That Place

Formaggio struggled to lie on the sewer opening.

He used his still-intact leg to firmly hook onto the ladder to keep his footing, and then leaned his half-rotten shoulder against the edge of the manhole cover for support.

Fresh blood gushed out amidst the indistinguishable black and red filth, and a suffocating stench slowly fermented in the air.

He looked incredibly disheveled, like a rat that had been pickled in the sewers.

Even so, Formaggio's free hand, his only intact hand, still firmly gripped Mista's calf, securing his victory.

Formaggio

This unfamiliar name was finally imprinted on Mista's heart in such a profound way.

He finally realized how serious his previous mistake had been.

This mistake was not only due to his failure to calculate the enemy's mobility, but also because he underestimated the enemy's willpower.

Formaggio is right, they are the same kind of people:

Men like them will never give up easily before fulfilling their mission.

"The one who must now complete this mission is me Formaggio!"

Formaggio's roar was like a thunderclap.

His hands gripped Mista's calf like iron clamps.

Mista felt the heavy pressure on his legs and also sensed the despair that suddenly filled the air.

He instinctively wanted to retaliate.

But his hands were still occupied by the large ice cream tub, and he was caught off guard by the sudden attack, making it difficult for him to react. As a result, his shooting motion was more than ten times slower than usual.

However, Formaggio's attack was even more ruthless and decisive than his.

He knew this was probably his last chance, so he couldn't afford to be careless.

Without giving Mista even a chance to retaliate, the moment he grabbed Mista's calf, Formaggio suddenly exerted force backward, pulling Mista's body off the ground.

Mista only about 40 centimeters tall now, and her overall size is not as good as that of a well-developed one-year-old child.

With a sudden burst of force from Formaggio, he lost his balance in an instant and was then helplessly pulled into the air by a large hand.

Immediately afterwards, Formaggio swung his arm down heavily.

Mista immediately transformed into a human-shaped meteor hammer, slamming heavily onto the ground on the other side in an extremely tragic manner.

Bang!

The collision of hard cement and soft flesh produced an ominous thud.

Mista's bones trembled violently from the impact, and half of his body was ground to a bloody pulp from the collision with the ground.

And the worst thing is

In the brutal impact, his revolver flew out of control.

"Oh no!"

Mista's heart jolted violently amidst the excruciating pain.

As an ADC, all his skills lie in his firearms.

For him, even a reduction in bullet power was better than nothing; not having a gun was the real dead end.

Mista struggled to reach for the revolver that had been knocked away, but Formaggio wouldn't allow his enemy to have the opportunity to be re-armed.

Before Mista could even straighten his arm, the large hand that was firmly gripping his calf suddenly exerted a tremendous force.

Unable to stop or struggle, Mista was once again lifted into the air by this immense force.

He had absolutely no chance to pick up his gun.

But the enemy has plenty of energy to torment him.

In this way, it's as if it's paying homage to the classic scene of the Hulk beating up Loki.

Formaggio tightly gripped Mista's calf and furiously, relentlessly, slammed his fist back and forth against the hard concrete floor.

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

It sounds like someone is pounding a leaky drum with a sledgehammer.

The sound was deep, dense, and chilling.

Amidst the continuous crashing sounds, Mista's body was already a bloody mess.

He felt as if every bone in his body was screaming in agony.

Pain seeped into the flesh with each impact, like waves crashing against the shore.

This tragic scene continued for a very, very long time.

So long that even the perpetrator himself felt a chill run down his spine:

"Still not dead?"

"I must have smashed it dozens of times by now, right?"

Formaggio was awestruck by Mista's vitality.

He, the one swinging the "hammer," was so tired that his arms ached, while Mista, the one being hit by the "hammer," was still panting.

While shrinking one's size does indeed greatly increase one's tolerance to physical impacts, it's not to the point where one could be hit for half a day without dying.

Without a doubt, this could only be due to Mista's own robust physique and exceptional talent.

"You might as well just die already."

"That way you'll be free sooner!"

Formaggio certainly wouldn't have any extra pity for his enemies.

Seeing how resilient Mista's body was, he immediately increased the force and frequency, preparing to do everything in his power to complete the execution.

"No! We'll die if this continues!"

Mista struggled to endure the pain.

He had lost the pistol he relied on for fighting, and even his freedom and life were in the hands of the enemy.

Even so, through the trials of this three-day journey, he unknowingly forged an unwavering belief in never giving up.

"One way or another"

"Survival is the priority!"

Mista had only this one thought left in his mind.

Now, it's almost impossible for him to do anything to Formaggio; the only way out is through himself.

So, in the instant it was slammed to the ground again...

Mista strained to pull his body back and pressed his captured leg down.

This small movement, of course, cannot break free from Formaggio's restraints, but it can make his knees protrude as much as possible, so that they are the first to make contact with the ground upon impact.

