Chapter 34: The Decisive Strike
1:00 PM. The sky had turned a deep purple-black, the clouds swirling above, unyielding, as fierce winds swept the earth and Lake Mead gleamed with a bloody sheen.
Down the embankment of the interstate, the camp sprawled.
Flames rose, trailing stark white smoke into the wind, stretching through the air like shrouds unfurling. Unlucky souls were piled across the ground—shirts, T-shirts, and dresses all stained crimson, warm blood spurting from gaping wounds in torn clothing, while the soft sand became a patchwork of blood-soaked pools.
Screams and wails persisted, the air thick with a sickening, metallic tang.
Without warning, the butcher at the edge of the parking lot toppled—an opening torn in the ring of death.
Nearby survivors seized the lifeline, stooping low as they bolted for the escape route.
Dead. All dead!
Chris, the baseball team catcher, panted heavily. He had only ever seen such carnage on television and the silver screen. He’d scoffed more than once at the panicked crowds, naively believing that in their place, he would turn the tables and become a hero admired by all.
But reality was the opposite. At the first gunshot, terror shattered his composure, his mind blank, survival instinct overwhelming everything else. Like countless other “cowards,” he ran and hid, desperate.
FBI, lone gunmen, heroes, saviors—lies, all lies! Living was the only truth!
His legs trembled as he stumbled forward, passing the bodies of familiar friends, not daring to glance toward the staccato bursts of gunfire.
Car keys clenched so tightly they broke the skin of his palm.
All sounds and sights faded away—only the white Volvo at the edge of the lot remained in his vision.
If he reached the car, he’d live.
Bang!
A “corpse” suddenly lurched upright in his path—he reacted too slowly and crashed into it, body jolting, vision flashing white, almost passing out.
“Damn it, Wazell! What the hell are you doing here?!”
A Black man in a baseball jersey adjusted his cap, crouched behind an overturned table, rubbing his shoulder, eyes darting nervously to the entrance.
Chris shoved him hard, face flushed, spittle flying, his fear erupting in a torrent.
“You’re not afraid to die? Get lost!”
“There!” Wazell’s eyes bulged, bloodshot, lips twitching with excitement. “Someone killed the shooter.”
“Wishful thinking! If we don’t run, we’re dead!”
“Look! Over there!”
Following Wazell’s pointing finger—
A man stood with his back to them, moving against the fleeing tide.
Dean braced the corpse of a thug before him. With all the gear, it was at least two hundred pounds. Even with his “Shadow” assisting, just a few seconds had drained him. Sweat seeped from his dark hair, rolled down his jaw, soaking his T-shirt.
Rat-tat-tat—
Shell casings spat continuously from the ejection port, trailing smoke at the armored man’s feet.
He raised the AK and fired off a dozen shots in one burst. Each bullet struck the human shield before Dean, making the corpse jerk as if writhing in a hellish, mechanical dance.
Fifty meters.
A tense, strange standoff gripped the scene.
The attacker circled, searching for an angle to shoot the man behind the corpse. But with a limp, his pace was uneven, slower than his prey.
The defender, turtle-like, pivoted with him, always keeping the dead between them.
Yet the gap closed rapidly.
Forty meters.
Suddenly, the armored man shifted aim—rat-tat—
A girl sneaking toward the lot crumpled silently, her basketball jersey blooming red, as cruel as a wilting flower.
Thirty meters.
Dean’s breath came in ragged gasps, but his focus was sharper than ever, his eyes blazing with a fierce light.
No time for fear—a single thought filled his mind.
At ten meters, I’ll send you to hell.
But things veered off course.
The armored man tucked the rifle under his arm and drew a fat, round grenade from his belt.
Dean’s pupils contracted.
A flash of movement.
The man flicked the grenade—it arced perfectly, landing at the feet of the standing corpse.
Dean instantly shoved the burden toward the grenade and dove to the side.
Boom!
The explosion was deafening.
Dust, sand, and flesh filled the air. The grenade blew a crater in the earth, sending the smoking corpse sprawling.
Through the thick smoke, a figure burst out.
Dean charged straight at the man.
Gun in his right hand, knife in his left, his pale, cold face set with unwavering resolve, he streaked across the battlefield like a martyr racing toward death.
Flesh and blood against modern weaponry.
The full-face steel helmet gave a silent, mocking laugh.
Rat-tat-tat—
The black muzzle spat flames at him.
Two seconds.
The man emptied the remaining magazine, every round hitting its mark. But then he froze in shock.
There was no expected carnage, no flying flesh, no shattered body.
The bullets vanished into thin air.
The man in the gray T-shirt kept charging, unscathed.
