vrcanaries Chapter 59 I called for reinforcements!
Chapter 59 I called for reinforcements!
Lynn threw out the potion and gave the order.
However, when the little snail bit off the stopper of the third bottle of red medicine and swallowed it, Lynn's brows suddenly furrowed.
A fatal warning has been clearly displayed on the emblem panel of the left arm:
[WARNING: Target ID: Climbing Snail has continuously consumed basic red potion. Severe drug resistance has developed in muscle tissue, and the central nervous system's threshold for adrenaline stimulation has significantly increased.]
Lynn astutely noticed that after the third bottle of red medicine was consumed, the muscles in the little snail's shoulder wound, which was deep enough to expose the bone, did not contract and tighten as quickly as they had the previous two times. On the contrary, the flesh around the wound took on an abnormal purplish-black color, a sign that the muscle tissue was beginning to die and become numb after the forced contraction!
Mercurochrome is not a cure-all! Buying it in bulk won't help!
He knew all too well that this was the real world, not a game as players perceived it; constantly taking drugs would never work. Constant injury pushed the body to its limits—an insurmountable chasm!
Just as Lynn was calculating the countdown to the collapse of the battle, the fat steward outside the door finally lost all patience.
"Smash them!"
Outside the breach, two first-tier mages in grey robes coldly raised their short staves. The magic in the air surged violently once more, and the terrifying pressure of the double-hit magic instantly locked onto the players huddled together in the study.
Faced with such long-range cannons, even the bravest demons showed expressions of despair.
However, just as the two mages were preparing to cast their next spell to completely breach the defenses...
In the shadow of the remaining load-bearing beam in the study, a tiny bead of cold sweat slid down the monk's neck.
There was no sound of wind, no murderous intent, and not even a physical warning.
The night owl, which had been lying dormant on the beam like a corpse, finally moved.
As a top assassin in the abandoned city, he showed these players, who only knew how to swing their fists and slash each other every day, what the true art of killing really is.
There are no opening moves, no flashy skill effects, only a single, fatal strike and the ultimate assassination.
Like a weightless leaf, Night Owl fell silently upside down. In mid-air, he deftly tapped his toes on a piece of fallen wood, using the momentum to execute a zigzag change of direction that defied the laws of physics, perfectly avoiding the blind spot of the mage's guards.
Only a fleeting shadow remained in the air...
A slight cutting sound.
Night Owl crossed his arms, and two short blades coated with venom extended like poisonous fangs.
The first cut precisely severed the left mage's vocal cords, choking his chanting in his throat.
The second cut, like a skilled butcher dissecting an ox, slid across the pulsating point of the mage's right carotid artery. The mage remained in the raised staff position until a half-meter-high jet of blood spurted from his neck, at which point he realized he was dead.
The backlash of magic, combined with the fatal throat slit, caused the two corpses to collapse to the ground like tattered sacks.
Night Owl landed without hesitation, his figure weaving through the horrified formation of the assassins like a fish. His short blade precisely severed Achilles tendons and pierced arteries under the armpits; each strike targeted only the most vulnerable physical points of the human body, a single blow followed by immediate retreat, never engaging in prolonged combat.
"Ah! My foot!"
"Where is he?! I can't see him!"
The gangsters, who had been so arrogant just moments before, were instantly thrown into chaos.
Each of Night Owl's swift movements was accompanied by the blooming of blood and the sickening sound of ligaments snapping. He was like a heartless meat grinder, dismembering this so-called elite force with the most efficient assassination techniques.
In the chaos, someone exclaimed, "Holy crap! This version has Shadow Dual Blades?!"
Night Owl didn't stop. In just a few breaths, he single-handedly tore open a vacuum in the outer perimeter of the attack.
Night Cat flicked the blood off his dagger and coldly glanced at the stunned players inside: "You guys aren't afraid of pain or death, but killing requires brains and skill. You still need to practice!"
The aggressive entry of the Night Owls did indeed greatly alleviate the pressure from the front, but in the face of an absolute numerical disadvantage, individual bravery is limited.
Outside the door, seeing his heavily invested mage instantly killed, the fat steward became completely enraged.
"Useless! You're all fucking useless!" The fat steward shoved his deputy aside, his eyes bulging with extreme panic and rage. "Guards! You bunch of first-rank trash! Get them! I'll give you the money! More money! Even if we have to tear this mansion down today, we'll chop them into mincemeat!"
Under the reward, there must be a brave man.
The last dozen or so elite assassins around the fat steward drew their heavy swords and roared like wild beasts. Among them were four first-tier warriors, their blades gleaming with a blinding light.
Four powerful attacks came down at the same time!
The defense line that had just been barely held up was instantly torn apart like paper.
Although Night Cat's movements were unpredictable, he was forced to retreat under the indiscriminate heavy firepower in this confined space, suffering a shoulder injury and being forced to retreat back to the study.
The players were in a desperate situation.
The snail and the demon, whose drug resistance had flared up, no longer had the strength to lift their weapons. Bleeding dry, they could only watch helplessly as the blade fell.
Rumble, rumble, rumble.
Just as the fat steward's henchmen were about to step into the study, the solid wood floor at the back of the study suddenly emitted a dull tremor.
It's as if a giant beast is awakening underground.
BOOM!
With a loud crash, three or four heavy bluestone floor tiles were violently thrown from below. A gust of cold wind, mixed with the stench of sewers and the smell of mud, instantly rushed into the study, which was filled with the stench of blood.
To everyone's astonishment, a player with a head full of cobwebs and covered in mud arrogantly emerged from the hole.
Stewed gluten in an iron pot!
"Damn it, that old one-eyed guy's tunnel blueprints are so bad they look like a dog chewed them up; I almost suffocated!"
Coughing, the goose turned and yelled at the burrow, "Hey foreigner! We're here! Pull everyone up!"
The next second, Elliott, the manager of Pearl Harbor Military Industry, climbed up.
Immediately afterward, a thin, shivering figure, covered in foul-smelling mud, was pulled up from the tunnel by the goose. It was Pearl, who had narrowly escaped death and crawled all the way up the sewage pipe!
The rescue and defense missions completed a miraculous loop at the intersection of the old one-eyed man's underground network of pipes!
Behind Pearl was a vast, seemingly endless line of indigenous laborers!
They wore tattered burlap clothes, barefoot or in straw sandals. Some pushed wheelbarrows loaded with sacks, while others carried heavy wooden buckets on their shoulders, like a group of worker ants that had been dormant underground for a long time, finally seeing the light of day.
In just half a minute, hundreds of laborers poured out of the tunnel, instantly filling the originally spacious study to capacity.
The fat manager's henchmen instinctively stopped in their tracks, stunned by this bizarre entrance. But when they realized these visitors were nothing more than a group of lowly dockworkers, the leader sneered, "A bunch of peasants coming to their deaths? Chop them all up!"
Looking at the blood-soaked, heavily armed gangsters opposite them, the timid and fearful indigenous laborers instinctively shrank back, their eyes filled with terror.
Their long-standing oppression and servility made them subconsciously want to retreat.