Just as planned, the Fatty had an irresistible allure for the Old President. As soon as he approached the battlefield, the Old President naturally noticed him. The single milky-white eye that remained turned blankly in its socket. At that moment, the Old President no longer seemed like any kind of living thing. He was more like a machine that knew only how to kill and spread despair.
And now, this machine was slowly crushing everyone's hopes, mercilessly reaping one life after another.
No. 6 was dead. The Mortician had also fallen in battle while helping surround the Old President. Without those corpses, his fighting ability had taken a severe hit.
There were barely any of the independent civilian experts who had survived earlier, either, and many of them had only been caught in the aftershocks of the battle.
No one here lacked courage or the resolve to fight to the death, but in the face of the chasm called strength, those things were useless—and even seemed a little ridiculous.
An ant trying to shake a tree, a moth flying into a flame. All their earlier efforts had somehow become a joke.
After repelling Wu one last time, the Old President turned his attention to the Fatty. The moment he realized he had been targeted, the Fatty instinctively wanted to step back, but he forced himself to stay put. He flashed the Old President a brilliant smile, then raised a hand and flipped him off.
It didn't matter whether it counted as a provocation. He'd already been targeted, and the Old President wouldn't spare him even if he dropped to his knees and begged.
But the Fatty felt the same way. For all the Old President's crimes, even if he dropped to his knees and begged for forgiveness, the Fatty would