“Jesus!”
The bizarre, unreal scene sent chills down the man’s spine. His hand, swapping magazines, froze midair.
He’d fought in hundreds of battles, including that American rout eight years ago—but never had he seen anything like this.
A hallucination? A vision before death?
Ten meters!
In a flash, Dean flung his pistol like a thrown dagger.
The gun spun in the air, arcing—before the man could react, it struck his unprotected right armpit, his hand clutching the rifle.
A transparent finger squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
A muffled groan—the man dropped his rifle and collapsed, wracked with pain.
An invisible force pinned him down.
A coolness washed over his face.
Someone snatched off his helmet, pressed the cold pistol to his brow.
In his final moment—
The man’s blurry gaze met a sweat-soaked face.
Young, inexperienced, radiating the vitality of youth—a boy who should have been in school, talking of women and weeds...
But now, cold as death, like a messenger from hell.
Impossible.
“Die!”
Bang!
You have killed a shooter with the Colt M1911A1.
Proficiency +10.
Shooting lv0 (22/100)
Emergency Event—
Hunt (66/100)
...
Dean picked up the AK, studying the shooter’s face.
It was him.
Rugged features beneath the helmet, hooked nose, a rough beard to his ears.
The limping man from Silent Hunter Gun Store.
Three shooters. The numbers matched. But why attack a group of innocent students? Just for vengeance against America?
No time to dwell—Dean’s exhaustion showed plainly.
One minute of violent exertion had drained him. Without his Ironman talent converting food into strength and stamina, he would have collapsed.
His mind was in shambles.
His temples throbbed, dizziness threatened to overtake him.
The “Shadow” that had absorbed a barrage of 7.62mm rounds was fading to a translucent gray, clearly nearing its limit. Soon, it would dissolve, returning to his body.
When that happened, Dean would lose his greatest advantage—the “Invisible Killer.”
He had to finish this quickly.
...
By the lakeside, the third shooter kicked over a body, eyes locking on the outlier—Dean, standing upright eighty meters away.
He hesitated, then raised his AK and sprinted, weaving through young corpses and scattered barbecue grills, firing precisely at Dean.
Rat-tat-tat!
A hail of bullets tore the ground beside Dean, sending jets of sand and dust skyward.
Dean rolled behind a barbecue rack with his “human shield.”
His chest heaved, nerves making him tremble uncontrollably.
Three seconds.
The shooting stopped.
Dean raised the AK, barrel protruding from cover, and held the trigger.
Rat-tat-tat—
A burst of bullets screamed toward the shooter.
But it lasted only a second.
The AK-47’s recoil, far stronger than the Colt, numbed Dean’s wrists. The rifle nearly leapt from his hands, and the magazine ran dry.
His poor marksmanship was obvious. His hands shook, and three out of five shots missed entirely.
The two that struck were absorbed by the shooter’s body armor.
Damn it!
Dean tossed the empty AK, gripping the Colt with both hands.
He checked the magazine.
Four rounds left.
He calculated quickly.
“Shadow” could absorb maybe ten more bullets before vanishing—if he charged now, he’d be riddled before halfway.
He had to wait for the shooter to enter the “Shadow’s” hunting range.
No grenades, please—no grenades!
He prayed desperately.
God seemed to hear him. The third shooter, oblivious to the bizarre death of his comrade, rushed in with his gun, closing to within twenty meters.
Buzz—
The “Shadow” flickered, like a dying TV screen.
No more time!
Dean held his breath, resolve hardening in his eyes.
Drop the gun.
Turn.
Bolt from cover.
The transparent “Shadow,” carrying the Colt, floated before him, intercepting the AK’s muzzle.
Rat-tat-tat—
The gunfire split his head with agony.
Bullets sliced through the air, slamming into the invisible barrier before him.
Suddenly, the “Shadow’s” gray body stretched to its limit, pressing close to Dean.
The nearest bullet—
Less than ten centimeters from Dean’s right eye, wind biting, hair on end, his spine ablaze.
He could smell the gunpowder.
The scent of death.
Clink.
At the critical moment, the bullet’s energy died.
The slug dropped.
The “Shadow” spent its last strength and dissolved into mist, returning to Dean—unable to deliver the final blow.
Eight meters now.
Dean rolled low, scooping up the Colt as he rose, both hands steady, left knee on the ground in a textbook stance, squeezing the trigger.
Bang!
The first shot, almost guided by fate, struck the magazine as the shooter was reloading.
The magazine spun away.
The man yelped, recoiling as if electrocuted.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Dean advanced, firing the last three rounds at the man’s unprotected groin. But the man dodged, only taking a bloody wound to the thigh.