In this way, almost all the impact force is borne by the knee.

The immense force applied to the relatively fragile knee joint immediately smashed the knee, causing flesh to rot and bones to break.

The pale bones shattered on the ground, leaving only the remaining flesh and tendons that barely maintained the appearance of the broken leg.

Formaggio, however, remains undecided on the matter.

Now that he's in his "King Kong Mode," all he wants to do is smash the bug in his hand to death as quickly as possible.

Without even taking a close look, Mista's knee had just shattered from hitting the ground when he instinctively used a tremendous force to pull himself back upwards.

Mista's body was about to take off again.

But this time, while being dragged, he suddenly stretched out his hands and firmly grabbed a small protruding piece of cement on the ground.

His hands gripped the cement block tightly, while his lower legs were violently dragged backward by Formaggio's immense strength.

And so it went, with a pull and a tug.

The already shattered kneecap snapped off amidst the splattering blood.

It's like tearing off a small piece of spicy strip; when you pull it off, you always end up with a shocking amount of red oil on your hands.

What Formaggio held in his hand was the severed limb.

Mista, however, broke free from these constraints amidst such suffering and regained his freedom.

However, his body broke free of Formaggio's grip and began to fall uncontrollably downwards again.

Soon, Mista's body brushed past Formaggio's body and, under the influence of gravity, fell into the gap of the manhole cover, plummeting towards the sewer floor.

"What?!"

Formaggio was suddenly startled.

He immediately bent down to search for Mista's whereabouts:

Mista had fallen into the narrow concrete path of the sewer and was struggling to stand up, supporting himself against the wall with his broken leg.

Seeing this, Formaggio, who had just been instinctively surprised, immediately felt relieved:

"It's just a last-ditch resistance."

"He had no weapons and broke his own leg in an attempt to break free of his restraints."

"Such an approach is nothing more than mechanically executing the creed of 'never give up,' which has no other meaning than allowing oneself to live a little longer."

Although Formaggio himself was shot in the knee and injured his shoulder, and was not in good condition.

However, compared to Mista, whose body has shrunk to this extent, whose entire body is covered in severe injuries from impacts, and Mista has even had one of his legs severed, Formaggio still holds an absolute advantage.

Especially those repeated blows before, the damage from that level was no joke.

Mista was now covered in wounds and blood, and could only struggle to hop forward with his small, broken body, supporting himself on the wall and using his only remaining leg.

At that speed, there was no way he could escape Formaggio's pursuit.

"What a tenacious fellow."

Formaggio sighed with a complex tone.

He calmly climbed down the ladder and slowly steadied himself in the sewer.

At that moment, Mista had just hopped and skipped less than two meters away, clinging to the filthy sewer wall.

"Give up."

"This time I'll make sure you die a quick death."

Formaggio took a limping step forward.

To Mista, this sounded like a Tyrannosaurus Rex was chasing after him.

"Damn it. Is there really no hope?"

Mista did not stop moving forward, but a sense of despair welled up inside her.

Because, like this dark and filthy sewer, he couldn't see any light at all:

Severely injured and without a gun, he couldn't even outrun his opponent.

What can he still do now?

Mista questioned himself inwardly:

Are we supposed to fight back with our Riot Games?

Impossible. My body has shrunk to almost the size of a baby's. Even if I'm not injured, I can't possibly have any effect on the enemy.

Or, relying on his own Sex Pistols?

That would be nothing short of wishful thinking.

Mista's body has now shrunk to just over 30 centimeters, its height has shrunk by about 6 times, and its volume has shrunk by 216 times.

The Sex Pistols are normally only the size of a bullet, but now that the main body has been shrunk proportionally, they are even smaller, like a tiny grain of sand.

To kill with such little creatures, Formaggio would have to make a huge hole in his head, which is perfectly protected by his skull, and let those little guys in to cause trouble without any defenses.

Otherwise, if we can't attack the most vulnerable and important part of the brain...

Such a tiny Stand, barely discernible to the naked eye, could not possibly inflict any effective damage on the enemy.

An external attack wouldn't even be considered a tickle, and an internal attack would probably only cause a stomach perforation at most.

"What to do?"

What should I do?

Mista kept questioning himself in his mind.

At the same time, he kept moving forward—even though he didn't know where he would get or how far he could go.

The road ahead was still dark, but Mista's pace never slowed.

Because he knew that if he stopped now, there would truly be no future.

And so, in this darkness...

By the faint ray of sunlight filtering through the manhole cover, Mista could clearly see the narrow pipe outlet on the wall not far ahead.

"That's... a drainpipe?"

Mista's eyes lit up.

He seemed to have found it, found a ray of light in this endless darkness:

"That place, as long as I can get there."

"I still have hope!"