand and a Colt in his left, using the powerful wrist snap and astonishing speed to rack both slides simultaneously.

The dark muzzles were aimed at the center of the hall!

"I'll send you to transcendence!"

"No! No!"

"God help us!"

"Listen to me, let me explain!"

*Tat-tat-tat!*

A continuous rain of gunfire drowned out their frantic pleas.

In an instant, over a dozen bullets shredded expensive designer suits and evening gowns, piercing flesh and bone, mowing down a crowd like wheat.

A layer of paint-like blood spread across the smooth marble floor.

In the moments after falling, they weren't quite dead yet, lying on the ground, moaning helplessly and desperately, begging for mercy. The entire hall descended into chaos!

The crowd scurried like headless flies, hiding under dining tables and behind marble pillars. The charlatan chef from before scrambled toward the kitchen, terrified.

Dean showed no mercy. He transformed into a ruthless killing machine, grinding forward slowly and steadily from the back of the group, both guns blazing.

He discarded the empty Colt in his left hand and drew a new one from his belt.

He wielded mere pistols with the momentum of an MP5.

It was as if he were carrying two submachine guns; his superhuman physique, strength, and agility allowed him to perfectly suppress the recoil.

He reaped lives to his heart's content.

And on the only escape route for these unarmed men and women—

Paqui stood like a gatekeeper, expressionless, silently plugging any fish that slipped through Dean's net.

With a flick of his hand, he blew the head off an old white man. Turning his muzzle to the left, another woman in heavy makeup collapsed, clutching her spurting neck.

Inside the club, the situation was one-sided; the predators had become the prey.

The *tat-tat* of gunfire, the sound of bullets piercing flesh, the splashing of blood, and the shrill screams composed a song of slaughter.

...

The world in front of Dean turned blood-red.

At a certain moment, his body heated up, and a surge of power welled within him.

*Shooting Lv2 → Lv3 (0/400)*

*Agility: 13.2 → 13.7*
*Perception: 11.9 → 12.9*

Simultaneously, knowledge about firearms and marksmanship flowed slowly and continuously into his mind. The guns in his hands suddenly felt more intuitive, like extensions of his own arms.

Waves of coldness washed over his eyes, ears, nose, and body, rapidly expanding his perception.

The surging scent of blood and sweat in the air, the crimson outlines drawn by the blood in the hall—everything became increasingly clear.

...

*Bang!*

Dean stepped over a man whose back was stained red and kicked over a horizontal dining table.

"Don't kill me!"

"It's my first time at this club, I've never killed anyone, I didn't know I was here for such an evil activity, spare my life!"

A middle-aged woman, trembling like a quail under the table, knelt and looked up, her still-attractive face covered in tear tracks.

It was one of the two newcomers.

Dean looked at her face, his brows furrowed, his finger pausing for half a second on the trigger.

*Bang!*

The gun fired.

A bloody hole broke open in the woman's forehead.

Her eyes widened as she fell backward, losing all vitality.

*You killed Carola, Proficiency +1, Shooting Lv3 (1/400)*

There was no turning back now.

*Click.*

Dean pulled the trigger on a burly man in front of him, only to see the slide lock back automatically.

The submachine gun and pistols were all out of ammunition, and his spare magazines were exhausted.

His belt was empty.

"He's out of bullets!"

The man, fleeing for his life, roared in catharsis. The five remaining people around him were encouraged, and their flight faltered.

The largest man, the boldest, with a face full of flab, raised a chair and charged at Dean to counterattack. He had a scar running across the bridge of his nose and half his face, his expression fierce.

Clearly, he had lived through some wild years in his youth.

Perhaps he had even killed a few people!

He successfully reached Dean and swung the chair down at his head.

*Bang!*

He hit empty air. The chair slammed into the ground, sending a spray of wood splinters everywhere.

At the same time, a ghostly shadow appeared behind him.

His hands moved like lightning—

His left elbow hooked the man's neck to fix his head in place.

Simultaneously, his right palm pushed the man's chin to the left, then quickly shoved it to the right.

*Snap!*

The windpipe and cervical spine tore.

The man went limp, paralyzed on the floor. His face turned red, his limbs spasmed, and he moaned with a weak breath.

*Hiss—*

"Monster!"

The four who had stopped to watch screamed and turned to flee again.

A teardrop-shaped spirit board appeared in Dean's hand.

He threw it like a boomerang toward the front.

A silver, crescent-shaped cold light swept through the air of the hall...

*Puchi, puchi...*

Several clusters of blood exploded.

The ankles of the four fleeing people turned red; they staggered and collapsed face-first, losing their balance.

