Chaotic Battle (Part 2) - Bonus Chapter for Reaching 64th Place on the New Male Authors Ranking

Viper crouched behind the gray SUV, his right hand gripping a Glock 17 while his left wiped the blood from his face.

It was from a shard of shattered glass.

A stray bullet had come from nowhere moments ago, shattering the rearview mirror, and the fragments had grazed his cheekbone, leaving a burning, stinging pain. But he couldn't afford to worry about that.

The situation on the battlefield was wrong—very wrong.

At first, it had been normal. An operational team from the Rainstorm Gang and a squad of Crips gunmen had suddenly collided on this street, sparking a firefight. With seven or eight men on each side, they had been trading fire back and forth.

The Crips were charging from the direction of the church, while the Rainstorm Gang held the right side of the street.

Viper had already emptied two magazines and taken down at least one of the Crips bastards.

Then, things started to get strange.

"Behind us, there's someone behind us!"

One of his Latino gunmen suddenly shouted.

Viper looked back and saw five men vaulting over a low wall, charging toward the rear flank of the Rainstorm Gang.

Five Black men, wearing the colors of the Crips... blue and black, some with blue bandanas; they were clearly reinforcements for the Crips.

Viper cursed and split off three men to suppress the rear.

But the way those five men fought made Viper frown; they didn't seem like normal people.

The first one in the lead moved with seasoned expertise, crouching low, navigating cover, and firing... like someone who had been a soldier.

That was nothing unusual; there were veterans in the Crips, too.

But the second one was all wrong.

He ran with a crooked, stumbling gait, like a passerby who had accidentally wandered into a gang shootout, yet when the kid fired, his hand didn't shake, and while his magazine change was slow, every step was correct.

The third and fourth were even more absurd.

Those two held their pistols out in the open street, without any cover, and unleashed full-auto bursts toward the Rainstorm Gang. They didn't dodge, didn't seek cover, as if they didn't care whether they got hit or not.

Viper watched with his own eyes as one of them, a bald man in a black T-shirt, stood in the middle of the open ground with his legs spread, holding a Glock in one hand, firing "da-da-da-da" until the entire magazine was empty before slowly crouching down.

"Is this guy a lunatic or just a moron?"

The fat man beside Viper muttered.

"He's high."

Viper stared at the bald man and made his judgment.

"You have to be high to be this fearless of death."

The fat man nodded, finding the explanation perfectly reasonable.

Those junkies were indeed like lunatics once they were high, unable to feel pain and indifferent to whether they lived or died.

But Viper noticed another detail: those five men, from start to finish, hadn't shouted a single word. They were like five silent machines, charging out and firing.

Viper watched as the bald man standing in the open was struck in the chest by bullets... at least three of them, leaving his chest a bloody mess.

He went down.

Then, he stood back up.

Viper blinked, thinking he had seen wrong.

No, he hadn't.

After the bald man fell, he lay on the ground for about four or five seconds, then crawled back up, raised his gun, and continued firing.

Blood was still gushing from his chest, and his movements were clearly sluggish, but he was still fighting.

It wasn't until another shotgun blast turned his chest into a sieve that he finally stopped moving for good.

"Damn, these lunatics are actually high on something!"

The fat man cursed, a hint of unease in his voice.

"They won't even die like this."

Viper didn't respond.

He had seen people on drugs—PCP, meth, cocaine—who could indeed take bullets and keep charging, but he had never seen many who could take three shots to the chest and still crawl back up to keep fighting.

Perhaps it was the newest, most potent stuff.

Then, the frontal charge from the Crips began on the other side.

Four Crips members charged from the direction of the church with MAC-11s, Smith & Wessons, revolvers, and double-barreled shotguns, their firepower intense.

Viper's front line was pinned down, unable to lift their heads.

Just as he was preparing to adjust his formation, he suddenly heard gunfire coming from behind the Crips.

Viper poked his head out to take a look.

A person wearing a skull mask stood behind the Crips' flank, firing a pistol.

The man wore a dark hoodie with the hood down, revealing the brim of a baseball cap, and the mask covered the upper half of his face, leaving only his chin and mouth visible.

Viper saw his mouth... the corners of his lips were slightly curved, as if he were smiling.

The way that man fired his gun was also strange; he didn't hold the pistol sideways like a gangster, but gripped it with both hands in a stance like a rookie at a shooting range. Likewise, his shots were erratic, with one even hitting a flower bed.

Yet, the result was that all four members of the Crips were killed by him in less than thirty seconds.

After finishing the job, the masked man didn't linger; he turned and retreated behind the iron fence of the church's side courtyard, disappearing into the shadows.

Viper did not recognize that man.

The man wore no insignia of the Rainstorm Gang, nor the colors of the Crips. He was like a third party who had appeared out of thin air, struck the Crips, and then vanished.

