Once the demon in a person's heart was unleashed, it could no longer be restrained.
Only after he had ripped out the Black man's windpipe like a bloodthirsty evil ghost, torn apart his carotid artery, and felt the scorching blood splatter across his chest did Chen Hai seem to awaken from a lifetime and realize what he had done.
What had he done?
He had used a Colt M1911 semi-automatic pistol to shoot three people dead, then chased down another man, ripped out his windpipe, torn apart his carotid artery, and watched hot blood spray everywhere.
The Black man's terrified face, splattered with blood, still bore the expression of someone who had witnessed the most dreadful, most horrifying transformation in the world.
As the adrenaline gradually faded, Chen Hai's limbs went weak, and he collapsed atop the Black man's corpse—the corpse whose windpipe and carotid artery he had torn apart, still spraying blood.
"Ha... ha... huff, huff... huff..."
Chen Hai gasped deeply. Blood had sprayed all over him, leaving him sticky. His face was tense, his eyes wide, yet he was neither terrified nor afraid.
"I did this!" Chen Hai felt somewhat nauseated, but not because killing had sickened him. The blood had simply sprayed straight at him. The overwhelming smell, the stimulating sight, and what he had done left both his body and mind uncomfortable—but only slightly so.
Before this, although he had killed chickens, he had never killed a person so directly.
After personally taking a life, on top of shooting three others dead with the Colt M1911 semi-automatic pistol, Chen Hai felt a trace of fear. It was only a trace. More than that, as he gasped for breath, he keenly sensed his own safety, his own existence, the fact that he was alive.
By killing others,