Mirror Man

As Stand User with the ability to shrink, Formaggio finally felt the power emanating from the tiny.

The six Bullet Knights, whose size was far smaller than that of ordinary stand-ins, were now wreaking havoc inside his chest cavity.

Even without bullets, they are still knights who can bring victory and glory to their masters.

This glory will ultimately bring pain and death to the enemy.

"Well--"

Formaggio immediately let out a muffled groan.

His breath caught in his throat for a moment, and an indescribable pain surged through his chest.

He could feel his fragile lung walls being frantically torn apart by the six little figures, the flesh and blood tissue that sustained his life being easily ripped apart like paper.

The flesh and blood in his lungs were quickly torn open in several large gashes, while the six small "drills" continued to drill into his body without stopping.

Their drilling is purposeful and directional.

"Damn it. My heart!"

Formaggio desperately wanted to do something.

But the six little men had premeditatedly torn open his lungs and arrived at the atrium between his left and right lungs in the blink of an eye.

Although the Sex Pistols has very low destructive power, the heart is not the kind of organ that can easily withstand damage.

This is the central hub of human blood circulation and the source of power for the human life system.

So, the instant those six little guys started touching and manipulating the heart, Formaggio immediately exhibited symptoms similar to an acute myocardial infarction:

I experienced severe chest pain and a sharp drop in blood pressure.

Numbness and loss of control in the hands and feet, and a tendency towards confusion.

Formaggio was already severely injured and had been losing blood for a long time. His limbs were cold and numb, and his blood pressure was very bad.

Now, with another blow to the heart, he completely lost control of his body.

He went into shock.

No, the situation is more serious than shock; this is sudden death.

Before he could even speak, Formaggio's life force was like a light bulb that had been unplugged, instantly becoming dim and lifeless.

He fell heavily in front of Mista, into the filthy sewer.

It could be because the death was too sudden, or it could be because of heart damage, shock, or the intense pain of sudden death.

His eyes remained unchanged from when he was alive, staring intently at his enemy until he breathed his last.

"Finally. It's over."

Looking into Formaggio's unseeing eyes, Mista let out a long sigh of relief.

Without a doubt, he is the winner.

Unfortunately, this victory came at a terrible cost.

Mista is now lying next to Formaggio's body.

Although his body was very strong and resilient, such a near-half-cutting injury was an absolutely unbearable pain for him.

If he doesn't receive timely medical attention, he will truly perish in the sewers with Formaggio, just as he had told his enemies.

Thinking of this, Mista immediately mustered her last bit of strength and pulled her phone out of her shirt pocket:

"Li Qing is right."

"You can't dress too flashy."

Seemingly finding joy in hardship, or perhaps to keep himself going, Mista muttered to himself with difficulty:

"Luckily, I was wearing the same ordinary shirt I had worn all the way from Naples three days ago, and it even had a pocket that I could put things in."

"If I really changed into a slick, tight-fitting outfit like those thugs, I'd be dead today."

Mista, whose upper body was completely unharmed, sighed in this way.

Fortunately, his phone survived in his shirt pocket; otherwise, he probably wouldn't have been able to even call for help.

Now he can call for help from his teammates in time via his mobile phone, and the train station is not far from here, so he naturally has a great chance of surviving.

"But."

"Instead of helping Li Qing, I became the wounded one who needed help."

Mista struggled to press the dial button while glancing at Formaggio's face, which was filled with resentment.

The eyes on that face were still wide open.

It was faintly, as if it were saying to him:

"Just going out into the street to look for ice seems..."

"It's not that easy."

Mista sighed softly.

Let's move a little further back in time.

Near Venice train station, in a different direction from Fugo and Mista.

A breakfast restaurant had just opened when an unexpected guest arrived:

"Hey, hey, put all the ice here in bags for me!"

"Don't just stand there! Didn't you hear me?"

"Everyone, get moving with the speed you'd use when you're desperate to pee, like pulling down your pants! Don't stop for a second!"

With his hair and height likely approaching 2 meters, Polnareff, oblivious to his surroundings, displayed his bulging, muscular physique, appearing like a five-fingered mountain falling from the sky, abruptly blocking the way for the restaurant staff.

Polnareff was also a member of the ice-seeking team, and he was in charge of exploring one direction on his own.

He had actively sought out this task.

Polnareff has been suffering too much from holding back these past few years.

Until last night, he had been confined to that small wheelchair, hiding in one inconspicuous corner after another.

The once agile and nimble sword master, during that long period of time, even needed help to go up and down stairs.

This is not only tragic, but also despairing.

After experiencing such pain, Polnareff, who regained his healthy body, hated nothing more than staying still.

He had been sitting in his wheelchair for too long, and now all he wanted to do was run freely.

Therefore, when the team needed him, Polnareff immediately volunteered to take on the task of going out to find ice.

He thus freely moved his revitalized body, running and traversing the ancient streets of Venice.

Soon, Polnareff found a breakfast restaurant nearby that had just opened.

The restaurant did have ice in stock, and the staff were exceptionally cooperative.

There's no way I can not cooperate.

Polnareff was already a burly and imposing figure, and with his trendy clothes, avant-garde hairstyle, scars on his face, and exposed muscles, he looked like someone you wouldn't want to mess with.

If we don't get rid of this menacing doorman quickly, I doubt many customers will dare to come in and eat.