"Was he helping us?"

The fat man asked.

"I don't know."

Viper said.

His intuition told him not to easily mistake this person for a friend.

In this day and age, someone more dangerous than a drug-crazed lunatic is a masked man whose motives are unknown.

The ensuing battle became even more bizarre.

The frontal pressure on the Rainstorm Gang eased... the Crips' frontal assault had been crippled by that masked man. But the five people in the back were still fighting.

No, it wasn't five people anymore.

Viper took stock of the battlefield.

Two were lying in the open ground, one was sprawled beside a pile of waste tires, one was behind a truck, and another... one was slumped behind a trash can, half his face covered in blood, a bullet hole in the back of his head, his body curled into a ball, already dead.

When did the enemy behind that trash can die, and who killed him?

Viper wasn't sure, but a dead enemy was a good enemy.

Of the five enemies, only the one behind the truck and the one beside the waste tires were still capable of movement.

Viper walked toward the pile of waste tires first.

The most experienced gunman among them was kneeling on one knee behind the tires, loading bullets into his magazine.

Blood had soaked through half of the gunman's shirt, yet he continued to press bullets into the magazine one by one.

Viper raised his gun.

The gunman looked up and glanced at him.

There was no fear, no plea for mercy, no anger, and no pain in those eyes.

There was nothing at all.

Like a corpse.

Viper pulled the trigger.

A three-round burst, all hitting the chest.

The gunman leaned back and fell into the pile of waste tires, the magazine in his hand rolling onto the ground.

But two seconds later, he moved again.

He struggled to crawl up, knelt on one knee, and pulled the last magazine from his pocket to load it into his gun.

His movements were as stiff as a puppet, but he was indeed loading the weapon.

"How much of that shit did he take?"

Viper cursed under his breath and pulled the trigger again.

Another shot hit the man's right leg; the man remained on one knee, refusing to fall, and continued to load.

He finished loading, chambered a round, and stood up.

Full auto, firing all the remaining bullets in the magazine toward the SUV.

Viper crouched down as the bullets flew over his head, and by the time he stood up again, the man had fallen... this time, he was truly motionless.

But Viper noticed that when the man fell, there was no expression on his face.

From beginning to end, from the start of the charge to the final collapse, no emotion had ever appeared on that face.

No fear, no anger, no pain.

Like a mask.

Viper suddenly felt a chill.

Even people on drugs would have manic expressions or excited shouts, but those five men had nothing—they were like five moving corpses.

No, that's impossible.

He shook his head, casting the absurd thought aside.

These guys were just drugged up, took too much, and fried their brains and faces.

The one by the trash can was just cowering there, not having fired a single shot.

He checked the battlefield.

On the Rainstorm Gang side, the fat man was dead, the tall, thin man lay on the ground with a bullet in his chest, and the one whose ear had been torn off was neither dead nor alive.

He was the only one left standing.

On the Crips side, a whole row had fallen beside the flower bed; they were all dead.

Of the five Crips gunmen in the back, four had gone down, and one was still lying behind the van... his leg was hit, but he was still moving.

Viper held his pistol and walked over cautiously.

He reached the man lying by the van and looked down at him.

The man was wearing a filthy jacket, his right arm was broken, his shoulder and calf had been shot, and he was covered in blood.

But his eyes were open.

There was no fear, no begging, no anger, no drug-fueled excitement, no despair, and no madness in those eyes.

There was nothing at all.

Viper raised his Glock 17, aiming the muzzle at the back of the man's head.

Then he heard a gunshot from behind... coming from his side and rear.

Viper felt bullets pierce his body—one, two, three... he couldn't count them. His body felt as if it had been shoved from behind, and he fell forward.

He landed beside the man by the van, face down, blood pooling out from beneath him.

With his final strength, he turned his head, wanting to see who had fired the shot.

He saw.

The person wearing the skull mask stood on the steps of the church's side door, a gun in his right hand, the muzzle still smoking.

The brim of his baseball cap was pulled low, and the mask covered most of his face, revealing only his mouth.

That mouth was smiling.

A polite, gentle smile.

Viper remembered those five silent, fearless men who could still get up after being shot.

But the masked man's smile felt more wrong to him than all five of those men combined.

His consciousness began to blur, and he heard the church bells—one, two, three.

Then he couldn't hear anything at all.

Lin An stood on the steps of the church's side door, the muzzle of the Glock 19 in his hand still emitting a faint wisp of blue smoke.

He lowered the pistol and scanned his surroundings... the battlefield had gone quiet.

Lin An did not rush to leave.

He tucked the Glock 19 into his waistband and walked quickly toward the open area.

The corpse of New York Veteran Driver lay beside the low wall, with one bullet in his neck and another in his temple. Blood had already pooled on the ground, spreading into a large, dark red stain on the asphalt.