Three meters apart.
Their eyes met.
Dean let out a furious snarl, tossed the pistol, and lunged at the shooter, face twisted with rage.
But a flash of cold steel stopped him—a tactical knife whipped out, the shooter’s combat reflexes honed by years of battle.
He reversed his grip, slashing sideways with deadly speed, the blade sharp enough to gut Dean with a touch.
Dean hesitated, stepping back, but not fast enough.
The knife tore his shirt and grazed his abs, leaving a shallow, bleeding line.
Cold pain made him shudder.
He’d lost the initiative.
The man struck again, knife angling for Dean’s throat—a viper lunging.
Dean could only retreat, dodging desperately.
But the knife was relentless, its gleam flashing, a storm of slashes and thrusts.
Each strike aimed for his throat, temple, heart.
The air hissed with every deadly thrust.
In the space between life and death—
Adrenaline surged through Dean, his mind ablaze, face flushed, pain forgotten.
He danced on a razor’s edge, barely evading each fatal strike, sweat pooling at his feet.
In mere breaths, he was driven to a dead end. One misstep and he’d be gutted.
Dodging further meant certain death.
The terror gnawed at him—the cold edge flashed again.
He had to do something, break the assault.
Under mortal pressure, something in Dean’s mind unlocked. He spotted the bloody wound in the man’s thigh—the one left by the Colt.
He ducked a slash, tensed his hips, and slammed his heel into the wound.
The external force stabbed straight into the flesh like a steel needle.
The man howled, his knife hand faltering, bending over as pain overwhelmed him.
An opening!
Dean seized his knife hand with his right, pushing down on his shoulder with the left, twisting the man’s arm behind him.
Crack.
The arm dislocated, knife dropping.
Pain slowed the man’s retaliation.
Dean dodged a clumsy elbow aimed at his waist, slipping behind him.
A deep breath.
In a flash—
Lv1 Combat skill activated—a flood of close-quarters techniques surged through his mind.
In a single second, Dean executed a dazzling series of movements behind the man—
His right arm locked tight around the man’s neck, fist reaching his own left shoulder.
His left elbow braced his right fist, and the back of his left hand pressed to the man’s head.
Together, Dean’s arms and the man’s neck formed a closed, lethal noose.
He tightened, pouring all his strength upward.
As if to crush everything.
Snap—
Bones cracked, severe suffocation set in—the big, armored man thrashed desperately, feet leaving the ground as he staggered forward.
Black gloves clawed at Dean’s arms.
But no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t break the death grip.
Dean tightened further.
His legs became a second noose, wrapping around the waist—his right foot behind his left calf, left foot behind the man’s left knee.
The harder the man fought, the tighter the grip, like a prey ensnared by a giant python.
Five seconds.
The man’s eyes bulged, breath failing, face reddening beneath the helmet, strength fading.
Seven seconds.
The struggle ceased. The man collapsed, face-down in the dirt, limbs twitching like an epileptic.
Dean kept squeezing.
Tighter, tighter.
Under his skin, cords of muscle and vein writhed and bulged like worms beneath the earth.
Thirty more seconds.
Combat proficiency stopped rising.
Dean felt no resistance; the man was unconscious.
He let go, stood shakily, leaving the limp foe in a pool of blood.
Dean wiped the hot sweat from his brow.
A fierce light flashed in his eyes—he picked up the knife and stabbed it sideways, the blade coldly piercing the man’s neck.
Squelch—
Blood erupted.
Lines of scarlet data flashed in Dean’s vision.
You used a tactical knife to pierce the enemy’s carotid artery, causing fatal damage.
Enemy dead.
Proficiency +10.
Combat lv1 (65/200)
Emergency Event—Hunt
Completion: 100%
You have fulfilled your role as “justice” in this emergency.
Reward pending.
...
Breathe.
It’s over.
Dean’s fists clenched and relaxed. He exhaled long and slow, standing over the warm corpse, surveying the blood, flesh, bullet holes, flames, and the ravaged beach.
All three shooters were dead. The chaos fell silent.
Those who survived peeked cautiously from their shelters, looking his way.
Safe.
Dean’s body relaxed unconsciously—immediately, the aftereffects of exhaustion, pain, and adrenaline crashed over him like waves.
Fatigue, aching to the bone, the sharp pain in his belly—he felt stifled, breathless, his vision blurred.
His expression slackened in a daze.
I have to leave—hide.
His steps felt like walking on cotton. He took a step and suddenly collapsed sideways.
Footsteps, shouts, sobbing, wailing...
“Dean! Dean!”
As consciousness faded,
He heard his name being called.