So the shop assistants quickly and hurriedly filled a large bag with ice for Polnareff, and then carefully and cautiously brought it over:

"Sir, the ice you requested."

They were as tense as hostages communicating with their kidnappers.

But the "kidnappers'" response was surprisingly friendly:

"Okay, thank you."

Polnareff accepted the ice and very politely thanked him.

That's not enough.

He even habitually took out a wallet from his pocket and pulled out several large-denomination bills:

"Keep this money safe, and consider the ice as my payment."

"Consider the extra as a tip."

Yes, he paid.

As a well-educated French gentleman, Polnareff may look somewhat fierce and intimidating, but at heart he is an excellent man who is very law-abiding and polite.

He tries his best to avoid taking things without paying, and to avoid causing as much trouble as possible.

This can be considered one of his principles, or perhaps a habit he has developed through years of caution and prudence.

But in any case, unlike those unruly, maverick gangsters who stay away from money and refuse to compromise their principles, Polnareff does indeed carry a wallet.

And there was quite a bit of money in that wallet—

As a disabled person who was once unable to take care of himself, Polnareff understands better than anyone the importance of carrying enough cash.

Therefore, Polnareff could simply pull out a few high-denomination banknotes from the bills, enough to make the restaurant staff instantly forget the trauma they had suffered.

"Please take care, sir!"

Welcome back again!

When Polnareff walked out the door, the shop assistants had changed how they addressed him.

Money truly possesses a wondrous power comparable to a substitute.

It was just a few sheets of paper with numbers drawn on them, but the restaurant staff who were originally eager to get rid of Polnareff turned into a scene of seeing him off at the restaurant entrance.

And so, amidst the heartfelt farewells of the shop assistants, Polnareff's tall figure quickly disappeared.

He clutched the bag of ice in his arms and his wallet in his hand, running as fast as he could towards the station.

Soon, Polnareff ran to a long bridge.

Venice is a water city, with a network of canals crisscrossing the island, and boats and bridges can be seen everywhere you go.

These bridges vary in size; some are only a few meters long and are designed for pedestrians to cross, while others are so exquisite that they could be called works of art.

It is just like the one under Polnareff's feet now, spanning both sides of the river, with a length of tens of meters and a wide bridge surface that can accommodate cars crossing the river.

It's still early, and there aren't many cars on the bridge, just a few residents and tourists strolling across the river.

"After crossing this bridge, the train station is not far ahead."

Gazing at the train station that was now clearly visible before him, Polnareff quickened his pace.

He ran back onto the bridge along the route he had come from, but then he faintly heard the roar of a car engine behind him.

"A car came up behind me, and it was driving very fast."

"Am I a passenger heading to the train station? Or am I being chased by an enemy?"

Although it was just an ordinary car, and most likely just a passing passenger, Polnareff still subconsciously became more vigilant.

He had experienced so many battles that his extensive combat experience had almost honed a sixth sense of intuition.

This might just be him being overly cautious, but being cautious is never a bad thing.

"Silver Chariot!"

Polnareff immediately summoned his Stand.

A silver-armored swordsman stood by his side, sword in hand. At the same time, Polnareff decisively stopped on the bridge and turned to look at the car in the distance.

He wanted to watch the car pass him and continue on its way, rather than entrust his back to a stranger whose identity was difficult to ascertain.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Polnareff's ominous premonition seemed to be correct—the other party did indeed appear to be an enemy.

The car chasing from behind was driving very fast, as if it was in a hurry to catch up with something.

However, upon seeing Polnareff stop on the bridge, the driver immediately slammed on the brakes.

The car drove onto the bridge, then executed a sleek drift and abrupt brakes, finally coming to a stop in front of Polnareff.

"They really came for me!"

Polnareff's gaze instantly turned deep.

That relaxed and gentle demeanor vanished instantly from his eyes, replaced by a caution honed in endless darkness.

He didn't rush forward to attack rashly, but instead approached step by step under the protection of the Silver Chariot, cautiously peering at the enemy inside the carriage.

But once you look, things start to get weird:

Where are they?

"Where's the driver who was sitting in the driver's seat?! How could he have disappeared?!"

Polnareff was surprised to find that the driver's seat was completely empty.

The driver, whose outline was clearly visible, vanished inexplicably as if he had evaporated into thin air after the car stopped in front of him.

"Is it an illusion, or does it involve some kind of spatial ability?"

Polnareff grew increasingly wary.

The Silver Chariot protected him from the side, helping him monitor the space behind and beside him.

He stared intently at the empty car in front of him, trying to find some clues in this strange scene.

Then Polnareff succeeded.

But it wasn't Polnareff who found it; the enemy revealed itself:

Are you looking for me?

"No need to look anymore, I'm right here—"

"Right in front of you, in this mirror."

The figure of a strange man quietly appeared on the mirror-like car window.

This is not a reflection of someone in a mirror.

Simply put, there was another man in the mirror.

Now, Polnareff sees not only his own reflection in the mirror, but also the man standing opposite him.

However, in the real world, there was no trace of that man in Polnareff's life.

The man seemed to live entirely in a mirror world, and now he stood calmly in the mirror, staring intently at Polnareff in front of him.

"There's someone in the mirror?!"

Polnareff stared in astonishment.

A strange and inexplicable sense of familiarity suddenly welled up from the bottom of my heart.

One update today.