A Desperate Flight, Corpses Falling Like Rain

A frantic dash down a dead end.

Panicked and hysterical.

Wang Dafa panted, clutching his forehead. His once impeccably groomed hair was now soaked in blood. With a ripping sound, Wang Dafa tore off the hem of his pure white suit without a shred of reluctance. Gritting his teeth, he wound it around his head, then, trembling and crying out in pain, pulled it tight with all his strength, wrapping up half his head along with one eye.

The blood was pale violet.

His remaining eye was pale violet as well.

Wang Dafa's lone eye gleamed with ferocity, carrying the agitation of a man at the end of his road and the ruthless savagery of a warlord determined to perish alongside his enemy.

He had set off the massive explosion himself, blowing up an entire chemical plant. Flames soared into the sky as the chemicals reacted violently. Chemical fires that could not be extinguished by ordinary means burned at terrifying temperatures and released poisonous gases, wiping out all life within a six-hundred-meter radius of the blaze.

That blast had taken one of his eyes—and four hundred and twenty-two enemies with it.

The number was exact.

Because he had a vague sense that allowed him to know precisely how many monsters had perished in that explosion.

But that same vague sense also drove him deeper into despair.

Even as he sat inside his bulletproof Rolls-Royce, escorted by seven vehicles racing madly forward, guarded by at least thirty underlings at his side while even more rushed over to rescue him, he could not feel the slightest bit safe.

The cars howled through the streets—seven Mercedes and one Rolls-Royce, all high-horsepower luxury cars with at least six cylinders. The drivers strained with every ounce of strength they had, fleeing frantically through Tokyo's streets.