Skulls for the Skull Throne (Please Bookmark, Please Recommend)

Rorschach, his expression cold and stern, withdrew the giant Knife.

He flicked the red-and-white mixture from the blade.

The giant Knife was as good as new.

It truly was a masterfully forged Catachan weapon.

Rorschach had not needed to exert much effort.

He had easily ended Sergei's brief life.

Rorschach was not a bloodthirsty man.

It was simply that, for a peaceful and tranquil life, getting his hands bloody was an unavoidable necessity.

Rorschach nudged Sergei's corpse with the toe of his Military Boots.

In the corpse's other hand, hidden behind its back, a phone with its recording function activated was quietly running.

Clearly, Mr. Sergei had not recognized his own mistake.

Rorschach bent down and picked up the phone.

He then took everything from the corpse's pockets that could prove its identity, along with the little cash that remained.

After carefully clearing away every trace left at the scene, he turned and left.

Midnight had passed.

The night sky, which had remained bright through the first half of the night, was gradually obscured by dense clouds, dark clouds looming overhead.

The dampness in the air grew increasingly heavy.

It seemed a torrential downpour was about to arrive.

On the tidal banks of the East River, Warehouse 10, facing the Brooklyn Bridge, was hidden among countless buildings.

If anyone investigated on paper, they would find that the small warehouse before them

was used by an inconspicuous publicly traded company in Manhattan to store idle goods.

Beneath layers of cover, so long as they kept an eye on the movements and appearances of those entering and leaving, even the police could become useful forces guarding the warehouse.

Vladimir Vitch

had relied on this ingenious plan to swiftly win the favor of the gang leader.

He had thoroughly become one of the Tracksuit Gang's most notorious bosses.

However, recently, the rapid changes in the underworld

had left Vitch in a state of utter distress, his glory long gone.

Did criminals need order?

To a certain extent, they did.

Gang rules passed down by word of mouth could help the vast majority of criminals evade legal punishment.

They could also prevent greater friction between gangs locked in constant conflict, avoiding losses in economic interests.

However, once those unspoken gang rules became fully materialized, and turned into an order that could not be crossed, Vitch suddenly realized in shock

that he had even less freedom than an ordinary citizen of New York City.

But Vitch had no way out.

Above him stood the calculating, ruthless gang leader, as well as the even more terrifying Underworld King.

Below him were gang members crying out to be fed, and criminal profits dwindling year by year.

Amid the jungle of steel, Vitch, as a mid-level boss of the Tracksuit Gang, could only struggle to survive...

Inside the Brightly Lit warehouse, wooden crates were piled almost into mountains.

And within an open space enclosed by a pile of wooden crates.

Vichy, his expression grave, sat cross-legged atop a table.

He continuously counted stacks of old cash bills.

This was the criminal profit he was about to turn in.

Even one bill missing would invite fierce questioning from the gang leader.

So the dedicated Vichy did not dare be careless and always handled the task himself.

Because too many interests were involved, and to keep anyone from getting any wrong ideas, Vichy had not brought many men with him.

Only two trusted confidants, as close as brothers, were guarding the warehouse.

Bzzzz.

Just then, the phone in his jacket pocket began to vibrate.

Vichy blinked his dry eyes several times and pulled out his phone.

"Ha..."

Twisting his neck in an attempt to relax, Vichy glanced at the message and could not help letting out a strange laugh.

"I really miss those crazy, innocent days of youth..."

Vichy sighed.

The message had come from his cousin Sergei.

There were no words in it.

Only a highly explicit photo of Sergei enthusiastically celebrating with naked beauties.

Vichy smiled and put away his phone.

After committing a crime for the first time, the hormones with nowhere to vent always flowed toward two things.

Women and drugs.

Until one's criminal methods gradually became proficient, the numb heart could no longer stir any emotional ripples.

One day, Sergei would understand that feeling too...

"Hmm?"

In an instant, Vichy frowned.

He instinctively grabbed a submachine gun tossed on the table.

Something about the atmosphere around him was off.

And the warehouse was far too quiet...

Where were the sounds of his confidants smoking and talking, and their footsteps patrolling back and forth?

"Ivan? Nikolai?"

Vichy called out softly while listening intently.

But when his calls received no response, Click!

Vichy pulled back the bolt with a blank expression.

At the same time, he nimbly flipped off the table and hid in the angle formed by several wooden crates.

At that moment, the lights overhead in the warehouse were warm and bright.

Yet beads of cold sweat gradually seeped across Vichy's forehead.

Even the palm gripping the gun was slick with sweat.

He had to repeatedly wipe his hand

to keep the weapon from slipping and ruining everything.

After a moment of silence, Vichy swallowed and shouted into the utterly silent warehouse:

"Friend! If Ivan and Nikolai are still alive, please spare them! They're both men just trying to make a living, and they have families to support..."

"Do you need any help? If it's something I can handle, I definitely won't refuse! You can take the cash on the table if you aren't afraid of the gang's retaliation... If that isn't enough, there are ten kilograms of drugs hidden in the black wooden crate in the corner of the warehouse. The product is quite pure—it's worth several million!"

For a time, aside from a faint echo, there was no sound in the warehouse.

Vichy was certain that the other party was definitely not the police...

If they were not professional killers sent by a rival gang, then they had to be those mysterious 'vigilantes'!

Thud, thud, thud!

Suddenly, a round object the size of a basketball was thrown out from the narrow warehouse aisle.

After rolling and tumbling countless times, it came to a stop at Vichy's feet.

He only glanced at it instinctively.

Vichy's expression changed drastically!

He could not help closing his eyes, squeezing out a mournful whimper through clenched teeth.

"Ivan!"

It was a human head.

A mangled, blood-soaked human head with a familiar face.

And a human head with long, slender nails driven through both eyes!

Several strips of torn toilet paper were even wrapped around the ends of the nails buried deep in the eye sockets!

At that moment, the blood-soaked toilet paper was plastered tightly across the head's face.

Like a horrifying Halloween costume.

Absurd yet bizarre, terrifying enough to chill the blood!

Breathing heavily, Vichy suddenly opened his bloodshot eyes.

Gritting his teeth, he shouted:

"I swear in God's name! The Tracksuit Gang will hunt you forever! And hunt your family! We'll kill everything you care about most! Even if your family consists of nothing but a dog, we'll find it, chop it to pieces, and deliver it to you ourselves! Just wait to die, you piece of trash!"

Bang bang bang—

Consumed by rage, Vichy stuck his gun out from the edge of the wooden crate.

He viciously pulled the trigger, spraying bullets wildly without aim!

Scorching shell casings occasionally bounced off Vichy's face.

Forcing him to flinch away.

Yet whenever the corner of Vichy's eye caught sight of that incomparably miserable head—

The tangled emotions of grief and rage drove him out of his mind once more!

Click, click!

The submachine gun's magazine was empty, producing the hollow sound of a dry fire.

Vichy panted violently, his trembling fingers reaching toward his waist.

He intended to reload.

Whoosh—

But at that moment, a nail with toilet paper wrapped around its tail silently shot out from the gap between two wooden crates not far away.

It struck the back of Vichy's hand with uncanny precision!

"Ah!"

Vichy screamed as the gun slipped sharply from his slick palm.

Before Vichy could react—

More nails shot out like bullets fired from a gun!

They actually slammed straight into Vichy's face!

Piercing flesh, sinking deep into bone!