Gunshots came from the end of the corridor, but they were scattered, and there were more screams than shots. The hand cannon still had not gone off, but that was not good news. Deathstroke was not sure what Schiller was using to kill people—with what, that panel he had snapped off?
At the thought, Deathstroke's neck started aching again. That kind of injury could not actually kill him, but the trouble was that Schiller's path of action was impossible to predict. For a tactical master, that was fatal.
You had absolutely no idea why he had snapped off part of the panel and jammed it into the driver's neck back then. It made no sense whatsoever, and it had not even looked as if he had been trying to kill him. The series of violence-related actions that followed did not look as if they were meant to achieve a violence-related goal, either. The two were completely disconnected.
Deathstroke admitted he was curious about Schiller, like seeing an interesting storybook. Cause and effect, logical connections—these were the essential elements in the book, and then, all of a sudden, everything was thrown into chaos. He knew they were still the same letters, but once they had been scrambled and rearranged, he could not understand anything anymore.
Everything happened too quickly for Deathstroke to speculate. He drew his twin swords and quickly headed toward the gunfire. Then, the instant he stepped into the spacious dining hall, he froze there.
Because the figure standing opposite Schiller was actually his employer. Deathstroke's expression instantly darkened.
Deathstroke was a highly seasoned mercenary. He understood one thing: if someone spent a fortune hiring him to carry out a mission, it was because that person absolutely had a reason they could not appear in the matter. For reputation,