The two squads joined together, more than thirty people holding behind a low wall. In the distance, Berserk Angels were gathering, their numbers growing by the moment.
To the west, Squad Fifty-Two had been surrounded.
Their captain was named Marcus. He shared a name with that Demon Hunter Knight, but they were not the same person.
He was an ordinary demon hunter, ordinary to the extreme. His marksmanship was average, his blade work was average—he was just hard to kill.
After six months as a demon hunter, he had seventeen scars on his body and was still alive.
"Captain, five coming from the east!" a team member shouted urgently.
"There are some in the west too!"
"Even more from the south!"
Marcus crouched behind cover with an unlit cigarette between his lips, his hands moving quickly. "Don't panic. Pool the ammunition."
The team members piled up what ammunition they had left. There were just over thirty armor-piercing rounds, over a hundred regular rounds, two grenades, eleven people remaining, and four of them were injured.
Demon hunters did not lack supplies, but each person could only carry so much. Their supply lines had been destroyed by the constantly falling angels—this was the problem no one had anticipated.
That was why they were running short on supplies.
Marcus took the cigarette from his mouth and looked around. Those Berserk Angels were drawing closer, neither fast nor slow, as if they were taking a stroll.
They were in no hurry, because they knew these people could not escape.
"Captain, what do we do?" one team member asked.
Marcus put the cigarette back between his lips. "Fight. Fight until we run out of bullets."
"What about when we're out?"
Marcus drew his blade. "Then we use our knives. We've all undergone enhancement. We're the