Several bloody teeth flew out, followed by desperate wails.

Dean lifted a hand, and the "Shadow" manipulated the spirit board to fly back into his palm.

"Don't kill me, I'll pay!"

The man with the wavy beard watched the "Grim Reaper" approach step by step, sliding backward on his bottom in a pathetic display, begging loudly:

"Is a million enough?"

"Ten million!"

*Puchi!*

Dean crouched low.

He swung the spirit board horizontally.

The speed was immense, and the power was great.

A throat-slit.

It was like a chef's knife gutting a fish, a hot blade through butter—easy and effortless.

The man clutched the gaping wound on his neck, wheezing as he fell to his knees. The gushing blood splashed onto Dean's spotless suit, only to be deflected by an invisible barrier.

Dean looked at the remaining three, ignoring all the pleas in his ears.

He gripped the spirit board and swung it repeatedly at their throats.

...

*You killed Boris... Proficiency +5, Combat Lv2 (160→165/300)*

...

Thirty-five out of thirty-six people were dead.

Dean’s blood-red pupils turned toward the head of the Red Dragon Club, who was sitting on the floor against the wall: Al Dalis, the chef, dressed in white dotted with blood-red.

He didn't plan on letting this guy die too easily.

But the horror on Al's charming face suddenly vanished, and his eyes stared straight at Dean.

The moment their eyes met, Dean felt a lightning bolt flash before his eyes.

Al's whites turned pitch black, while his pupils bloomed with a blinding white light, then rapidly split—one became two smaller ones, two became four even smaller ones...

Soon, countless white dots creepily covered his black eye sockets, crawling out like fireflies and flying into the building's ceiling.

Dean’s soul throbbed, and he uncontrollably looked up.

He saw a bizarre sight—

The sturdy ceiling melted like a candle, its pristine white base instantly turning into a gloomy, deep color.

A sense of distant, vast nothingness washed over him.

The countless white dots flying from the chef's eyes spread across the gradient-colored roof, forming a brilliant galaxy like a summer night sky.

It rotated slowly, and a fissure gradually opened in the center of the darkness and silver-white. A magnificent, dark red arched outline emerged, occupying Dean's entire vision—

It was a massive red star, pressing down toward Dean, projecting an omnipresent, overwhelming gravity.

It seemed to be staring at Dean. A sense of unavoidable dread rose in his heart. The entire world squeezed in toward him along with this red celestial body, and the space around him began to twist and collapse rapidly.

He was trapped in this narrowing space, unable to move even a finger, unable to breathe. His bones groaned under the pressure.

Veins and cords of muscle bulged on his hands and neck, his hair stood on end, and beads of sweat and blood seeped from his skin, which was stretched to the point of cracking.

He felt extreme dizziness, stinging pain, and exhaustion.

His body and spirit were being crushed, drained, and dissipated by the approaching "Red Dragon."

*Bang!*

A piercing gunshot in the hall terminated this horrific process.

Dean was instantly pulled out of the terrifying illusion.

His knees went weak, and he fell to the ground.

*Huff... puff...*

On his pale face, trickles of blood seeped from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, dripping onto the floor along his chin.

He was so weak he almost fainted, yet deep in his heart, an indescribable sense of catharsis rose, as if some shackle had shattered under that extreme pressure.

"What did that guy do to you? Why are you bleeding for no reason?" The big man who had reclaimed his gun pulled him up, looking at his bloody face in surprise.

Dean shook his head and looked across the room. Al Dalis was clutching a bloody thigh pierced by a bullet, tears of blood flowing from his eyes. He no longer possessed the enthralling magic from before.

His cheeks flushed with a sickly red, and he asked in an excited, trembling voice:

"You saw it, didn't you? You witnessed the might of the Red Dragon!"

"Humans are born incomplete, with limited power. Only by finding the Red Dragon can you perfect yourself and break the shackles!"

"Your reaction was so intense—your talent far exceeds that of ordinary people!"

"Cooperate with me, and I will help you reach the other shore!"

He explained with fanatical fervor.

Dean wiped the blood from his face, the confusion and pain in his eyes fading.

He had initially thought the "Red Dragon" the other party spoke of was just a ridiculous lie to brainwash idiots, but the experience of being caught off guard just now had overturned his thoughts.

The Red Dragon was real.

...

"Reach your mother's head!"

Paqui’s large foot, clad in a polished leather shoe, swung from the side and struck Al's face squarely, kicking him away like a sandbag. Al spat out blood, half his face stained with an ugly footprint of the shoe sole.

"Don't fall for this charlatan's tricks!"

"Don't worry, I'm not that stupid." Dean looked toward the dining table again.

