Abbacchio's Counterattack

Fire!

No matter where the muzzle is pointing, just fire!

As his consciousness blurred, a completely absurd voice echoed in Mista's mind.

He ultimately chose to believe that voice.

Because the heavy pressure on his arm prevented him from raising the gun or turning to point it at the silver-haired man behind him, Mista could only painstakingly shift the arm holding the gun, extending the muzzle just a little from beneath his body.

Bang!

With a crisp shot, the bullet that carried Mista's last hope whizzed out.

At this moment, Mista's pistol barrel was pressed against the ground, perfectly parallel to it.

Under normal circumstances, after leaving the barrel, a bullet would certainly fly close to the ground for a while before immediately falling due to trajectory, hitting the hard ground, and ultimately creating a small indentation harmlessly, becoming a ricochet like a headless fly.

However, the current situation had nothing to do with "normal."

A normal bullet was like a runaway wild horse that had just been whacked on its rear, going wherever it pleased after it started.

But the bullet Mista had just fired was accompanied by three small bullet "knights."

They were Mista's Stands, the Sex Pistols.

To save Mista in his moment of crisis, the lead midget, No. 1, personally led his companions No. 2 and No. 3, riding together on that bullet.

Like brave prairie warriors, they tenaciously controlled this wild steed, guiding the bullet's flight direction according to their will.

And so, the bullet that had originally flown parallel and close to the ground suddenly, like the nuclear warhead hugged by Iron Man in the New York battle of The Avengers, drastically changed its parallel, straight trajectory, and instead flew straight up into the sky.

And this was just the beginning.

The bullet flying into the sky was like a roller coaster at full throttle in an amusement park; it first drew a beautiful arc in the air, almost elliptical in shape, making a full 270-degree turn, and then descended at an almost vertical trajectory.

This meant the target of the bullet's assault was

Abbacchio's forehead.

"What was that?!"

Abbacchio noticed Mista's action of firing and timely heard the abnormal whistling sound from above.

Sensing danger, his hair stood on end. He quickly relaxed his restraint on Mista beneath him and exerted all his strength to roll and dodge to the side.

Fortunately, after such forced trajectory correction, the bullet's flight speed had slowed considerably.

Abbacchio, with his agile and nimble body, managed to dodge to the side in time. Although he couldn't completely evade this surprise attack, he perfectly protected his vital areas, with the bullet only grazing his arm.

His beloved black coat was ruthlessly torn open by the bullet, and scarlet blood gushed out.

"His gun barrel was clearly pointing in the opposite direction, yet the bullet inexplicably hit me!"

Abbacchio's expression turned extremely grim, not from the pain of the injury, but because he had perceived Mista's Stand ability:

"This guy's Stand ability..."

"So it's to control the trajectory of bullets?!"

A moment's thought revealed how terrifying this ability was:

Most Stand Users' physical bodies are fragile mortals who can't withstand bullets. Even when fighting an ordinary gunman, they have to find a way to temporarily avoid their attacks before making plans.

Now, encountering such a "sharpshooter" who has auto-aim, guaranteed curving bullets, it's inevitable to feel a headache.

And Abbacchio's situation was even worse:

His Stand, Moody Blues, was more inclined towards support and reconnaissance. Its offensive power was less than the strength of his own body, making it completely unsuitable for frontal combat.

"Damn it!"

Abbacchio couldn't help but curse inwardly:

"The force I used in my sneak attack just now should have knocked out a cow!"

"How can I deal with a sharpshooter who's tough to knock out?"

Directly charging him was out of the question.

Although the distance between them was only one meter, for the unarmed Abbacchio to make a move would take at least half a second, while Mista, who didn't even need to aim to shoot, only needed to casually pull the trigger.

Running away directly would be even more suicidal.

No matter how fit or fast he was, he couldn't outrun the opponent's bullets.

"What should I do..."

Abbacchio's mind raced.

Mista, having just been freed from the heavy pressure, was now staring intently at Abbacchio, on guard, while taking deep breaths of fresh air to adjust his mental state.

He hadn't had a chance to pursue with direct shots, which gave Abbacchio a moment to breathe.

In that flash of lightning, he thought of a way to protect himself and even turn the tide of the battle.

"Die!"

Abbacchio deliberately let out a loud roar, drawing Mista's full attention.

But within that roar, it wasn't Abbacchio's fist that swung towards Mista's face, but

"Blood?"

Staring at the handful of blood flying directly towards his eyes, Mista instinctively felt a bit disgusted.

He hurriedly shielded his eyes with his hands, but still couldn't block the all-pervasive blood.

"Blocking my vision with blood? What a despicable trick!"

"But you've missed one crucial point."

Mista vigorously wiped his blood-stained eyes and, shouting, raised his other arm holding a gun:

"Even if I can't see, my bullets will still hit you!"

After regaining his senses, Mista, who had fully awakened his Stand abilities, felt as if some mysterious power had infused him with memories. In just these few short breaths, he had not only roughly grasped his Stand abilities but also learned the name of the Stand born from his subconscious:

"Attack, cripple his hands and feet—"

"Sex Pistols!"

As soon as he finished speaking, Mista pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession.

No. 5 and No. 6, the two small figures, each riding a bullet, sped out rapidly according to Mista's command.

Because Mista was unwilling to kill indiscriminately, unlike their autonomous actions during previous emergencies, they didn't aim for the head, which was easier to hit and more lethal. Instead, they aimed for Abbacchio's hands and feet.

At this moment, Abbacchio had already run several meters away.

After using the "Foul My Eyes With Blood" technique, he hadn't intended to pursue at all. Instead, he used the brief confusion created by that despicable move to desperately run towards the depths of the ruins behind him.

"To suddenly attack me so viciously..."

"And now you want to run away?"

Mista, having experienced a crisis and awakened his Stand, suddenly shed his idle, lax demeanor, possessing a sharp and piercing intensity.

It wouldn't be good to let the tiger escape its cage. He instinctively wanted to stop the silver-haired man in front of him who had shown such strong hostility:

"It's useless, you can't be faster than my bullets!"

Saying that, he immediately gave chase.

At the same time, the two bullets, manipulated by the small figures No. 5 and No. 6, whistled out, tracing two beautiful spiral arcs in mid-air.

Hearing the gunshots, Abbacchio dodged with all his might. In the end, he only managed to slightly shift his position through sheer physical prowess, causing the two bullets, which should have embedded themselves in his limbs, to narrowly graze the outer layers of his flesh.

Even so, the grazing wounds from the bullets were no minor affair.

He had been shot three times in total, and the gushing blood had dyed half of his clothes a deep red.

Although none of these three shots were bone-shattering, the searing pain of flesh tearing severely affected Abbacchio's movements.

He endured the excruciating pain, struggling to escape deeper into the ruins, but his speed was inevitably reduced by a significant margin.

"Stop!"

Mista yelled as he pursued, gun raised, "I'll shoot again!"

Another shot would be the fourth, and Mista felt it was unlucky, so he actually didn't want to fire.

But Abbacchio showed no intention of stopping; he continued to flee forward.

Mista ran a few more steps forward, then hardened his heart, raised his pistol, and prepared to pull the trigger again.

But at this moment, the opponent stopped.

Mista also stopped, cautiously pointing his gun at Abbacchio:

"What, have you given up resisting?"

"No."

Abbacchio clutched his injured arm and slowly turned back:

"Watch closely, you brat..."

"You're the one in a desperate situation now!"