The corpse's eyes were half-open, pupils dilated and devoid of any light.

Lin An squatted down and reached out to check the corpse's carotid artery.

No pulse.

The skin was cold, and the muscles had already begun to stiffen.

The vitality of this body had been completely exhausted; the fatal wounds caused by the bullets had rendered it entirely incapable of movement.

Lin An stood up and retrieved the corpse into the store.

"Uploaded one cadaver; those in need can redeem it."

[The streamer is really shrewd, selling us unwanted second-hand corpses.]

Immediately after, Lin An quickly scanned the status of the other players.

The corpse of Nightclub Security lay in the center of the open area, his chest riddled with shotgun holes, long since dead... retrieved.

The corpse of College Student was curled up behind a trash can, a bullet hole in the back of his head, half his face covered in blood... retrieved.

The corpse of Old Soldier Never Die lay beside a pile of scrap tires, multiple bullet holes in his chest and a shot to his right leg; he had completely lost all function after his final attempt to stand and fire... retrieved.

Arcade Gun God was lying behind the van, his right arm broken, his shoulder and calf shot, but his eyes were still open.

Lin An walked over and glanced down.

Those hollow eyes were fixed on the sky, lacking any focus.

He reached out to check... there was an extremely faint pulse in the carotid artery, but it was negligible; this body had very little time left.

Retrieved.

Aside from the players, Lin An also took the enemies' corpses, and naturally, he didn't let the firearms on the battlefield go to waste... although he couldn't use these weapons that had already been fired, it wasn't a loss to offer them for the audience to redeem, as it would consume the points they held.

Soon, only dark red bloodstains and scattered shell casings remained on this small battlefield; the gangster corpses and weapons had all vanished.

[The streamer is looting the bodies.]

[Professional battlefield cleanup, not even leaving a single bullet behind.]

[Are you taking those gang members' guns too?]

[Why leave them for the police to use as evidence?]

[Makes sense, we might be able to use them too.]

[Hurry up, the police cars are probably almost here.]

The entire cleanup process took no more than three minutes.

Lin An stood up and took one last look at the battlefield. Only bloodstains, shell casings, and broken glass remained on the ground; there wasn't a single corpse left... As for what the police would think when they arrived at the scene, Lin An didn't care; that wasn't his problem.

Just as he turned to leave.

"Bro!"

Darnell's voice came from behind, filled with irrepressible excitement.

Lin An turned back and saw Darnell running over from beside the gray SUV, clutching a dark-colored travel duffel bag in his arms.

The bag was quite large and boxy; Darnell looked like he was struggling just to hold it with both hands.

"Look what I found!"

Darnell ran up to Lin An, his face flushed, his eyes shining like two lightbulbs.

He dropped the bag onto the ground and yanked it open, revealing an alluring, vibrant green sight to Lin An.

It was bundles upon bundles of US dollars, neatly stacked inside the bag. Each bundle was wrapped in transparent plastic film with bank seals printed on them—all of them were small-denomination, used bills.

"I found this under the back seat of one of the cars."

Darnell was panting heavily, his voice trembling.

"I took a look just now, the whole bag is full of cash, bro, we're rich!"

Lin An reached out and picked up a bundle, flipping it over to check the seal and the denomination. They were all ten and twenty-dollar bills, and the travel bag was packed to the brim with them.

[Ten and twenty-dollar bills, this bag is probably worth about three to four hundred thousand.]

[The streamer hit the jackpot. The gunmen who were fighting were probably a deposit team transporting cash for a gang boss.]

[No wonder they fought so fiercely; the gunmen intercepting them were likely elites from a rival gang.]

Looking at the chat, Lin An didn't show any excitement; he simply nodded and zipped up the travel bag.

The sound of sirens in the distance suddenly became clearer, coming from several different directions and approaching rapidly.

Lin An looked up and glanced toward the direction of the sounds.

"Let's go."

Lin An picked up the heavy travel bag, and it vanished in a flash, then he tilted his head toward Darnell.

Darnell reacted immediately, turned, and started running.

The two of them, one after the other, hugged the base of the wall and ran back along the route they had taken.

Lin An ran in front, his pace still steady and unhurried, but his speed was much faster than when they arrived. Darnell followed behind, his large frame running like a panting bear, his footsteps thumping heavily against the ground.

They ran past the iron fence on the side of the church, past the low wall, and through the gap between the two buildings.

The bicycle was still parked in the corner of the alleyway.

Darnell hopped on the bike, and Lin An jumped onto the back seat. The former pedaled with all his might, his thick legs working hard as the chain let out a creaking sound.

The sound of the sirens grew further and further behind them.

"Bro, where are we going?"

"The abandoned furniture factory. We'll hide there for now; it's not a good time to go home."