As long as he doesn't cameo as God, everything is negotiable

The textile mill was blasted to pieces by the rats' suicide attack. Though the main structure remained intact and the load-bearing walls claimed they could still hold, every wire and cable was severed. The empty factory floor, shrouded in dust with no lighting, made it impossible to see anyone beyond five meters.

The surviving killers, now like startled birds, had buzzing ears filled with pained groans. Their grimy faces were etched with terror—no different from ordinary people.

Fire Fox and Wesley burst in through the window. After a brief scan of their surroundings, they opened fire in quick succession. Their precise marksmanship instantly claimed the lives of a dozen killers.

The killers inside began to return fire, using the looms as cover to quickly form a defensive line.

A firefight erupted!

Leaning against a concrete pillar, Wesley's heart rate surged past 400 beats per minute. The dense gunfire didn't rattle him; instead, it gave him precise targeting data.

The killers were still numerous, and as long as they held guns, they were lethal threats not to be ignored. But Wesley wasn't flustered. The gap between him and them was vast—so vast that in slow motion, they weren't even on the same frequency.

Wesley flicked his arm, sending a bullet arcing out to strike a killer hiding behind a loom. Fire Fox beside him was no slouch either, dual-wielding pistols as she fired left and right. Hearing footsteps approach, she pulled out a grenade and rolled it along the floor.

Boom!

After the screams, the killers who'd tried to advance backed off.

Killers were killers—used to working alone, you couldn't expect seamless tactical coordination from them. Give them a chance to assassinate one by one, and they could wipe out a platoon of special forces. But if it came to a standoff, a head-on clash, they'd be beaten so badly they wouldn't even have a chance to cry for daddy.

Sometimes, numbers weren't the deciding factor!

The Repairman panted heavily as he crouched beside a loom. His posture was pathetic, but survival demanded it. The two intruders were fully armed, dressed like SWAT officers, but the Repairman instantly recognized one as Wesley. The other was, with eighty percent certainty, Fire Fox.

The Repairman didn't understand why Fire Fox would betray the Brotherhood, but that wasn't the issue now. He knew both of them could curve their shots, so he didn't recklessly pop his head out to fire.

Adjusting the revolver in his hand, the Repairman glanced at the corpses around him and began weighing the odds of lying low. Just then, a crisp clatter rolled to a stop in front of his face. He froze the moment he saw it.

A grenade!

"Shit!"

Those two words were the Repairman's last. Surviving a grenade exploding point-blank was the privilege of protagonists and cheaters. He was just a minor character with a few lines, and he promptly bit the dust.

The sudden blast jolted the others awake. The spot where the Repairman had been crouching was crowded; one grenade nearly wiped them all out. Those who didn't die lost the ability to keep fighting.

Just as the killers wondered where the grenade had come from, another flashbang appeared in their line of sight...

Boom!!!

Due to the dust and the vast open space, the flashbang's power was somewhat reduced, but it was still enough to blind their dog eyes.

The killers collapsed in agony, clutching their heads. Snot and tears streamed down their faces, their ears temporarily deafened. All resistance was gone.

Russell strode out with an M4A1 in hand, sweeping fire across the writhing killers. No need to aim—just pull the trigger until the magazine ran dry.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang---

After emptying the magazine, Russell waved at Wesley, who was peeking out from cover. Suddenly, alarm bells rang in his mind—his danger premonition, nearly a skill, warned him of someone behind him.

Without a second thought, Russell dove flat to the ground. A gunshot rang out, and a bullet whizzed past his head.

A killer with a leg wound had been hiding in a corner, lucky enough to survive the grenade and flashbang barrage.

The moment Russell hit the ground, he spun around and grabbed the Remington M870 off his back. Another gunshot, and the lucky killer was blasted flying.

Hit by a shotgun, there was no chance of survival. Not even the thickest bulletproof vest could stop it!

Russell didn't even need to finish him off. Dusting himself off, he gestured to Wesley again. The killers on the factory floor were mostly cleared. Next came the second and third floors, like clearing a boss rush. Sloan was in the innermost office on the third floor.

As for the top floor, that was the room housing the Loom of Fate. The entire floor was dedicated to that loom, and no one was allowed in without Sloan's permission.

Wesley was about to regroup with Russell, but as he turned, Fire Fox headed up a nearby staircase to the second floor. Wesley promptly ignored Russell, his body honest as he obediently followed his will and trotted after her.

Russell: "..."

The second floor housed the cafeteria, dormitories, and such, with minimal damage from the rats' bombs. Russell figured plenty of killers were lying in wait there.

Sure enough, as soon as Fire Fox and Wesley went upstairs, a fierce exchange of gunfire erupted.

Leading the killers was the Gunsmith, a core member of the Brotherhood. He was the most skilled among them when it came to guns. By "skilled," that meant modifications. Fire Fox's customized M1911 pistol was his handiwork. Anyone in the Brotherhood who made a request, the Gunsmith could fulfill, modifying their pistols to their satisfaction.

The Gunsmith had deep expertise in this area. He knew every gun's performance inside out, especially pistols. This wasn't something hard work alone could achieve—it was a natural gift.

God was fair: opening one window meant welding the door shut. So, while the Gunsmith was a pistol wizard, his shooting talent was mediocre.

The Gunsmith's favorite pistol was the M1911, and he himself used a customized version with a muzzle device and scope to compensate for his lack of shooting skill.

When the rats launched their suicide attack, the Gunsmith had already organized a group on the second floor, lying in wait for the intruders.

Facing the killers' semi-automatic fire, Wesley and Fire Fox didn't bother using their small pistols to retaliate. Submachine guns came into play—in the narrow corridors of the second floor, submachine guns were king.

Russell followed the stairs to the second floor, listened to the intense gunfire, and decisively headed for the third floor. He trusted Wesley and Fire Fox could handle the opposition, so he wouldn't interfere.

On his way to the third floor, Russell took a moment to check the system interface. He'd heard a "ding" earlier but hadn't had time to look.

The system informed him that he'd encountered the plot character "Repairman," triggering a lottery round. He had one chance to draw.

"Lucky me. But when did I run into the Repairman?"

Russell had no memory of it and didn't start the draw. He still had one Character Card for Wesley and one Skill Card for "Bullet Time," plus top-tier gear and danger premonition—enough for the fight ahead.

The Brotherhood's fall was inevitable. They'd lost any chance to turn things around when the rats charged. All Russell had to do was kill Sloan to complete the mission, and he was confident he could.

"I'm on the third floor. Make sure Sloan doesn't get away. If you spot him, don't shoot—leave him to me!"

He said this to the Cross, worried that Sloan might flee and get sniped, wasting all his effort.

The Cross warned, "Be careful. The old man may be advanced in age and his strength has faded considerably, but his curved shooting skill is still intact."

"A geezer who ruined his reputation with sexual harassment, spent forty years in prison, and nearly wore through the cell floor—what's there to fear!" Russell muttered a joke only he could understand.

"What!?"

"I mean, as long as he doesn't moonlight as God, everything's fine!"

Failure Diary

If only there were a place where I could sell my soul and body for clicks.