Carl, blasted away by the explosion head-on, was not dead yet.
At such close range, even an ACPA would have trouble withstanding the blast, yet Carl had survived?
Why had he survived?
Because the ACPA had taken most of the explosion for him.
The grenades tangled in the Monomolecular Wire and hanging from the ACPA's arms had rolled into the ACPA's embrace when its palms opened. They exploded in front of the ACPA. Compared to the ACPA, which could only use its helmet to block the blast, Carl's defenses had been far stronger.
Not to mention those reassuring steel arms, each as thick as Carl himself, but just look at the autocannon in the ACPA's hands. What a thick barrel, what a massive frame—it was obviously the finest kind of shield at a glance.
With such strong protection, and with Carl already fallen flat against the ground, how could he have died?
He had not died, but he was practically half-dead anyway.
"It hurts like hell."
Lying amid rubble made of stone and shattered chandelier fragments, Carl felt as if his body were braised beef in a deli, painfully sliced strand by strand, piece by piece.
"It hurts so damn much, but it won't let me die. What kind of bullshit is this?"
With a sigh, Carl tried to move, only to discover that his body could barely budge.
Damn it, I still have to fulfill the others' trust. Wait, how am I supposed to carry her? Let her lean against my back while I slowly walk over? With injuries like hers, does she still have the strength to hook her arms around my neck?
How much time had passed?
About four minutes left?
Four minutes.
Gritting his teeth, Carl barely propped himself up with what remained of one elbow.