After All, They Aren't Having an Easy Time

At the entrance to the third-floor corridor, Russell didn't barge in blindly. According to Cross's intel, the windows on this floor were all sealed—either curtained off or nailed shut with boards.

Cross hadn't held back information either. Based on what he'd gathered, and confirmed by Fire Fox and Wesley, to reach Sloan's hidden office, the Butcher's Slaughterhouse was the only path.

Why was the Slaughterhouse on the third floor instead of next to the second-floor cafeteria? Because the Butcher's Slaughterhouse didn't supply meat—it supplied corpses for the Shooting Range next door.

Pig carcasses, and human ones too...

The Butcher was one of the few killers in the Brotherhood who wielded a blade. He knew human anatomy inside out, was a master of dissection and torture, and stood as a core member.

The thick smell of blood in the air mixed with the sharp sting of formaldehyde. Russell hated that smell—it always made him think of glass jars and pale organs.

The corridor was dim, and at the end lay a pitch-black room. The smell came from there.

The Butcher's Slaughterhouse!

Russell pressed himself against the wall, thought for a moment, then pulled a Grenade from his chest, yanked the pin, and tossed three in first, followed by a Flashbang.

When the explosions died down, he didn't hear the screams he'd expected. But the system notified him that he'd made contact with the story character Butcher and earned a lottery chance.

The Butcher was hiding in that dark Slaughterhouse!

"How unfair—makes me look like I'm cheating... Well, it feels great!"

Russell muttered, then strode boldly into the silent darkness. The black room swallowed him like a giant beast's open maw.

Inside, it was pitch-black. A faint light glowed at the far end, revealing slabs of pork hanging from iron hooks. The whole room was freezing, giving off that eerie horror-movie vibe.

Russell knew many of those hanging slabs weren't pork...

The Butcher lurked in the darkness, lying flat, his bloated body pressed to the ground, his heartbeat nearly undetectable. The Butcher was a hulking fat man, but that was just surface—his fat was evenly distributed, his limbs thick and powerful. This build was more like solid bulk.

Weighing close to 300 pounds, he wielded a blade with uncanny skill. His nimble hands and superhuman reflexes put many to shame. It was a gift—the gods had smiled on him. He was born to eat with a knife.

The Butcher had been lying in wait in the Slaughterhouse for a long time. He was used to the dark here. With just the faint light from both ends of the corridor, he could clearly map out the whole room. The position of every pork slab, where empty hooks hung, and the sound of Russell's approaching footsteps.

He tightened the bayonet in his hand, staring at the figure drawing closer. If the distance was right, he was dead certain he could drive the blade into Russell's heart before Russell could fire.

The Butcher's gift was his body—explosive power and jumping ability beyond normal limits. Beneath that blubber lay jaw-droppingly strong muscles.

Russell stepped closer. The Butcher's body tensed, his eyes like a snake flicking its tongue, patiently waiting for prey to fall into the trap. The next second, he'd sink his fangs into the prey's neck and inject lethal venom.

Just a little closer... One more step, and your body is mine. I'll hook your shoulder blade with an iron hook and hang you from—

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang—

Russell stopped four meters in front of the Butcher and pulled the trigger on his M4A1. The muzzle flash lit up the space, revealing the Butcher's stunned face.

Why?

Bullets turned the Butcher into shredded meat. His fading eyes found the answer. In the flash of gunfire, he saw Russell fully kitted out, especially the small device mounted on his helmet.

External Helmet Thermal Imager!!

Butcher: "..."

Russell switched off the thermal imager and stared at the corpse on the floor, speechless. He'd barely entered when he spotted a fat guy lying on the ground—a massive heat source nearly filling the screen.

A whole room of chilled meat slabs, and only the Butcher was a heat source...

Honestly, Russell hesitated before pulling the trigger. He'd thought about tossing another Flashbang to make a bigger show of it—after all, the guy had been lying there for a while, and that took effort.

It wasn't the Butcher's fault. He was an old-school guy stuck in his ways. In his mind, Russell should've walked in with nothing but a little handgun.

Ahead was Sloan's office, a room surrounded by bookshelves. Given the Brotherhood's history, many of the books here were old. Too bad Sloan never learned core values from them—only the power of money.

Maybe he saw this as a dog-eat-dog world, abandoned his faith, turned hedonist, and chased the almighty dollar.

The mission target, Sloan, was inside. Finish him, and it'd all be over. But Russell stopped at the entrance. In the original story, Wesley walked in and got surrounded by seven or eight killers with guns drawn. If Fire Fox hadn't sacrificed herself for her faith, he'd have been dead meat.

Russell figured the same would happen to him—maybe worse. He'd get turned into a rag by a hail of bullets the second he stepped in!

"I should've brought some Rats in..."

No Rats to scout ahead? No problem. There was still Wesley.

Russell decided to wait for Wesley and Fire Fox. Partly for his own safety, partly to give Wesley a chance to show off. The goddess he was chasing had high standards. Without a cool moment to flex, how could he win her heart?

Wesley didn't keep Russell waiting long. After clearing the second-floor killers and dealing with the Gunsmith, he and Fire Fox reached the third floor.

Seeing Russell's sneaky behavior, Fire Fox snorted in disdain and strode without hesitation into the corridor toward the office.

Wesley glanced at Russell. He clearly thought charging in would get them shot, but the goddess needed a bullet sponge by her side, so he bravely jogged after her.

Fire Fox stopped suddenly in front of the office. Wesley was so close he nearly crashed into her. When he stopped, he regretted it.

Why did I stop?

Wesley cursed himself for missing the chance. But then Fire Fox spun around and kicked him square in the chest, sending him sprawling on his back.

Fire Fox knocked Wesley down, gripped her M1911 with both hands, her heart racing, eyes blazing, and charged into the office.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang—

Ambush awaited inside. The moment Fire Fox burst in, eight killers lying in wait pulled their triggers.

Fire Fox sprinted into the office, then leaned back, her knees hitting the marble floor as she slid forward. In slow motion, bullets tore through the air, leaving straight trails as they passed just over her head.

It was impossible to come out unscathed. Fire Fox had Bullet Time, but the eight assassins were no ordinary opponents either. Two core members in particular used Bullet Time's predictive ability to fire continuously as Fire Fox slid across the floor.

Fire Fox intercepted with bullets of her own, but fighting one against two put her at a disadvantage. She took hits to her abdomen and shoulder, the pain nearly making her grind her teeth to dust. Rolling aside, she ducked under a nearby desk.

The assassins raised their guns, aiming at the desk. The two core members whipped their weapons around to finish Fire Fox off—but after two gunshots rang out, both crumpled to the ground with bullets through their foreheads, dead.

It was Wesley!

In slow motion, his features twisted into a savage snarl, the murderous intent in his eyes as dense as a beast poised to devour its prey.

After taking out the two core members, he flicked his wrists and fired a few more shots without even glancing back, not bothering to check whether the remaining assassins were dead. He strode quickly to Fire Fox's side.