As Long as He Doesn't Play God, Anything Goes

The textile mill had been blasted to pieces by the rats' suicide attack. Though the main structure remained intact and the load-bearing walls indicated they could still hold, the electrical wiring and internet cables had all been severed. The cavernous factory floor had no lighting and was shrouded in dust; beyond five meters, not even a silhouette could be seen.

The surviving assassins were like startled birds. Their ears rang with agonized groans, their dust-covered faces were filled with terror, and they looked no different from ordinary people.

Fire Fox and Wesley stormed in through the window. After quickly getting a feel for their surroundings, they opened fire in succession, their precise shots claiming the lives of more than a dozen assassins in an instant.

The assassins inside began returning fire, using the Looms as cover and quickly forming a defensive line.

The two sides began exchanging fire!

Wesley pressed himself against a concrete pillar. His heart rate had surged past four hundred beats per minute, and the dense gunfire, rather than throwing him off, gave him precise positions to target.

There were still quite a few assassins left. As long as they held guns, they remained deadly threats that could not be ignored. But Wesley was not the least bit flustered. The gap between them was enormous—so enormous that in slow motion, they were not even operating on the same frequency.

With a flick of his arm, Wesley sent a bullet curving through the air, striking an assassin hiding behind a Loom. Fire Fox was no less impressive. Dual-wielding her guns and firing in both directions, she heard footsteps approaching, took out a grenade, and rolled it along the floor.

Boom!

After the screams, the assassins who had intended to advance shrank back.

Assassins were assassins, after all. They were used to working alone, so no one could expect them to coordinate flawlessly in combat. Given the chance to pick people off one by one, they could wipe out an entire platoon of special forces. But in a head-on standoff, they would get beaten so badly they would not even have time to cry for their mothers.

Sometimes, numbers could not be used to judge victory or defeat!

Repairman lay panting beside a Loom. His posture was pathetic, but staying alive mattered more. The two intruders were fully armed and dressed like SWAT officers. Still, Repairman recognized Wesley at a glance. As for the other one, there was an eighty percent chance she was Fire Fox.

Repairman did not understand why Fire Fox had betrayed the Brotherhood, but this was not the time to think about that. He knew both of them could curve their shots, so he did not rashly stick his head out to fire.

Repairman adjusted the revolver in his hand and glanced at the corpses around him, considering whether he could simply lie low. Then a crisp clattering sound rolled to a stop before his face. He took one look and froze.

A grenade!

"Shit!"

Those were Repairman's last words. Surviving a grenade exploding in his face was protagonist or cheater territory. He was only a minor supporting character with a few lines, so he collected his payoff on the spot.

The sudden explosion jolted everyone else awake. There had been quite a few people where Repairman had been lying. One grenade nearly wiped them all out, and even those who survived lost the ability to keep fighting.

Just as the assassins wondered where the grenade had come from, another Flashbang appeared in their sight...

Boom!!!

Because of the dust and the huge open space, the Flashbang's explosive force was reduced somewhat. But it was still more than enough to blind the hell out of them.

The assassins clutched their heads and collapsed in agony, snot and tears streaming down their faces. Their ears were temporarily deafened as well, and they completely lost the ability to resist.

Russell strode out with an M4A1 in his arms and swept his fire back and forth across the assassins rolling on the floor. There was no need to aim; he only had to hold down the trigger until the magazine ran dry.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—

After emptying the magazine, Russell waved at Wesley, who was poking his head around over there. Suddenly, alarm bells went off in his mind. His danger prediction, on the verge of becoming a skill, warned him that someone was behind him.

Without a second thought, Russell lunged forward and hit the ground. A gunshot rang out, and a bullet whizzed over his head.

An assassin with a gunshot wound in his leg had been hiding in a corner and had luckily escaped the successive bombardment of the grenade and Flashbang.

The instant Russell hit the ground, he turned around and grabbed the Remington M870 off his back. After a single gunshot, the lucky assassin was blasted straight through the air.

There was no chance of surviving a shotgun blast. No body armor could withstand it!

Russell did not even need to finish him off. He dusted himself off and signaled Wesley again. The assassins on the factory floor had been almost completely cleared out. Next came the second and third floors. It was like clearing stages to fight a boss—Sloan was in the innermost office on the third floor.

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

Wesley was about to meet up with Russell, but the moment he turned around, Fire Fox had already headed up the stairs beside them toward the second floor. Wesley decisively ignored Russell. His body was brutally honest, and he trotted after her.

Russell: "..."

The second floor contained the cafeteria, dormitories, and other areas. It had suffered relatively little damage from the rat bombs, and Russell guessed that quite a few assassins were hiding inside.

Sure enough, the moment Fire Fox and Wesley went upstairs, fierce gunfire erupted.

The assassins were led by Gunsmith, one of the Brotherhood's core members. He was the best at playing with guns among all the assassins. By "playing," that meant modifying them. Fire Fox's customized M1911 had come from his hands. Whenever anyone in the Brotherhood made a request, Gunsmith could fulfill it, modifying their pistols until they were completely satisfied.

Gunsmith's expertise in this field ran deep. He knew the characteristics of every gun, especially pistols. That was not something hard work alone could achieve—it was true talent.

God was fair. When he opened a window, he made sure to weld the door shut. So while Gunsmith was amazing at tinkering with pistols, his talent for shooting was utterly mediocre.

Gunsmith's favorite handgun was the M1911. He used a customized version himself, fitted with a muzzle device and scope to make up for his lack of shooting talent.

When the rats launched their suicide attack, Gunsmith had gathered a group on the second floor to wait specifically for the intruders.

Facing the assassins' semi-automatic firepower, Wesley and Fire Fox did not choose to return fire with their small pistols. The Submachine Guns came into play. In the not-so-wide second-floor corridor, Submachine Guns were king.

Russell followed the stairs to the second floor. Hearing the intense gunfire, he decisively continued up to the third floor. He believed Wesley and Fire Fox could handle their opponents, so he did not want to get in their way.

On his way to the third floor, Russell took a moment to check the system interface. He had just heard a "ding," but had not had time to look.

The system informed him that he had come into contact with the plot character "Repairman," triggering a Lottery Draw and granting him one draw opportunity.

"What good luck. But when did I come into contact with Repairman?"

Russell had no recollection of it, nor did he start the draw. He currently had a Wesley Character Card and a Bullet Time Skill Card. Combined with his excellent equipment and danger prediction ability, that was enough to handle the coming battle.

The Brotherhood's destruction was already inevitable. The moment the rats began their charge, they had lost any chance of turning things around. Russell only needed to kill Sloan to complete the mission, and he firmly believed he could do it.

"I'm on the third floor. Keep an eye out and don't let Sloan escape. If you find him, don't shoot. Leave him to me!"

He said this to Cross. Russell was afraid Sloan might flee and get sniped, leaving all his efforts for nothing.

Cross warned him, "Be careful. The old man may be old, and his strength may have declined quite a bit, but he still knows how to curve his shots."

"What's there to fear from an old man infamous for sexual harassment, who spent forty years in prison and nearly wore a hole through the cell floor?" Russell joked in a way only he could understand.

"What!?"

"I mean, as long as he doesn't play God, anything goes!"

Failure Diary

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