Rust was holding Grace, who looked peaceful and asleep in the ice; she was cold to the touch and had clearly been frozen for at least a day.

Rust pressed his face against hers, his shoulders heaving, tears flowing silently. His thin back radiated a heavy sorrow and despair that felt almost tangible.

He had already lost his father, and now his last relative was gone.

Dean sighed. He released one of the ten souls already stored in the spirit board, emptying a spot.

"Rust, the person who hurt Grace is right here. Don't you want to avenge her?"

Rust’s body trembled.

He let go of the cold body in his arms, turned his head, and glared at Al with gnashing teeth.

That terrifying look, as if he wanted to eat the man's flesh and blood, made even the chef—who lacked any humanity—shudder.

"This is a misunderstanding!"

"You killed her," Rust charged over.

"I didn't kill your mother; everything was her own choice!"

"You made her suffer!"

"No, she began the next cycle in peace, without suffering any torture. And before she left, she begged me to lead you to join the club. I promised her. Come, good child, I will guide you to see the great Red Dragon right now. Ah! What are you doing? Stop!"

"You killed her!"

"Aaaaaah!"

Rust took the table knife Paqui handed him and stabbed the man's eye out in one stroke.

Amidst his shrill screams, he stabbed violently at the man's entire body...

*Puchi, puchi!*

In the continuous sound of blades entering flesh, Al’s body became riddled with holes like a punctured water bag.

The wails gradually faded.

The splashing blood stained the revenge-seeker Rust’s youthful face. That face instantly became incomparably ferocious, carved with bone-deep madness!

But a knife alone was not enough to quell Rust's rage.

At a certain moment, he dropped the knife, threw himself onto the dying Al like a crazed beast, and bit into his neck.

Dean watched the cruel scene quietly. A sense of indescribable pleasure welled up in his heart, as if the person venting their rage so violently before him wasn't Rust, but himself.

He turned and looked around; the cold hall was filled with corpses, like a living hell.

And he had created it all with his own hands.

Blood and fire intertwined; the rush of pleasure overwhelmed the levees of reason, triggering a long-sealed switch in his body.

Dean’s expression went trance-like again, his head buzzing, and all the sounds around him strangely drifted away at this moment.

The scene before him twisted like an abstract painting by a master.

He felt as if he were amidst indescribable, bizarre clouds.

A pleasant, gender-neutral voice rang out.

"See? How much nobler are humans than monsters?"

"Release your shackles, embrace freedom—kill if you want to kill!"

"You will be reborn as me."

"God is in heaven."

"Oz is at the end of the rainbow."

"Midian is a paradise for monsters."

"Come, come... I will take away your pain and grant you eternal life."

"This is your calling."

"Come, come... go north..."

"North."

"North!"

"Dean!"

"Ah!" Dean slapped his temple frantically. The terrifying bloodshot veins in his eyes receded like a tide, and the strange colors and alluring hallucinations in his ears vanished.

"What is wrong with you today?"

Paqui couldn't understand it; how could his nephew space out twice while killing people? It didn't match his outstanding skills at all.

"Sorry, I'm just too tired."

"Then aren't you going to help your good friend?"

Rust was lying blood-soaked on the now-silent Al, swinging his fists weakly, crying, and laughing—like a madman.

"Let him vent. If this grief isn't turned into rage and released, he'll collapse." Dean felt the last spot in the spirit board fill up, his eyes dimming as he shook his head.

Paqui circled the hall. "Forget it, let's finish the cleanup. I've already handled the surveillance footage. Now, wipe down all the guards' guns you used—erase your fingerprints..."

"Ancestors preserve us, that charlatan knew he wasn't doing human work, building the club in such a remote place. It’s night now, so nobody should have discovered our actions."

"Take one 'lucky' corpse with us to frame someone else and slightly reduce the suspicion."

"It's a shame we can't burn it all down; we have to leave Grace's body here as evidence so the police know about these demons' atrocities."

"Did you work in private security or as a hitman?"

"If it weren't for cleaning up your mess, would I have to go through all this trouble?"

"I could have handled this job alone, without anyone knowing."

"Stop talking nonsense, hurry up."

Uncle and nephew worked together, finishing most of the obvious traces in fifteen minutes.

Then they approached Rust, who was sitting blankly on Al's corpse, covered in blood, even his mouth stained red. "You're done venting, kid. Time to go."

Rust just sat there like a statue, clutching Grace, motionless.

Paqui forcibly pried his hands open and dragged him toward the club entrance.

Dean took one last look at Grace’s peaceful face, hoisted a guard's corpse, and turned to leave.

(End of chapter)