Both Marcus and Alex leapt from the rooftop at the same instant, their figures cutting through the night air like falling blades. They rebounded off the narrow alley walls in rapid succession, dropping straight into the midst of the six-man mercenary squad.
The ambush happened so suddenly that the soldiers froze for a full second before their captain finally screamed, "Open fire!"
But Marcus was already moving.
Before the mercenary nearest him could react, Marcus's hand darted to the man's belt. With a flick of his wrist, the pin of a smoke grenade popped free. The canister bounced off both alley walls, trailing a white streak before bursting into thick, choking clouds of smoke. Visibility dropped to zero. The air filled with acrid fog, forcing several soldiers to stifle coughs and momentarily lift their fingers off their triggers.
The soldier Marcus had disarmed instinctively swung his rifle toward him, the muzzle pressing against Marcus's forehead—but in close quarters, that was a fatal mistake.
Marcus's metal claws clamped down on the barrel and twisted. The rifle jerked sideways, and the volley of bullets tore harmlessly into the brick wall behind him. The mercenary abandoned the gun and went for his sidearm, but before he could raise it halfway—
Crack!
Marcus's clawed fist struck him squarely in the helmet.
Tenfold Iron Fist.
The blow smashed the soldier's head straight into the wall behind him, bricks shattering outward like shrapnel. His helmet crumpled like paper, his neck twisted at a grotesque angle. He never even had time to scream.
"Damn it!" the captain roared, snapping up his shotgun and firing point-blank.
The blast boomed through the alley—but Marcus was faster. His right hand morphed into a gleaming metallic shield, intercepting the shot midair. Sparks exploded across the alley as buckshot ricocheted off the surface. The impact drove Marcus back two steps, but not a single pellet pierced his skin.
"Click!"
The shotgun's pump-action echoed as the captain chambered another shell—but Marcus was already charging.
The man's reflexes were sharp; years of combat experience kept him from panicking. He quickly ejected the spent shell, swung the barrel up, and fired again—just as Marcus raised his left arm.
The silver claws along Marcus's hand reshaped mid-swing, elongating into a gleaming blade. The air screamed as steel met steel.
Bang!
The shell went off, missing Marcus's head by inches and blasting a half-meter hole through the wall behind him.
The captain cursed under his breath, stepping back and drawing his pistol for a follow-up volley. Marcus deflected each bullet with his shield—clang, clang, clang—until the rhythm stopped. Then the captain reached for a grenade, thumbed the pin, and sneered.
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "Idiot."
He stepped forward, pivoted, and unleashed a high kick. His right foot shifted mid-motion, turning razor-sharp. The blade cut through the captain's wrist in one clean sweep.
The severed hand spun through the air—still clutching the live grenade.
The pin slipped loose.
BOOM!
The explosion shattered the confined space, hurling smoke and dust in every direction. The shockwave flung the captain across the ground, his body crumpling as blood poured from his ears and nose. When the dust cleared, he was already dead.
Across the alley, Alex finished his own work. Two mercenaries lay impaled on his writhing tendrils, their bodies twitching as blood fountained from gaping chest wounds. The puddle beneath them reflected the moonlight like a crimson mirror.
That left only two survivors: the rookie with the riot shield, and the big man with the Gatling gun.
They were trembling, drenched in sweat, eyes wide as they stared at the monsters before them.
Then, to Marcus's mild surprise, the rookie moved first.
"Big guy," he rasped, voice shaking, "forget me—fire!"
The big man's eyes widened in confusion. "Wait, what—"
But it was too late.
The rookie gritted his teeth, raised his shield, and charged forward, determined to buy his comrade precious seconds. He knew exactly what he was doing. Even if Marcus or Alex didn't kill him, the Gatling gun's barrage would. There would be no survivors in that narrow alley.
At least one of them might live. That was enough.
He roared—a desperate, defiant sound—and sprinted toward his death.
"RAAAAH—!"
He didn't even finish the scream.
Marcus's left arm morphed once again, the blade glowing a molten red as vibrations rippled along its edge. The air shimmered with heat. When the sword struck the shield, there was no clang, no resistance—only silence.
The blade sliced clean through.
Steel, Kevlar, flesh—it all parted as easily as mist.
The rookie blinked, confused. He could see his lower body still running ahead of him, his own torso sliding apart from the waist down. There was no pain, no blood—just a fading thought.
'Am I dreaming…?'
Then darkness claimed him.
But his sacrifice wasn't meaningless.
The big man had tears streaming down his soot-streaked face as he roared, slamming his thumb on the trigger.
The Gatling gun came alive.
Its six barrels spun at blinding speed, devouring the ammo belt like a serpent swallowing prey. Empty shells clattered against the ground as the gun unleashed a torrent of fire. The alley blazed with light brighter than day, muzzle flashes flickering in a steady rhythm of death.
"DIE!"
The roar of gunfire drowned out everything—the thunder of vengeance, echoing through the ruined streets of Queens.
____
T/N:
Hello everyone! My Patreon is just $3 — a perfect opportunity to access 10+ advanced chapters and support the journey.
🔗 patreon.com/user?u=79514336
Or simply search Translator-Sama on Patreon